I'm so sorry, whoever you were.

I suspect it happened during a game of Spin the Bottle at somebody's bar mitzvah. I'm sure it involved insecurity and mortification on my part. I'm certain it was a boy I kissed. But honestly, that's about all I can report.

My childhood memories are... spotty. I can remember the physical layout of my childhood home in great detail, inside and out. I remember the name I gave a cactus that sat on my bathroom windowsill (Horatio), probably because I labeled it with a machine like the one shown here. ​I'll never forget the aroma of the disinfectant powder that got sprinkled on kids' vomit at school. I remember my friend Amy's port wine stain birthmark and my friend Stephanie's phone number. I remember a time I saw a huge white rat in our backyard that turned out to be a possum. There are scenarios and personalities and happenings I can pull up, vaguely. But as for recalling exact sequences of events? No way.

So now, when I read (or listen to) memoirs, as I often do, I am just *astonished* by authors' abilities to recall precisely what they lived through. Currently, I'm listening to Small Fry, by Steve Jobs' daughter, Lisa Brennan-Jobs. She recounts in great detail specific conversations she had, when and where she had them, and what each of the interlocutors was wearing. How? How?

Well, she kept journals, which can certainly help. If you read David Sedaris's Theft by Finding: Diaries 1977–2002, you can see that his meticulous (obsessive?) record-keeping is a big part of his skill as a memoirist and raconteur.

I do have a box of old diaries, so I suppose I might be able to jog my memory and recreate a few series of events. But for now, I'm just going to keep enjoying—and marveling at—other people's stories.

P.S. If you love good memoirs as much as I do, let me know your favorites. Some of mine are The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls, The Sound of Gravel by Ruth Wariner, and The World's Strongest Librarian: A Book Lover's Adventures by Josh Hanagarne (about growing up with Tourette Syndrome in a Mormon family). Oh, and of course Educated by Tara Westover is great. And all these memoirs by comedians. And so many more.

I maintain that life is merely the procrastination of death. So to me, procrastination is not inherently a bad thing.

I'm not talking about missing deadlines (bad) or letting people down (also bad). I'm talking about simply opting to put certain tasks off for a bit. Until the flames of an encroaching deadline burn a bit hotter, gifting me with greater fervor and efficiency.

From what I can tell, if we look to the Latin, procrastination technically means to put something off from one day to another, with "pro" meaning "forward" and "crastinus" meaning "of tomorrow."

But a skilled procrastinator (👋) might put something off for only a couple of hours. Or possibly a couple of days. Ideally, you put a task off until precisely the point when you have to get going on it to complete it on time (and well). If you're like me, your subconscious knows exactly—miraculously—when this moment is.

Procrastination has all sorts of judgy connotations. As Merriam-Webster puts it, "It typically implies blameworthy delay especially through laziness or apathy."

I'm here to tell you different. Done right, procrastination can increase productivity and improve quality of life.

​I began discovering this in college, when I found myself reading one assigned book to avoid reading another one. I was still getting things done, just not in the most linear way.

Today, my procrastination game is strong. I will vacuum rather than work on taxes. I will record my expenses rather than writing a brochure. I will create social media posts instead of writing a blog.

But eventually (as you can see), I will write that blog. I will meet my deadlines. I will get everything done, in good time, in the most procrastinabulous way.

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 concise. 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'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! ❤️

There has to be a long German word to describe this phenomenon: the pleasant sensation of seeing someone who reminds you of a loved one who has died.

Has this happened to you?

Sometimes I'll see a woman in the grocery store whose hairdo and comportment are so reminiscent of my mother that I'll indulge in a moment of make-believe. I'll just hesitate for a spell and pretend that my mother is standing a few paces away from me, even though I'm well aware that she died in 2003. It's a serendipitous little mind game that's uniquely enjoyable.

I almost never get the same self-deceptive treat with a father lookalike, for some reason. Somehow, strangers don't tend to look like my father, who died in 2001.

But I'll tell you who does: my brothers. They resemble him dramatically. (I really need to find a photo of the group of them. Trust me—you would agree.)

So tonight, when my brother Doug was visiting from Brooklyn and I got to see him, it was a treat on several levels. I loved spending time with him and his daughter. I loved catching up and having some good laughs. But also, I loved seeing my father so very clearly in Doug.

I can't put my finger on it. It's not logical. It's not supernatural. But it's a very real emotional response, and I'm glad I have it.

It was nice to see you tonight, Daddy.

"Worrywart" is such an ugly word. Just because I have the ability to imagine the worst-case scenario in every situation, you don't need to call me the name of a disfiguring skin virus.

I worry, therefore I am prepared.

I know that a recently mopped floor could cause someone to slip and fall. So I warn everyone in the house to be careful.

Chocolate left on the kitchen table could tempt our voracious little dog to jump up and poison himself. So I make sure said chocolate gets put away properly.

As a copywriter, I imagine every potential disaster. (And there are so many!) Will this confuse or mislead people? Will the type be too small or too light for them to read? Will it print poorly? Could it be misinterpreted as an obscenity? (I check Urban Dictionary frequently.) How horrible would it be if there were a typo in this ad, which is worth thousands of dollars and will be viewed by thousands of people? PROOFREAD OBSESSIVELY. And then proofread again. Any maybe again.

Fortunately, as a skeptic, I only worry about real outcomes. I'm not superstitious. I don't worry if I spill salt, or walk beneath a ladder, or have unclean thoughts. But there are still an abundance of worries to fill my brain: Did I hurt her feelings? What if I sleep late and miss that meeting? What if the stock market tanks or I have a stroke?

Today, I had an exchange on Facebook that characterizes me perfectly. My friend Lorin is excited because he's getting a scooter. I rained caution on his parade. But only because I care.

I had never heard of ASMR until about a year ago, but when I did, it was a eureka moment. "THAT's what I've had all my life!" I thought. "It has a name!"

The full name is "autonomous sensory meridian response." And in my case, it comes to pass when I listen to certain sounds in certain circumstances. When the conditions are just right, I experience a delightful sensation somewhere in the back of my neck, but also sort of deep in my brain. The magic formula can involve crinkling paper, or whispering, or the tapping of fingernails. It also has something to do with where the crinkler, whisperer, or tapper is focusing his or her attention.

I know: weird, right? But it's oh-so-real. See that colored-in illustration and misspelled explanation above? I made that when I was about 10 years old. My very thoughtful mother even bought me a ream of onion-skin paper when I was a kid because she knew I loved the noise it made.

It's a little embarrassing to share this information, but I'm certain that I'm not alone. I even know a couple of other people who experience ASMR. (Interestingly, they both have synesthesia.)

Anyone else?​

This morning, I was given this dollar by a stranger. There were strings attached.

I was attending a "Caffeinated Mornings" event in Boulder. The featured speaker, Norm Shearer, posed a provocative challenge. He gave 30 audience members (including me) a crisp one-dollar bill each and asked that we do as much good with that dollar as we can—and then report back to him.

He's done this many times before, so he shared a few examples: A woman who bought a bag of clothespins, wrote complimentary and kind statements on them, and surreptitiously clipped them to people (on a backpack, say). A man who invested in a balsa wood airplane and took the time to play with a neighbor-kid who seemed to get left out of his large family's activities. A woman who lent order and courtesy to her apartment complex's chaotic dirt parking lot by spray-painting parking spots (which continued to be used after the paint wore away).

So, my ideas are percolating.

I'm reminded of my friend's cousin, who, finding himself completely broke in Paris, wrote out some recipes, used his last few francs to photocopy them, sold them on the street, and began his rise out of poverty.

I'm a writer, so I wonder if there are letters I could send. Or signs I could post. My daughter had a good idea—create and disperse a list of hotlines.

My daughter also thinks it's "cheating" if I ask for ideas here. I disagree. I say that when it's a good idea you're aiming for, the more minds, the merrier.

So: Any thoughts?

Approximately 50 years ago, my father offered my mother a bribe.

She was in the final days of her pregnancy with me as 1967 drew to a close. And my father recognized that if I were born before the end of December, he'd get a tax credit for the year. So he told my mother that if she had her baby in 1967, he'd give her 100 bucks. A kickback, of sorts.

As the story goes, my mother immediately went into labor.

And so we have the above photo, which I adore. Because my mother looks so radiant and beautiful. Because I think I spy a lighter and ashtray on the bedside table. And because of that 100-dollar bill, which I think tells a terrific story.