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I know the questions we’re pondering are much less weighty than suicides in the family: I’m pretty sure that the woman swimming laps next to me at the Y is urinating in the pool. (We’ve even thrown open the windows and started a “Social Q’s” Facebook Group, letting the fresh air blow over every single question and answer.)ĭon’t get me wrong. And once I abandoned my determination to find the answer that would end all answers, writing “Social Q’s” became a dream job. You and I (and “Social Q’s”) may be the first word on a sticky subject, but we will never be the last. (I kept this last bit to myself.)Īnd that’s when I landed on the “Social Q’s” ethos: let’s be sensible and kind, and try to minimize the hand-to-hand combat with a Cole Porter lyric or two.
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But I felt a twinge of irony, too: taking a job answering other people’s questions when I had failed so miserably to answer my own. I would grapple with online daters, and 15-minutes-of-fame bridezillas, and a thousand and one Kardashians - all in lieu of the questions that are simply too hard for us to answer.
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“Social Q’s,” we would call it, and fill it with the stickiest social situations from our fly-paper world: sexy bosses on Facebook and scorched-earth exes moving in across the hall. How to remove the skin from a raw chicken in one piece - only to replace it later - in a recipe for chicken Galantine?Īnd in a strange (and fitting) twist, I was offered a job writing a modern-day advice column for this newspaper. Over time, I found myself drawn to complicated questions with definitive answers. My father was like a cipher to me the more I imagined him, the less sense he made. I simply drove in endless circles around an extremely ugly cul-de-sac. No shrink or friend or guru helped for long. Still, I made shockingly little progress. I woke up worrying about them, and drifted off to sleep the same way.