Dear Dr. Perfect,

What is the appropriate way to eat a baked potato? The answer has begun to plague my marriage in ways I had never imagined. My wife outright delivered an ultimatum during dinner the other night. She said that she’ll leave me if I don’t start eating mine “the correct way.” I asked her what way that would be, and she refused to say. She could just be looking for an excuse, but up until now, our marriage was the picture of happiness. Where do we go from here? I slice mine in half, then apply butter and bacon bits. I don’t even like baked potatoes, but everything is riding on this. Please help solve this crisis before it ends my marriage for good.

With gratitude,

Shuddering and Spuddering

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Dear S & S,

This question has plagued civilization since Roman times. Well, for all I know, they weren’t eating potatoes back then. I do believe it was a subject of intellectual discussion during the Renaissance, a real “hot potato,” if you will. Leonardo Da Vinci was rumored to have thrown a fully loaded baked potato at an early Mona Lisa sketch he couldn’t get right. Fast forward to the nineteenth century, to Ireland’s Great Potato Famine, and you’ll find varying degrees of records on this greatly contested issue.

Let’s begin with how I eat my baked potato. There’s really nothing to it. I boil mine in a Terra cotta pot over an open fire for about three and a half hours. That’s about thirty minutes a pound, if you’re counting. Prior to this routine, I usually invite guests over for a night of casual banter and wine, where we drink and exchange high society gossip while indulging in the finest appetizers. One evening, I panicked upon realizing I was all out of blini for the caviar and used a box of Triscuits instead. The discreet switch turned out to be a hit, with many guests none the wiser. Our entree consisted of pepper steak stir fry, Borscht, and baked potato. I can tell you, as someone who runs in fairly sophisticated social circles, that there is only one proper way to eat a baked potato. Perhaps your wife is privy to this insight, and I can save you a lot of trouble by just telling you now.

Your first obvious blunder involves the initial urge to cut the potato in half. You might as well just beat the poor thing with a club like some neanderthal. You must roll the potato, preferably on small plate of simmering butter. Gently turn the potato until it’s relatively marinated. Next, cut an impeccably shaped opening about two inches in diameter and a half inch wide in the center of the potato. Add approximately four spoonfuls of sour cream, one ounce of butter, two tablespoons of chives, five ounces of shredded cheddar, half a cup of bacon bits, four diced tomatoes, and two ounces of tequila. This should be about as right as you can possibly be.

You might also consider that your wife may have ulterior motives. We advice columnists often refer to this as spousal entrapment. She could just as easily lament your postures or critique the placement garbage cans within the proper distance from the curb. While her admonishment of your pedestrian mastery of potato-eating is understandable, she could be deliberating upon your marriage’s end altogether. You’re right to suspect that she’s searching for an excuse. Offer to make dinner one night. Keep it simple with steak and potatoes. Serve the food and excuse yourself to the lavatory.

As you take in inordinate amount of time in the lavatory, take comfort in the private investigator you’ve hired to snap pictures of her from the patio. She’ll naturally prepare her potato and even have a few bites as she waits. You’ll have all the evidence you need of her preferred method. This plan is not foolproof, however. She might wait for you to return just to wait and see how you do it first. The proper way to eat a potato is an entirely different story. You might be tempted to use a fork and knife, cutting and pulling the potato apart as steam rises. This again is incorrect.

You must gently scoop the insides with a potato spoon. Not a soup spoon, dessert spoon or, God forbid, cereal spoon, this has to be an officially-designated potato spoon. You can find one at any high-end cutlery center. You hold the potato spoon in one hand and your dinner fork in the other, prodding and mashing and picking delicate bites until only the skin remains. Then cut the skin into equally proportional bites and consume.

If you don’t have a glass of red wine on hand, then you’ve already failed the next test. I prefer white myself, but those are the rules. Like you, I don’t much care for potatoes in general, but go through the motions to remain a good standing member of society.

The potato might just be a symbol of your crumbling marriage. In 1992, Vice President Dan Quayle faced ridicule during a spelling bee competition, where he altered a young student’s correct spelling of the word to “potatoe.” In an obvious setup, the card he used had the wrong spelling, and he didn’t trust his own judgement. He was, like you, another victim of circumstance. There’s still hope though. Potato sliders in any case are known to quell differences, and you can just as easily eat those with your hands.

If you want my real advice, be prepared. Serve potatoes with every meal until she grows tired of the charade. Eat potatoes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Slip potato wedges into your sandwiches. Make potato soup. Purchase Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head accessories from the local market. If she gets on your case about your strange potato obsession, remind her about what an important food source it is. After a few weeks of this, she most likely will never bring up potatoes again, and you can drop the matter, continuing the blissful marriage you once had.

Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.

The Perfect Life #5

Dear Dr. Perfect.

I am having no luck attracting a woman enough to even go on a date with me. I have a decent job, I live in my own apartment, and I am not overweight. Should I start a podcast?

Sincerely, Mr. Lonelyheart

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Dear Lonleyheart,

If you’re searching for lessons on the laws of attraction, you’ve come to the right place. Women often seek two things in a compatible mate: confidence and security. Well, there’s also status, money, prowess, drive, ambition, sense of humor, trust, and, of course, charisma. Those could be my own preferences or something I heard a woman say. I’m certain that your issues extend beyond podcast aspirations. Best not to broadcast your insecurities.

Dating has changed since I was a young stallion. We met people at luncheons, car shows, and discotheques. We had speed dating, blind dates, meeting through friends, blackout drinking, and dumpster diving. Today, we’re swiping left, right, up, and down with no rhyme or reason.

Once, I escorted a lady friend to Medieval Times. Caught up in the moment, she insisted that I joust with one of the knights to prove my fealty. I explained the stupidity of her whim. She said that if I had any inkling of sleeping with her, I would joust the knight like my life depended on it. I clarified that I had no such intentions on a first date. She guzzled wine from her goblet and called me a peasant. By then, we had missed most of the show. Sometime after our disastrous feast, we went out for coffee and got along just fine.

The point, Loneleyheart, is that you needn’t worry. You have a job, a decent apartment, and you’re not overweight. The long road toward companionship is rife with trial and error. Try on a variety of suits, each more daring than the next. Avoid the sociopathic urge to lie about everything and stay honest with yourself and what you’re looking for. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with embellishment with a persona. Just because you’re not actually an airline pilot or a doctor doesn’t mean you can’t think like one. We’ve all been to hospitals and on airplanes. How hard can it be?

I once went hang-gliding on a date with a skilled pilot. Prior to our adventure, I had assured her of my piloting skills despite having never done it before. We took off from the top of a cliff. I never admitted my embellishment, even when she visited me in the hospital. She was a tender person, full of life, but I squandered our relationship during the Advice Columnist Convention (ACC) of ’96. There was a woman there who—well, maybe that’s not relevant here.

If I’ve learned anything from women, it’s that they also like a guy who can cook. I once dated this chef who reviled in our competing soufflés. We were so crazy about food that we introduced it into the bedroom like some cheap rehash of 9 1/2 Weeks.

As far as your issues, attraction isn’t impossible. Approach the nearest catch who’s caught your eye and simply say hello. They could roll their eyes and ignore you, or they could answer you back. If they’re receptive, you’ll have the opportunity to recite some Walt Whitman or Edgar Alan Poe, two titans of the Romantic Age. Either way, you’ve got their attention, and it’s go time. If none of this works and all the conventional means have failed, it’s time to get serious.

Start that podcast.

And never forget, when the going gets tough, lower your standards.

Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.

The Perfect Life #4

Dear Dr. Perfect.

I am struggling to be fully supportive of my sister’s lifestyle. She’s a dominatrix, and is very public about that, as she wears scarlet latex everywhere. Her bond with her current slave is strong. At family gatherings, he must eat his meal from a dog-bowl on the floor at her side as the rest of us sit at the table. The concern is that he is a large man—about six foot eight inches, though he seldom stands fully upright. His back strains against the underside of the dining table, which is admittedly short. The slave is agitated constantly via an egg in his rectum, his skull and spine take a beating. The dining table came over from Prussia when our family emigrated in the early 19^thcentury. My sister insists we get a new table, but the old-world craftsmanship is priceless, and has our family crest emblazoned upon its top. Must we ditch this heirloom in the name of family?

Sincerely, A Woman Who Loves Her Family

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 Dear WWLHF,

Every family has one. My own brother does cosplay, and I still don’t get it. We often drift apart from our siblings at some point and go our separate ways. I’d like to think that familial bonds travel to adulthood, even when overshadowed by dominatrix slaves. What you’re describing could be a point of contention if not handled with the right amount of finesse. That’s what I’m here for.

You’ll have to look past your sister’s attire for the time being and focus on the slave. It’s only natural that you’d want to make him feel comfortable during family gatherings despite his unfortunate proximity to the dining table. There are a few ways to remedy the situation.

Someone of his height will always face the uncomfortable confines of any area when on all fours. He probably can’t take more than a few steps without hitting a wall. Perhaps such discomfort is a facet of his submissiveness. He might even feel a little left out. Here, your sister dons her glossy latex with her pale face, deep mascara, and piercings for all to see. Meanwhile, her slave is reduced to eating out of his bowl, which he should, with not so much as a pat on the head. Imagine how he feels, being pulled back by his leash to the car at the end of the night. For all I know, he loves it, but we’ve got to probe deeper here, much like the unfortunate placement of the egg.

No one in their right mind would get rid of a Prussian dining table, especially with an emblazoned family crest. Have you gone mad, Ma’am? I trust that you haven’t. You could purchase another table of the appropriate height or you could stand up to your domineering sister for once and suggest an alternative placement of the dog bowl, one that isn’t directly under the table. Another suggestion is to visit the nearest underground dominatrix club and recruit your own slave in response. With two slaves on hand, she’ll have no choice but to accept an entirely different area for them to eat, where her slave’s rectum is at least a few feet away the looming Prussian antique.

If this scenario fails to quell tensions, talk with your sister, sibling to sibling, and explain where you’re coming from. You love the table and your new slave, and she’s just going to have to accept it. She might not appreciate the insolence and the interference into her lifestyle, but that’s when you bring out the big guns with a large bottle of wine and The Rocky Horror Picture Show to put everyone at ease. The slaves will sleep in the corner as you two drunkenly reconcile. That’s usually how these things go. Someday you’ll both be too old to don tight leather and chains, assuming you’ve embraced the lifestyle too, and all you’ll have are the memories. If you do decide to get rid of the table, let me know. I’ll make you an offer.

Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.

The Perfect Life #3

Dear Dr. Perfect.

In the time of COVID-19, how can I make my loved ones comply with the necessary safety measures to keep this disease from spreading? My brother is a nudist and insists that masks infringe upon his anatomical sovereignty. My cousin’s cat is asthmatic. And my sister says that the whole thing is a hoax despite my brother-in-law’s death last October. I know that my country in general bristles at the idea of etiquette. What is the polite way for me and my family to stay safe?

Sincerely, Not a Hoaxer

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Dear Not a Hoaxer,

During this pandemic, it’s important to find a balance that allows society to function without hiding under our beds in HAZMAT suits. For instance, I clean my keyboard with disinfectant wipes twice before usage. I’ve been doing that for years, actually. Think of the restrictions as similar to entering someone’s house. They might ask you to take your shoes off, and you comply with such freaks out of courtesy. Society is one giant house. Put a coaster on the table before setting your glass down.

Where were we? You’ve got your hands full. I assume your brother’s flaunted nudity is not asked for but rather tolerated. Introduce him to those clear face shields. They’re inexpensive and available everywhere. Sure, they look ridiculous, but instead of infringing on his anatomical sovereignty, it might actually enhance it. Think fetish. He can stroll the beach like a pro with his face shield on in the open air with no one around and know that he’s doing his part to help someone, somewhere from being uncomfortable. If that’s not enough, use industrial staples to put a mask on his face, and one over his junk for good measure. It’s only polite.

I had an asthmatic Yorkie who required a tiny mask for her inhaler. I loved that little dog. Mask wearing for pets can be a precarious chore. If you’ve ever tried to dress up your cat, dog, or emotional support monkey for the holidays, you know how difficult it can be. I certainly don’t want to be insensitive to your cousin’s cat’s needs, and I would never expect some frumpy feline to put anyone before itself. After all, we’re only here to wait on it hand and foot without so much as a whisper of appreciation! I apologize, I had a cat once, and it didn’t work out. Your situation, as it stands, calls for the indefinite quarantine of this sickly cat in question. One can never be too sure. I certainly wouldn’t step near a non-masked domesticated animal, at least until it’s had its vaccine shot.

Condolences on your brother-in-law’s passing. Your sister is entitled to her idiotic opinion, as so many of us are these days until the hammer comes down and we say the wrong things and end up in the slammer. Does your sister belong in jail? I can’t make that call, but I think it’s time for her to put aside her hoax conspiracies and mask up. If you think I’m propagandizing, you’re probably right. The management here are like something out of 1985, the fan-fiction sequel to 1984 I read the other week. It wasn’t a bad book, aside from the tentacle porn passages.

Without manners, we would descend into madness within hours, worse than our current state. General etiquette binds us together in a civil society, quite the opposite of the videos we’ve seen of masked and unmasked crazies shouting at each other on airplanes or in supermarkets. I’m optimistic. We have a few good months left. Consider where your family is coming from and tell them in no uncertain terms that they must adhere to CDC guidelines or face public shaming on social media. Assure them that these are just temporary measures, two weeks tops.

And then extend the deadline with no explanation. It’s no time to be placating one another.

I wear my mask at home and while I sleep, and I live alone. And no, you may not come over.

Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.

The Perfect Life #2

Dear Dr. Perfect,

My ex-wife has asked me to take care of my children during Super Bowl weekend, when she (my ex-wife) plants to recover from heart enlargement surgery. I have been invited to my weed salesman’s Super Bowl party, featuring BBQ, Hooters girls, a poolside Jumbotron, and 45 different strains of sativa. How can I persuade my purveyor of the ganja flower that my children will not be a detriment to the festivities?

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Dear Superfan,

Your dilemma reminds of an anecdote about a diplomat’s wife caught between writing his speeches and having a life of her own. She visited art galleries in her spare time, taking a special interest in the works of Andy Warhol and wondering how a man became rich with paintings of Campbell Soup cans. But we all know that it wasn’t just the paintings themselves that made Warhol a household name. He had tapped into the vapid zeitgeist of popular culture at the right time and place. You must find your purpose as well.

How can you simultaneously balance responsibility and irresponsibility? If successful, you might just have the time of your life. A functioning alcoholic does this quite well, until cirrhosis kicks in. The Super Bowl is a pretty big deal. I too find myself glued to the television, pretending to remember who won the playoffs so that I can root for the most impressive team amidst the haze of banal commercials, cheap beer, and halftime shows.

It would seem that SB parties are a mere excuse to gorge upon fatty foods and attack alcohol. Why not? The holidays are over, and most of us are reeling from the deep depression of a new year. I can think of no better way to celebrate. But I just might pass on this year’s big game to save myself the additional melancholy of empty stands, cardboard cutouts, or whatever the hell the league has planned. Tom Brady’s surprise move to the Buccaneers was a sign of the changing times. My bookie now says that Tampa Bay are a shoo-in at fifty to one odds. But I haven’t bet since losing on the Dolphins in 1984. These days, it’s just emu races for me.

Let us delve into your dizzying issue. Your ex-wife is an ex for a reason. I make no judgements here. I’m assuming you’re a great disappointment to her. Now, having been thrust back into bachelor life, you’re saddled with some kids and a kick-ass party to attend. Your concern for your weed dealer is commendable, and there is no way any man would turn down a party of such caliber. You had me at Hooters girls.

Your children shouldn’t be an issue. I’ve been to plenty of gatherings where the kids were relegated to some bounce house or playpen while the adults got sloshed. Tell your weed dealer that they’re not narcs. Tell your kids that they’re going to their new uncle’s house to watch the Super Bowl and to respect the Hooters girls by the pool. You can easily mediate between the two camps without issue.

I’m actually beginning to wonder if this party can truly live up to the hype. I’ve been disappointed before. 2020 was a terrible year, but we might have just as many bad years ahead.

This is all the more reason to attend the party! You would need to be some kind of miracle dad to pull it off. Mrs. Doubtfire is a good example. She/he made it work and had us laughing in the process. Be prepared to switch between dad mode and bachelor mode quite often. Enjoy the festivities, partake in the cannabis, and have the kids in bed by midnight. After her recovery, your wife will hear about everything, so have your stories ready.

Your kids won’t understand why their dad was so spacey, and they don’t need to know. This is what we rubes call, blowing off steam. High society types wouldn’t understand it, nor would the blue noses or any noses, for that matter. You’ve got a Jumbotron and several types of sativa at your disposal. If you’re like Uncle Buckin the pivotal scene before taking his niece and nephew to bet on horse racing, you would decide to be the responsible adult and not take them at all. But this isn’t a John Hughes comedy, this is real life! If nothing else, my sister can babysit the kids. Just pick me up on your way to the party.

Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.

The Perfect Life #1

Dear Dr. Perfect,

Three months ago, I married the most wonderful man. He was completely supportive of me keeping my name after our wedding. My mother-in-law gave us Versace tableware that costs more than my car. The problem is that she had them monogrammed. My husband and I actually share our first two initials, but since I didn’t change my name, the last initial isn’t the same. So the monogram is in his name, not both our names.

When we have my in-laws over for dinner, my mother-in-law gets upset that we don’t use the tableware. I have told her that we are waiting for a special occasion, like Thanksgiving, but really, I am horrified that my mother-in-law assumed I would be changing my name. I am horrified that my mother-in-law spent six figures on plates and bowls, and with the wrong monogram. I am horrified that my mother-in-law thinks that we don’t value her gift. What am I to do?

Horrible daughter-in-law

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Dear Horrible Daughter-in-law,

You’re not horrible. You’re just confused like the rest of us. One can only speculate what crossed your mother-in-law’s mind when purchasing gifts so lavish as to make you feel financially inadequate. In-laws express themselves in various fashions.

She might have chosen the most expensive tableware on planet Earth to not only remind her son who “mama” still is but to send a veiled message against the skirting of tradition you’ve so flagrantly engaged in. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with maintaining your surname. A recent US study suggests that twenty percent of recently married women kept theirs for numerous reasons. You’re clearly not alone in this despite the constant reminder on every Versace plate.

I understand the aversion in using the tableware, as doing so would honor the very stigmatizing gesture thrust upon you. Your in-laws don’t seem like bad people, and you describe your husband as “wonderful.” I’m happy to hear that. This is a crisis of etiquette. You don’t want to make an issue where there is none. But by using the plates, you’re giving in to what could very well be a calculated move to demean your personal decision.

Or perhaps your mother in-law simply overlooked the last name issue. Perhaps she isn’t Hitler incarnate but a woman who wanted to treat her son and new daughter to the fine china. Monogrammed plates are a very deliberate move, though. You’d have to have a PhD in the psychology of in-laws to understand her angle. Fortunately for you, Dr. Perfect has that precise PhD.

Invite the in-laws over for tea and crumpets. That’s what we called it back then. My parents forced me to, and we weren’t even British! Or invite them for filet mignon. The point is, use the plates. Have the table set and show them that you have no reservations. Your mother-in-law, let’s call her Nebulous Nancy, might see this as a victory. Her victory plates are on display for all to see. That’s when you subtly leave some mail in the middle of the table with your full name in clear view.

Make sure your guests are seated, and make sure that she sees the envelope. Apologize and remove the mail, placing it on a nearby counter. Study Nancy for signs of distress or annoyance. Casually return to the kitchen and “accidentally” drop a plate onto the floor. Your guests will be no doubt startled. Sweep up the broken glass and apologize profusely to your husband for breaking one of “his plates.” Say it twice if you have to. Something like, “I’m sorry, they had your initials on them and everything.”

Return to your guests and resume hosting. Compliment the gift, while also distancing yourself from it. “We just love the new tableware,” you’ll say, as you suddenly knock over a wine glass. Quickly wipe up the spill with your newly monogrammed dish towel that has your initials on it. By then, Nancy’s head will spin from trying to figure out what the hell’s going on.

These situations usually call for some brandy in the end. I don’t care for the taste, but it’s a classy drink, and your guests will love it. After all the tea and crumpets and filet mignon and brandy is consumed, you should feel the matter settled. Leave your mother in-law with a clear reminder that plates can be broken, but family can be broken, too.

Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.