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Ask Mindy: Don’t Make Me Over

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

Ask Mindy

Readers, it’s that time again: time for another “Ask Mindy.” Welcome back to the world of Mindy Morals, the moral philosopher from Moab, Utah. Do you remember the 21st night of September? Mindy does, because it’s when she gave her first-ever piece of advice. In this installment, Mindy answers questions about personal changes.


 


Greetings Mindy,


You may have read in the news this week that the President is planning on creating a Space Force. Well, that’s not the whole story—the President is merely recognizing a top-secret project that’s been operational for decades. I am Captain Henry L. Xenon, Space Force first command, second unit. For over fifty years I’ve circled the galaxy. The stars and the sun were my friends, and the moon my lover.


Let me tell you about who I am and what I do. I’ve piloted my starcraft through the Garglaxian Nebula, I’ve played moon-golf with Lord Jopeth of Snell, and I get all the Tang I want. But all the while I’ve been dedicated to one goal and one goal only: protecting Space God’s most blessed creation, the United States of America. I’ve seen things that would make grown men curse their mothers, and suffered grievous personal injury at the hands of countless, nameless hordes. But only thing has ever made me cry, and that was the thought that I might never return home to see a bald eagle.


But good news, Mindy: I’m back, and ready to make up for lost time. Already I’ve listened to the song “Rocket Man” (pretty good!) and watched the film Leprechaun 4: In Space (surprisingly accurate).


My one concern is that I don’t know how to meet a suitable mate. Despite what Geena Davis would have you think, Earth girls are not “easy.” In fact, I can’t seem to have a good time with any of them. On Fedora-7 (no connection to the hat), it’s customary to hunt wild Snorlak on the first date. But here, I’m supposed to pay for an entire meal, even though she got a whole roast chicken and I only ate a vita-pill I had in my wallet? And I have to pay for her tiramisu, even though I have plenty of freeze-dried ice cream at home?


Needless to say, I’ve spent most of my time alone. And I’m beginning to wonder if I made a mistake coming to this planet. What do I do?


 


Sincerely,


Henry L. Xenon, first command, second unit

Space Force, U.S.A., Planet Earth


 


PS Just by way of explanation—although I was born in 1924, the G- and Z-forces I was exposed to in space have given me the body and face of a 29-year-old. My whole family, and most of my friends are dead, but I am still a young man.


 


Dear Captain Xenon,


On behalf of myself and all of us who inhabit this rock called Earth, thank you for your service. Every time I look up at the night sky, I wonder whether my safety and happiness is the result of brave spacefarers like yourself. And now I know that it is!


My brother was in the Coast Guard (at least until an unfortunate incident involving counterfeit crabcakes and the actor Kevin Sorbo got him dishonorably discharged), so although the Chesapeake Bay and outer space are quite different, I have some understanding of what you’ve sacrificed.


Readjusting to civ life is difficult. You forget how to do basic things, and get distracted by memories and fantasies. Like Kevin Sorbo told my brother, “things that should have pleasurable and easy to digest suddenly cause enormous distress and a visit from FDA.”


But my advice—and I know it’s not much right now—is just to stick it out. Instead of eating astronaut foods and supplements, why not try a hamburger? Instead of only consuming space-themed media, why not see something decidedly more earthbound, like John Travolta’s new crime thriller Gotti? Only when you start to devote your life to things down here can you escape the burden of everything up there.


And as for that last point: eternal youth? Now I want to go to space!


 


Dear Mindy,


Maybe you’ve heard of me. I’m the one they call Silo Man. I cover my body in tinfoil, paint my face silver, and wear a little pewter hat. Then I look for three-foot objects and stand next to them, so that I look like the silo of a barn. Owing to the largesse of a very generous benefactor, I’ve been able to support myself through this practice for nearly ten years.


It’s not just about the money, though. I find myself most fulfilled when I’m in S-mode. Something about being both a part of something and separate, and dwarfing other objects with my very body—it’s thrilling and soothing all at once. I’ve tried being a windsock, a sundial, and even a flying buttress, but none of them have given me the same level of personal and spiritual satisfaction.


But a change has come to my life. I met a beautiful girl, Grizabella, and we’re a perfect match in all ways except one. She doesn’t like my silo antics—she thinks that it’s distasteful and, in her words, “weird.” I don’t want to lose my queen, but I don’t want to hang up my little metal hat, either.


I’m at a loss, Mindy!


 


Sincerely,


Silo Man


 


Dear Silo,


When I first met Mr. Morals, he was obsessed with Parcheesi. I’d come over before we went on a date, and he’d been deep into a ‘cheese session with his roommates Vine and Plinko (not as weird as they sound—those names were short for Evan and Plinkerberg). Eventually, I gave him an ultimatum—“It’s me or that darned board game!” I yelled at him. And he relented, and told me I was his everything.


But it couldn’t last. One day I came home early from work and what did I find but my husband and his coworker Tatiana…playing Parcheesi, three of my husband’s pieces in their home positions! Well, I was outraged. My husband had made me a promise, and here he was lying and going behind my back! And then I came to realization—I had forced him to become a liar! He loved that game, and by denying him his right to play it, I had turned him against me. We have since worked through our differences, and now we play Parcheesi every night of the week together. We’ve both never been happier.


I guess what I’m saying is that weird hobbies suddenly aren’t weird if you have somebody else to do them with. Why not see if Grizabella can be the barn to your silo?


 


Dear Mindy,


My brother has been acting really strange lately. He used to be a bright, sociable boy, full of good humor and joie de vivre. But now, all he does is talk about the TV show Marcus Welby, M.D. I’ll ask him how his day went, or what he wants our mom to make him for dinner, and he’ll respond with “Did you know that long before his career-best turn as Mr. Roper on Three’s Company, Norman Fell appears in the 1974 episode ‘Catch a Ring that Isn’t There?’”


Mindy, I think this TV show is destroying my brother, but I don’t know how to make him shape up.


 


Sincerely,


Things are not going Welby


 


Dear Welby,


There are hobbies—like the Silo antics of our last reader—and then there are full-blown obsessions. It’s one thing to enjoy a daily board game, but another to be able to speak about nothing but a favorite TV show. Although you might see whether watching Welby with your brother does anything for him, don’t be disappointed if it doesn’t.


You might try exposing him to a different television show, like Ironside or The Streets of San Francisco—maybe it will help wean him from his current program. But if that doesn’t work either, you should probably try sending him to a therapist who might better suited to help him.


Remember, readers: the boob tube may be a fun distraction, but don’t let it turn you into a boob!


 


That’s it for this week, but Mindy is always taking questions. Need help solving your dilemma? Just email mindy@manhattanmedia.com. You just might read your answer in next week’s column.


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