By Nancy Slotnick, on Tue Oct 23, 2012 at 8:30 AM ET  One of my husband’s favorite movies is True Lies. (You must say it with the Ahrnold accent.) Of course the irony of the casting of that film didn’t become so readily apparent until recently. I saw Arnold interviewed about how he lied about his audio malfunctioning when Matt Lauer once asked him a question that he didn’t want to answer. Even though he admitted to this lie in his recent memoir, he still didn’t want to own up to the lie when asked about it on Meet the Press. And they had video footage! A lie wrapped in an enigma wrapped in fudge factor. It’s called acting I guess.
Of course, everyone lies in some form or another. I had this conversation with my 7 year old the other day. (yes, Mom, I flossed my teeth.) But when someone flat out lies about everything, blanketly denying things that they have already admitted to be true, then that is someone you don’t want to date. Or vote for, in my opinion.
 How can you tell? If someone like Maria Shriver, an extremely smart and astute woman, can be fooled, then how on earth can the rest of us figure it out?
Well, you can start by avoiding the worst kind of lie- lying to yourself. A first date can tell you about 80% of what you need to know about a person if you pay attention. And a month of dating someone bumps it up to 90%. But how well can you listen when they tell?
You get this feeling, in the pit of your stomach and you can’t make sense of it. So you ignore it and do what feels good. We all do this and I’m not trying to say that you can’t be human and act on impulse. But before you do, try to make sense of that sinking feeling- it has 2 distinct heads to it that you can try to decipher. And then when you act, act deliberately with the cognizance of whether you are making a decision for 4 hours or 4 years.
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Nancy Slotnick: True Lies
By Nancy Slotnick, on Tue Oct 16, 2012 at 8:30 AM ET “We’ve got an hour.”
I never would have thought, when I was single, that those 4 words could sound so sexy. “We’ve got an hour.” With a raised eyebrow it becomes a full-fledged turn-on. At least I have the hour. Usually.
As I prepare to fully enter the world of new media when my iPhone 5 arrives next week, I find myself sad to retire my Crackberry. Those little keys on the keypad are so easy and so soothing. I can get so much done. Or nothing at all. When both my husband and my son started complaining that I was so addicted to my Blackberry that I didn’t notice them, I knew I had a problem. I had just thought I was a Blackberry Girl.
So I started realizing that how I spend my time might have some impact on whether I am reaching my goals. I know I’m always busy. Emails, texts, constant communication. But maybe I’m just running a treadmill?
Ironically, they had a marathon of Ground Hog Day on TBS or something last week. (Yes, they played it over and over. Lol.) Like a sucker, I watched even though I have seen it many times before. (I watched in between emails, anyway.) I didn’t see the end but I asked my friend who is a huge Bill Murray fan: “What finally got him to the next day?” It was when he started focusing on the people in his life in a helpful and vulnerable way. He wasn’t concerned about what he was getting from them. But he still was going after what he wanted. (i.e. Andie MacDowell.)
I want to recommend to you, if you are single, to be Bill Murray. Try to be Bill Murray in the last go ‘round of Ground Hog Day, not Bill Murray in Caddyshack. (The pond is not so good for you.) Bill Murray in Lost in Translation is not bad either.
What this means– There’s a guy who was in the papers this week because he has spent $65,000 on Matchmakers and has not gotten a mate. I have not worked with him but supposedly I might be approached next. (At least that’s what the reporter said when she quoted me)
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Nancy Slotnick: “We’ve Got An Hour”
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Oct 15, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET  White water rafting… in Las Vegas.
(Or learning to improvise on father-son weekends)
When I was 13 years old my parents had recently divorced and my father decided it would be a good time to have a father-son bonding weekend and that we’d go white water rafting in Snake River Canyon Wyoming. It was the first and last time I’ve ever been to Wyoming. Or whitewater rafting, for that matter. But
I do have fond and fun memories of what developed into a rather unconventional father-son weekend.
We arrived at the and were told by the guide that the water was unusually placid and there would be no “white water rafting” but we could still navigate the river’s calm waters, fish, and have cookouts where we stopped to camp for the next four days. My father, who was once fairly described as having the attention span of a strobe light, looked horrified—like it had been announced we’d been kidnapped and wouldn’t see civilization again for a very long time—maybe ever. My attention span was slightly better. Like a strobe light running in slow motion. And although I doubt I looked horrified; I suspect I looked seriously concerned and maybe even a little ashen.
 JYB Sr., JYB Jr. and JYB III circa 1972 We spent the next 8-10 hours on a raft. That’s it. Just rafting and fishing unsuccessfully. That night we set up camp and had a fire and played backgammon. That’s right, backgammon. My father and I would play backgammon for a dollar a point. I was down by a lot when we stopped playing several hours later because the dice rolling kept others with us from going to sleep. Earlier that evening our tour guide pointed out on a cave what looked like some Indian drawings. I knew my mom would find this interesting but I could tell my dad had dialed into his primitive survivalist instincts and was concocting a plan to allow us to escape. There were some things he knew he couldn’t protect me against in the wild. But boredom wasn’t one of them. I sensed that a real white water adventure was about to begin—one that wasn’t on the tour guides itinerary.
The next morning after several more hours on the raft of unsuccessful fishing and gliding along the undisturbed waters while I continued to lose more of my allowance playing backgammon, I realized my father had convinced the tour guide to go a direction that would drop us off at the first small town were close to. Suddenly there were people and a small store. We were dropped off, said good-bye, and grabbed the duffel bags I had packed for us.
I had no idea where we were going only that the waters were getting more interesting and adrenaline was on the uptick. My father asked for a ride to the nearest airport. He paid a tall Native American man $50 to allow us to drive his old pick-up truck to the nearest airport where he would pick it up later that day. So, there we were—two city boys roughing it but learning to brave the harsh outdoor elements by persuading a strangers to loan us his pick-up truck so we could get to the airport. The truck had a single 8 track tape: Seargent Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club’s Band. I had always liked “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” but got to listen to the entire 8 track during our drive and realized how much I really liked the entire album. Even “A Day in the Life.”
We arrived at a tiny airport with few flights and none looking to arrive in destinations more appealing than where we already were—except one. We flew to Las Vegas. As we walked into the hotel lobby in Vegas, I think it was fair to say we were the only ones checking in with duffel bags. Because I’d only packed outdoor clothing for our rafting trip—and most father-son activities in Las Vegas were geared more for indoors—we each had to buy new clothes that night. Which was fun. And we had room service where I discovered Matza Ball Soup. Something that wouldn’t have happened had we continued White Water rafting. And to this day I still order Matza Ball soup whenever I have the chance.
We stayed for a couple of days and I not only got even in backgammon, but came out a little ahead. And most important there was the father-son bonding, city style. And the ancient and important ritual tradition of father passing on important life survival skills to the son. I learned well how to improvise, adapt and think out of the box….and am rarely bored in life. Even without having to go to Vegas. And then we boarded a 747 and headed back home to Kentucky from our rugged and largely improvised—and unforgettable— white water adventure.
By Jason Atkinson, on Wed Oct 10, 2012 at 10:00 AM ET  Saturday I swam with 1,000 spawning salmon and I wondered what if they might be the last? Did I do everything in my power to fix the river my grandparents told me to restore? No. I’ve tried it with politics. I’m unfulfilled seeing what is happening and knowing I have the power to change it.
It was too late for the Hudson River in New York. The same was almost true with the Willamette River. While today the water around Portland is better, I wouldn’t recommend swimming in it. There are only a few rivers in the world, which could tip in either direction. My son will live with the results. So will yours.
 I took this picture Saturday Why laser beam on the Klamath? Because her champions are Government reports, bad politics, old hatreds, misinformation, and election cycles in both Oregon and California. The river’s future is stagnating like the water behind its lowest dam. Green, hot, and no one wants to touch it.
I want to. We’re Americans. We fix problems. We build our country. We leave it better.
Americans knew “super-sized” fast food was bad for our health. All the Government reports said so. But it was not until a documentary called Super Size Me made the emotional connection by laser-beaming on one man who ate too much, destroying his health, did America change. Within weeks of the films release, McDonalds ended “super-sizing.”
My laser beam is focused on the Klamath because I know a spotlight will be shown on how Americans do conservation. Our emotional connection is with America (like Super Size Me), and our story is the families who depend on a restored Klamath River.
I know the people of the Klamath. I am one. I know what is at stake, the competing cultures, the way of life in Oregon and California. I also know my great-grandfather swam with thousands and thousands more fish than I did Saturday.
The Klamath matters because restoring this river and her people reflects who we all are as Americans.
Help us finish up our grassroots push. We are just $19,250 to go.
Click here, not to donate, but to leave a legacy and change conservation.
By Nancy Slotnick, on Tue Oct 9, 2012 at 8:30 AM ET I just recently heard this phrase “what’s your scary age?” It refers to women’s biological clock. It implies that women are scared of the limitations of their own bodies when it comes to fertility. Which we are.
There’s nothing like the last minute. In college I used to wait until the day before a paper was due before starting it. The theory was that if I started earlier the work would just expand to fit all that extra time that I had. If I waited until the night before and had some good coffee (or Jolt- the predecessor to Red Bull- you can see I’m at a scary age!) then the pressure of the procrastination would Jolt me into getting it done. That drink was aptly named.
Except there was that one time. It was supposed to be the biggest “gut” class. An easy A. They called it “gas stations” because we literally studied the landscape of gas stations and every day places that you never notice. The stakes were higher because this paper was a 15 pager and the professor had a hang-up about lateness of papers and never gave extensions. So of course I choked. I waited until the last minute as usual, drank too much Jolt and had a caffeine overdose reaction. Then I fell asleep. Go figure.
 What is the moral to this story? Don’t trust a beverage whose slogan is “All the sugar and twice the caffeine!” That I figured out even before I graduated Harvard. But what has taken me all of these years later (I’m getting dangerously close to my 25th reunion) to learn? You don’t have to wait until you’re scared before you kick your butt in gear. And when the pressure’s on, it’s even more likely that you’ll choke. And you don’t want to choke on something as important as marriage and kids.
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Nancy Slotnick: What’s Your Scary Age?
By John Y. Brown III, on Thu Oct 4, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET We’ve all heard the saying, “It’s impossible to ask a stupid question.”
As someone who has the habit of asking lots of questions, I always took comfort in this maxim. But learned about 12 years ago during a marriage counseling session, it’s not always true.
I have since become a huge fan of marriage counseling for all couples. It teaches relationship skills we all need and is no different, in my opinion, to time and money we spend keeping our bodies and minds fit. But this was during the first few weeks of counseling and my lovely wife, Rebecca, and I still assumed it we were basically having a contest to see who could “win” and that the counselor was basically our umpire and score keeper.
Rebecca had won the first few sessions on points. I’d always known that if I’d been a boxer life, I’d be better served trying to always win on points rather than going for the knockout punch—even though the impulse to go for the knockout was always hard for me to resist. This morning I was off to an excellent start—doing all the right things. Using I statements and parrying well by mirroring empathetically Rebecca’s statements. I seemed to have our counselor on my side with momentum rolling my way.
And then I decided to go for the close and seal the deal, so to speak, with a question that I thought would secure a “W” for me this session—and one that we’ll all remember. It was the boxer–not the husband—in me.
“Doctor,” I thoughtfully intoned. “I’m sure you treat a lot of unhappy couples in your practice and I think you’ve had a chance to get to know me pretty well these past few weeks. Is it fair to say that most of the wives you meet with would be very happy to have a husband like me?”
And then….then…there was that awful, horrendous feeling one gets when you suspect there’s been a crack in the universe —and everyone is staring at you like you are to blame. And deep down, you agree with them.
I never got an answer to my question. But the question did help one of us “seal the deal” that morning. And it was a question we did, in fact, all remember.
And no one—on that morning—offered me the solace “John, there is no such thing as a stupid question.”
By Jonathan Miller, on Tue Oct 2, 2012 at 5:00 PM ET  Here’s picture proof that something can be both obnoxiously disgraceful and spiritually uplifting at the same time.
Trolling through Harvard Yard before I speak to the Harvard Hillel at 5:30 PM this afternoon about “The Liberal Case for Israel” — Join us 52 Mount Auburn Street if you are in the area — I noticed the door open to my old freshman dorm room. After begging the unfortunate current teen resident to let this old codger in, I noticed that the Springsteen poster, rows of beer cans and “couch of death” (don’t ask) from 1985-86 were no longer wreaking sensory havoc.
Instead, it was sort of a spiritual journey. This was the room where I finally gained my independence, made lifetime friends, and began a whole new life’s chapter. Too many memories — mostly great, some tragically embarrassing — flashed back in an instant. And when I snapped the picture above, I realized I was capturing the very spot at which I first professed my crush (telephonically, and a bit intoxicated of course) to my now wife of 23 years.
I cherish my college years, but the first will always be the most special. And my freshman dorm room will always occupy a very, very important place in my deeply nostalgic heart.
So, thanks to the guys of Holworthy Hall for letting me be a little creepy. Hopefully, it will embolden you to embarrass the next generation of freshman when you too get to middle age.
By Nancy Slotnick, on Tue Oct 2, 2012 at 8:30 AM ET With the Obama/Romney debate on the American family calendar this week, it seemed only fitting to address the more prominent form of debate in American families- the marital debate. First, though we have to acknowledge the differences. In a political debate, the audience is the American public. In the marital debate, the debaters are the audience. Complicated. Further, in the political debate, there are moderators and referees, time limits and guidelines. In the marital debate, all bets are off. We don’t even have commercial breaks- usually.
Of course, couples therapy is another story. With the right counselor, that can be a lot more safe. In fact, I believe that it should be mandatory for engaged couples to go to counseling. It’s not that all couples have problems to iron out (though most do,) but rather that learning to communicate in conflict is a prerequisite for a happy marriage. When people say “We have such a great relationship, we never fight!” it’s bull…., in my humble opinion. And even in counseling we have to remember the difference- that the candidates are the audience. (It’s not about whom the therapist likes better! As long as it’s me.)
So, because these 2 genres are quite different, we should understand that the goal is different. We know that Obama is not going to convince Romney of anything and vice versa. We don’t expect that they will be heard and understood by each other. And they don’t have to sleep in the same bed at the end of the night. Thank G-d. That wouldn’t be legal in most states anyway.
With the marital argument, that same person that we disagree with so vehemently is the one that we have to make babies with, when the time is right. (And practice that the rest of the time.) We don’t want to be reachingacross the aisle; we want to be walking down the same aisle! But oftentimes it is not so. Bipartisanship is not just something to give lip service to, when it comes to marriage. It is mission critical.
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Nancy Slotnick: Mass Debate
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Oct 1, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET An unsuspected gift from fate that impressed a son and grandson. And surprised William F Buckley Jr .
You know the old Groucho Marx joke, “I’d never want to belong to any club that would have me for a member.”
I think most of us feel that way about our families–at least in the sense that we don’t believe they are all that special. And that’s a good thing–mostly. We see them as they are–their faults and foibles, their best and worst and most ordinary.
(I remember meeting Ed Prichard’s wife Lucy shortly after Prich had died. I was awed by Ed Prichard and peppered Lucy with eager questions about her husband’s greatness. Until she resignedly said, “I knew him warts and all.”)
JYB Sr., JYB Jr. and JYB III circa 1972 Other people, by contrast, are seen as they’d like for us to see them. And that’s an unfair comparison–but it’s the best our brains can do.
This past weekend when I was alone with my son and we were talking about Big John (my father; his grandfather), Johnny was astounded to hear Big John was once a guest on Firing Line, the uber-erudite political talk show hosted by the eloquent sesquipedalian William F Buckley Jr.
(I’ve never gotten to use that word before –meaning a person who uses big words—-and not about to pass it up now!)
I remember when I heard about this show and had the same reaction as Johnny, namely: “I know Big John is smart and has a lot of common sense but I doubt he can hold his own on with William F Buckley.” Few can.
But it didn’t matter anyway because as I explained to Johnny I had tried for about 25 years to get a video or transcript from the 1981 show and had never been successful.
Until we got to our hotel room and found to our amazement it was available for free online.
And then found to our astonishment, that the plain spoken, quick witted family member of ours known more for horse sense than book sense, went toe-to-toe with Mr Buckley and…..Well, put it this way… For those watching who just saw Gov Brown for how he wanted to be seen (and weren’t biased family members), he held his own.
And even the two fellas who knew better than to think such nonsense had to admit they were awfully proud.
Here’s the transcript (click this link). I doubt anyone will be interested but you never know…. It just might inspire you to realize you are much more capable than you think. We all probably are….We just don’t get he chance to prove it often enough.
By Nancy Slotnick, on Tue Sep 25, 2012 at 8:30 AM ET Some of you are too young to be Billy Joel fans. I’m just young enough to admit it, and yet old enough to see it as retro chic. Regardless of the complexity of my Billy Joel fan status, I had to bring him up today because his song Vienna keeps ringing in my head. So it must mean something, despite the fact that I don’t want to recommend you take relationship advice from Billy Joel. But his poetry is another matter entirely.
Vienna waits for you. I’ve never been to Vienna, but I think I know what he means. What is your Vienna? I’m asking myself this lately. What is that dream of yours that you might be missing because you’re “so ahead of yourself that you forgot what you need”? Slow down you crazy child! It’s so weird- we have to slow down so we can speed up our dreams? Hard to understand but it’s true. You can get what you want or you can just get old.
 In 2006 I wrote a book entitled Turn Your Cablight On: Get your Dream Man in 6 Months or Less. What does Dream Man mean for you? Can he still be the man of your dreams once he’s a reality? You know how they say—Be careful what you wish for, because you might get it. Once you get it, it’s hard to remember how to appreciate it.
In 1996 when I was single and about to open my dating-café, Drip, I chose an architect for the project who was also a college classmate of mine. We’ll call her Amanda, because that’s her name. I won’t say her last name, because this story could be a little embarrassing but it’s totally flattering. So I’m walking with Amanda and she realizes she has to go to her apartment to get some architectural plans. She invites me up to her apartment, but stops first for some instruction: “When we go up to my apartment, you’re probably going to meet my husband. So, I have to warn you, he’s a babe.” Well, I have heard a lot of things in my life, but that one was without a doubt the coolest thing I had ever heard anyone say. Still is. I really don’t even know why she felt the need to say it but it was so cute. (And, yes, he is a babe.)
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Nancy Slotnick: Vienna Waits for You
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One of my husband’s favorite movies is True Lies. (You must say it with the Ahrnold accent.) Of course the irony of the casting of that film didn’t become so readily apparent until recently. I saw Arnold interviewed about how he lied about his audio malfunctioning when Matt Lauer once asked him a question that he didn’t want to answer. Even though he admitted to this lie in his recent memoir, he still didn’t want to own up to the lie when asked about it on Meet the Press. And they had video footage! A lie wrapped in an enigma wrapped in fudge factor. It’s called acting I guess.
How can you tell? If someone like Maria Shriver, an extremely smart and astute woman, can be fooled, then how on earth can the rest of us figure it out?
