I've been attending a nifty little series hosted by AIGA Colorado for freelancers and entrepreneurs. Last night, the topic was "Workspace Matters," and the panel of speakers discussed coworking spaces, work habits, and the like.

At the conclusion, the moderator asked us to assess our own working spaces. And so I will.

Many days, I commute a whopping two miles to a fabulous coworking space called Confluence. I take advantage of their "hotdesk" membership, which lets me grab any open spot in a lovely central room. Confluence has free parking (though I may start biking or walking), a great kitchen and dining area, and complimentary coffee, soft drinks, and yes, beer. They host social/networking events where all of the members can get to know one another and learn what each of us does for work. We're going to start doing some volunteer work together, too. Possibly my favorite part about Confluence is the book club they hold every three weeks. To me, nothing beats a good book club, particularly one taking place about 20 paces from where I work. So my assessment of my coworking office is A-double-plus.

Now, some days (like today), I work from home. I love my home office, too. I can nap and fold laundry as needed, and I can work whenever I like—including before sunrise.

The central feature of my home office is my coworker, who shares an office chair with me. Little Guy is a chiweenie (chihuahua + dachshund) who loves to snooze on an old sleeping bag directly behind my back. My husband is chagrined by the ergonomic implications of the way I sit and implores me to invest in an Aeron chair. But if I were to do that, I think I'd have to keep Little Guy and his claws off of it, and I don't think I could bear it. I mean, really: could you?

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I think it all started with the Holstee Manifesto. You know the one—the all-caps declaration that "THIS IS YOUR LIFE" followed by a series of bossy commandments: "DO WHAT YOU LOVE, AND DO IT OFTEN. IF YOU DON'T LIKE SOMETHING, CHANGE IT. IF YOU DON'T LIKE YOUR JOB, QUIT." Etc., etc., etc. All available as an 18"x24" letterpress poster for just $36 plus tax and shipping.

All over the interwebs, I'm told that I'm supposed to dance like no one is watching and love like I've never been hurt. I'm supposed to live fearlessly, forgive indiscriminately, and eat dessert first. I need to keep my chin up. Follow my heart. Let go of the past and embrace opportunity. Behave like my dog. Laugh like a child. I'm just making this stuff up now. I could go on for days.

Here's the thing: 90% of what gives these commandments their appeal is their design. They're carefully typeset or charmingly hand-lettered. They're writ large on rustic farmhouse-style faux-distressed wood. They feature frolicking children and adorable kittens.

They're worded irresistibly, too. Authoritative. Simple. And pithy. How nice: The secret to happiness can fit right on my phone screen.

But here's the thing. Life isn't simple. It's full of deadlines and disappointments and dry cleaning. Sure, dancing and laughter are lovely, and I try to work them in as appropriate. But I've got other things to get done. I need to vacuum. Get my tires rotated. And floss my teeth.

And don't tell me what I'm going to regret on my deathbed, because frankly, my stint on my deathbed (if I even have that luxury) will be but a minuscule fraction of my entire life. It doesn't really count for all that much, in my book.

So, thanks for all the advice, Holstee and everybody else. I'll give it some thought. And then I'll get on with the business of living my unique life—with all its mundane challenges, delights, and experiences, and its irreducible complexity.

I lived in Florida for 14 years, so I grew accustomed to the state's unique flavor. The kaleidoscopic sunsets and jacked-up trucks; the alligators, anole lizards, fire ants, and palmetto bugs; the megachurches, Confederate flags, sweet tea, rampant lightning, and drive-through liquor stores; the sweet smell of orange blossoms and the strange sight of sandhill cranes in parking lots. All of it adds up to a pastiche you'll only find in the Sunshine State.

I became able to recognize that Florida je ne sais quoi when I saw it in certain headlines. "That's got to be Florida," I'd think, when I saw a distinctive combination of recklessness, lawlessness, debauchery, and absurdity. "Nudist surprises dentist's office when he arrives for a cleaning," it might read. Or, "Bank robber's gorilla costume hinders his escape." You just know it when you see it.

So a couple of weeks ago, I started a fun little project: finding these distinctive headlines and designing them for display on Instagram with the hashtag #quintessentiallyfloridaheadlines. This was my first one:

Amazingly, I've been able to find a post-worthy headline every single day since I began. Eventually, my friend Alex said I should start a dedicated Instagram account. And so I began @quintessentiallyflorida.

I hope my Florida friends won't take it the wrong way. I'm not criticizing the state; I'm just holding it up for all to see and admire. And maybe to smile a bit.

I don't mean the horror franchise. Rather, I love it when the 13th day of the month falls on a Friday. Because I am consciously, pointedly, relentlessly un-superstitious. I'm comfortable spilling salt. I have no trouble with the number 666. I've even opened an umbrella indoors within the past week.

I identify as a skeptic. I value facts and science, peer-reviewed studies and reproducible results. I fact-check on Snopes. I question authority. When I lived in Sarasota, I happily fraternized with the Suncoast Skeptics. I appreciate science-based medicine—both the concept and the website founded by Steven P. Novella. And I love the podcast he hosts: The Skeptics Guide to the Universe. And though I like to consider myself a critical thinker, I also know how susceptible all humans are to a multitude of rhetorical and logical fallacies.

So I diligently resist being swayed by myths and mysticism, and instead focus on and embrace reality. Consequently, I live a life free of paraskevidekatriaphobia. So: Happy Friday the 13th, everybody!

There's a lot to hate about Twitter: vitriol, slander, ghastly current events, and rampant comma abuse. But there's also a lot to love. Following are a handful of my favorite accounts at the moment.

70s Dinner Party (@70s_party)
Despite the name, this account does not only focus on the '70s. Its dominant theme can only be described as "terrifying food."

​Nature is Scary (@NatureisScary)
You know what? I'm not even going to share any of this account's tweets. Because they're really not for everyone. But if you do check out Nature is Scary, you will see the circle of life in all its heartless glory.

Florida Man (@FloridaMan__)
You may know Florida Man. (Florida Woman is also a thing, but it hasn't been very active recently.) Thanks to the Sunshine State's ability to create news that is a unique blend of outrageousness, stupidity, recklessness, debauchery, and greed, all Florida Man really has to do is share headlines and links to current articles. The tweets simply begin with "Florida Man."

Damien Kempf (@DamienKempf)
A self-described "Medieval manuscripts explorer," Damien Kempf shares amazing ancient illustrations that I would never be able to see otherwise. Sometimes they're funny (particularly with his commentary); sometimes they're enchanting. They're always compelling.

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​Back when I started on Twitter (nearly a decade ago—egads!), it was common for people to highlight follow-worthy accounts with an #FF or #followfriday hashtag every week. That practice has abated, so here is my attempt to make up for it. I hope you enjoy these accounts—I'll try to highlight more in the future.

​To leave or read comments, just click on the red "comments" link at the top of this post.

I was just visiting a website and a pop-up window gave me two choices. I could either click on a big orange button that read, "Yes, I Want Access!" or I could instead click on grey, unembellished text beneath it that said, "No, thanks, I don't want the FREE online course. I'll let my competition watch instead."

I just couldn't bring myself to click on the "No thanks" text. I searched for the discreet little X to close the pop-up. Thank God for that nonjudgmental little X, because anyone who chooses the "No thanks" text is clearly a rube. A boob. A chump.

Now, I'm sure that such pop-up windows are effective—I see them all the time these days. But they're just so... heavy-handed. They're like a salesman who leaps directly in your path, thrusting himself into your personal space, demanding "just a minute of your time."

"Hi, there, friend," he begins, uninvited. "I have just a quick question for you. Do you want to be happy, healthy, and sexually fulfilled? Would you like to eat all the fried foods and desserts you crave but never gain an ounce? Would you like to double your income, your physical endurance, and your lifespan? Would you like to eliminate fatigue, wrinkles, and anxiety? Would you like to regain your youth, double your salary, and bring back your favorite pets from the dead?"

"Or would you instead like to ruin absolutely everything? Would you prefer to live in incessant pain and regret, weeping yourself to sleep at night only to be plagued by a stream of harrowing nightmares? Would you like to be kidnapped and tortured by bandits, infested by intestinal parasites, and covered with an itchy, unsightly rash?"

"The choice is yours, friend. You can enjoy boundless pleasure and fulfillment, or settle for crushing disappointment and despair. So: What'll it be?"

I'll opt for the little X, please.

I'd love to tell you that I was bitten by a shark. Or a dog. Or even some bratty first grader. But none of that happened. Truthfully, my life to date has involved a good deal of reading and typing, and not a lot of violence.

However, I do seem to have collected a goodly number of scars throughout the years, and each one reminds me of its provenance.

Chicken pox. You kids today—you don't know from chicken pox. You get your nifty varicella vaccines and avoid the whole mess. I, on the other hand, was ravaged by chicken pox back in the '70s. I HAD THEM IN MY THROAT. And for my trouble, I ended up with a nice divot on the tip of my nose. And a few other places as well, but the nose was the biggie.

Surgeries. The ACL reconstruction (which I stayed awake for and watched!). The removal of suspicious dark spots and various little subcutaneous growths. (Look up "Bible bumps"—ewww.) And three basal cell cancers, all on the left side of my face. (Yes, you get sun exposure when you're driving a car. I'll bet that in England, skin cancer is more prevalent on the right side of the face.)

My butt dent. Oh, heck. Why not tell you about it? That time in 1991 when I slipped going down the stairs to the subway in Boston and fell so hard on the edge of a step that it actually left a dent in my tush that remains there to this day. I'm sure that's the only thing that has stood between me and a thriving porn career.

Etc. There are oven burns and a trace of a run-in with the bottom of a swimming pool. And the place where the edge of metal mesh on my gym locker sliced me, but good.

If I think about it, my scars have been mostly caused by disease and clumsiness. But like all scars, they demonstrate healing and survival, which is a win, in my book. I'll take 'em gladly, and any more I'm lucky enough accumulate in the future. Stay tuned.

This year, it was New Orleans. Last year, it was Sonoma. The year before that, it was Asheville. But it's always the hands-down highlight of my year.

"It" doesn't really have a name. Maybe it should. FriendFest? Amiga-palooza? Gal-Pal Getaway? It's the annual long weekend when I get to spend genuine quality time with about ten of my beloved college friends. Connecting, catching up, commiserating. Laughing, lounging, sightseeing, shopping. And, oh oh oh—eating.

And exploring! Because each year (for six years now), we choose a new locale. We rent a house with plenty of beds and a nice big kitchen, and we fly in from all over the country.

With the exception of one year (which coincided with our college reunion), we leave our kids and husbands behind, making this a true vacation—to the nth power. We can sleep in. Reminisce. Kvetch. We can do precisely what we want to do. It's like college, with no homework and far less insecurity.

This year, we looked at letters we'd written to each other some 25 or 30 years ago and marveled and cringed at our former selves. One time we looked through our yearbook and howled with laughter until we cried.

We make the best memories during these get-togethers. The time Jenny showed us what twerking is. The time Heather calmly and efficiently extinguished an incipient house fire. Bicycling through vineyards. Eating sheet cake.

Clearly, I am a thousand kinds of fortunate. That I get to travel to these destinations. That I was able to attend college. But above all: that I have such a longstanding group of wonderful friends. Here's to next year! ❤️

I keep several lists of words.

One is called "words I can never remember," and I reach for it when aphasia strikes me. (One time, I couldn't remember the word "aphasia," and I knew the universe was mocking me.)

One list is called "words that sound good." This includes "Kinshasa" and "calliope."

My "words I like" list includes "hobgoblin" and "calamity."

My "more good words" list has "perfidy," "calumny" and "shamble."

Then I have this list that I add to when I read. It's for all those times I encounter a word and think, "I should use that word! It's so great." ​

Notice anything about the words I appreciate? Lots of them are negative in some way. Contempt. Depravity. Pernicious. Degrading. Debauchery.

Is this proof that I'm twisted?

I don't think so. I believe that negative words tend to be powerful. Dramatic. Amusing. They tap into the darker side of life, where all sorts of visceral emotions lie.

I think "diabolical" beats "angelic." "Dastardly" is better than "upright." "Malevolent" wins over "innocent."

​What do you think? What are your favorite words?


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Call me a heretic, but I'm no stickler for the Ten Commandments. I am comfortable cursing and coveting, and I like to use the Sabbath (both of them) for activities like racquetball, brunch, and naps.

I, like George Carlin, feel like the Ten Commandments have some shortcomings. If it were up to me (and it definitely isn't), I'd propose ten different commandments for folks to follow.

1. Thou shalt not leave a mess. Please put your chewing gum in the trash. Place your vodka bottle in the recycling bin. And keep your company's filthy chemicals out of our water and air.
   
   
2. Thou shalt give others the benefit of the doubt. You never know what other people are dealing with. Heartbreak. Heartburn. A bounced check. An eviction notice. A migraine, or mental Illness, or all of the above.
   
   
3. Thou shalt volunteer. It's good for the world, and it's good for you.
   
   
4. Thou shalt allow adults to do pretty much whatever they want, so long as no one is getting harmed. What grownups do in privacy for entertainment is truly no one else's concern.
   
   
5. Thou shalt never justify anything by saying that others have done it. Just because your mother frequently flogged you does not make child-flogging beneficial. Just because others cheat on their taxes, their exams, or their wives doesn't make it right.
   
   
6. Thou shalt verify before sharing. The more titillating and shocking a story, the more crucial it is to check its source, check Snopes, and check to see if other credible news outlets corroborate it.
   
   
7. Thou shalt vote. Never take any election for granted. Never take your democracy for granted. Never take anything for granted.
   
   
8. Thou shalt avoid using or succumbing to logical fallacies. As humans, we are all susceptible to these. Learn to spot them, and cry foul.
   
   
9. Thou shalt question authority. Just because someone is in a position of power—whether they are a teacher, a boss, a high priestess, or a senator—they are not above scrutiny. In fact, authority figures ought to get more scrutiny.
   
   
10. Thou shalt not follow lists like this one. Never blindly follow opinionated rules. Unless they make sense to you. Then, by all means.

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