What I Don't Know For Sure, But Highly Suspect

PRAH Winfrey, What I Know for Sure:

"What we dwell on is who we become."

"A healthy relationship brings joy—not just some of the time, but most of the time."

"Every day brings a chance for you to draw in a breath, kick off your shoes, and dance."

My next-door neighbor is having an affair.

I have only circumstantial evidence, nothing forensic. But if you could see what I've seen, you'd be virtually convinced. Leaving the house just before lunch every Tuesday and Thursday, all dolled up. Coming home around the same time, usually with no packages. I wouldn't say she's rumpled, but definitely perkier than when she left. That just isn't normal for an innocent outing. I'll keep you posted.

There are very likely more than three dimensions.

I realize I'm no Einstein, but how did my reading glasses get in the laundry hamper? No, I did not leave them in a pocket. I never do that. My theory, based on science, is that wormholes spontaneously arise and dissolve in my apartment. One minute my glasses are on top of my computer, where I left them, and the next they're sitting in my hamper, which momentarily occupied the same space-time continuum with my desk. Currently it's a one-way wormhole, because to date I haven't discovered any panties on my Mac.

You can never have too many shoes.

That is almost certainly true, but I suppose in some cases there may be an upper limit due to the constraints of space or conscience, say. I met a woman at a party once who swore up and down that she had exactly the shoes she needed for every occasion. I pointed out that shoes wore out, and that she would eventually need more, but she said that didn't count. "Each current set of shoes can be the only universe for discussion," said she, in her Barbie-doll sapphire slip-ons. Well la-di-da.

Keenly sensitive adults were lactose-intolerant as children.

Take me, for example. "Have you ever seen such beautiful clouds?" I'm forever observing, a sentiment no doubt attributable to the gas and bloating I suffered as an innocent child. "Drink your milk," my mother used to say, wielding that terrible glass of white indigestion. You may already have gathered that I dabble in poetry; 'tis the refuge of the Sensitive Person:

Drink Your Milk?

Yes, but
Now I drink Lactaid, so—
the suffering is just
a
Lifelong Memory, and not—
a
Permanent Scourge.

If you laugh hard enough, you really will start to cry.

I, like some of you, was a skeptic. But then I laughed hard enough—it was something Elizabeth Taylor said—and lo and behold, the tears started falling. Then I cried like a complete fool for another minute. This has happened several times since, and I almost look forward to it as a kind of release. You do feel a bit like a loony from a 1940s film noir, where some fiend has been driving you crazy so you sign over your millions without even realizing it. But if you haven't experienced this in your life yet, maybe you need to let loose in the laughter department. Give it all you've got! And then tell me that you don't start bawling, and I'll take it off the list.

No, there is not hope for everyone.

Some people are just complete jerks. You can send them to therapy for 50 years, and they'll still suck their teeth, or not know when to stop talking, or never pay back what they owe you. It's sad but true, and you really shouldn't waste your whole life trying to harvest a pearl from an obnoxious oyster. I'd give the jerk in your life six months, tops. Then move on. You have a life list, I presume. It's time to start checking it off!

Jennifer Aniston has had a nose job to make it look like she hasn't had a nose job.

Everyone's always praising Jen for her great figure and silky hair, all the while taking bets on whether she'll get her nose tweaked so she can be really perfect. Well this just in. There's no way you could get a nose to be JUST too large to be perfect without some help. And there she is on the red carpet, looking all brave and holding up despite her un-perfect nose. Well, missy, some people can't be fooled. It's all an act to keep the publicity train chuggin' along, and someday I'll prove it.

Fifty is not the new thirty.

That would make 30 the new 10, and if you can't tell the difference between a 30 year old and a 10 year old you're in a heap o' trouble, my friend.