I’m pretty sure, given my lifelong love affair for all things Duran Duran, that it’s no secret I grew up in the 1980s. It was a simpler, more fluorescent time then. So many things happened that influenced who Gen Xers are today. I’m not talking about the fall of the Berlin Wall, or Reaganomics, or the development of the modern Internet. I’m talking about the fine selection of horror films being produced for consumption by young, impressionable minds during that time period. Here are some valuable life lessons we all learned from those instructive films:

1. To kill a leprechaun, you must slingshot a four-leaf clover down his gullet. However, don’t expect him to stay dead. He’ll be back, at least five more times, and he wants his gold.

2. Don’t build your home on a Native American burial ground. Also, stuffed clowns are a terrible birthday gift idea. You might as well put out a doormat that reads POLTERGEISTS WELCOME HERE.

3. Speaking of bad birthday gifts, put that Good Guy doll right back on the shelf. You can’t be sure the spirit of a serial killer doesn’t possess that thing. Need a good gift? That puppet master down the road had some cool toys in his window.

4. To kill a bloodthirsty, machete-wielding murderer in a hockey mask, you need to put an axe through his head, kill him with his own machete, chain him to the bottom of the lake where he initially drowned, drag him back to the bottom of the lake again after he escapes, blow him up with a grenade, stab him with a mystical dagger, freeze him in cryonic suspension, or eject him into space. Of course, he’ll still come back. You thought the leprechaun was bad? He was child’s play compared to this guy!

5. Things to avoid: April Fool’s Day, prom night, graduation day, sleepaway camp, trolls, chopping malls, Motel Hell, and critters.

6. Speaking of malls: if there’s a zombie apocalypse happening all around you, do not go to the mall. Also not recommended: living in an underground military bunker where a commander whose mental state is questionable at best is conducting experiments on zombies; living near a cemetery.

7.  If your dad is offered a job as caretaker for the winter at a Colorado hotel, try to talk him out of it. If he’s truly taken a shine to the place, maybe you can live with friends for the winter or something. I’m sure Isaac and Malachai have room.

8. To fight vampires, you need stakes, holy water, and two Coreys. Though really, why fight them? If Keifer Sutherland and Jason Patric taught us nothing else, they did prove that vampires are sexy.

9. When buying a home, maybe avoid Elm Street. You thought the hockey mask guy was hard to kill? Ha! The only way to avoid Freddy Krueger is to take hypnocil and move the hell away from Elm Street. What about that nice split-level ranch in Haddonfield?

 10. Anything can be used as a murder weapon. Paper clips, horsehead bookends, chalkboard erasers, an eggplant . . . the possibilities are endless.

Kids today have no idea how hard it was to survive an ’80s horror movie. These days, they think if something’s not working for them, they can just reboot it. 

Pinheads.

I come from a long line of people pleasers. For centuries, members of my family have been the first ones to volunteer if something needs to be done, no matter how complicated it might be or what a huge imposition it is. But over generations of diapering other peoples’ babies or tasting the king’s food to make sure it wasn’t poisoned, my family started to learn an important thing: sometimes, it’s okay to say no. No, I don’t want to organize your shoe closet, Imelda. No, I won’t test the sharpness of that sword with my neck, Henry—ask your wife Anne to do it. Just no.

You see, for every person out there who will drive to Quebec City just to find those chocolate-filled croissants you like so much, from that little café on the side street whose name you can’t remember (true story), there’s an equal and opposite person who will absolutely expect you to make that drive for them, because they think they deserve chocolate-filled croissants. There are people pleasers, and there are egocentric, karma-sucking people users. Don’t be either one of these types of people.

A couple of years ago, I was on a job interview, and the CEO of the company asked me some really inappropriate interview questions. For a moment, I struggled to answer (“Have you ever sued a past employer? What would make you sue an employer, do you think?”). Then the clouds parted and a startling realization came down from the heavens and imparted itself upon me: I didn’t want this job. This woman was nuttier than a pecan log, and possibly involved in illegal activities. And then the follow-up: I don’t have to finish this interview.

The people pleaser in me wanted to answer her question, and give her the best answer possible; hopefully the answer she was expecting. (“Umm, I’m usually so loyal to my employer that I would never sue. Lunchtime chicken-porn movies are all in good fun, I say!”) But generations of poisoned food tasters had taught me something: you don’t have to please everyone all the time. It’s impossible. Also, get the hell out.

“You know, I don’t think I’m the best candidate for this position,” I said, getting up and shaking her hand. “Best of luck finding the right fit.” Then I walked—okay, ran—out.

When the egocentric karma-suckers start taking advantage, that’s when the resentment starts. Your time and talents are valuable, and the karma-suckers know it, but they think you don’t. So they’ll try to manipulate you. Don’t let them. It’s one thing to be a good friend; it’s another to be a doormat. Can I pick you up from the airport? Yes. Can I book your flight and pack your bags for you, then call ahead to the hotel to make sure there are mints on the pillow when you arrive? No.

When someone asks you for a favor (and by criminy, they do all the time, don’t they?) ask yourself these things:

1.    Is it a huge inconvenience for you? Be realistic. It’s probably not an inconvenience for you to tie your four-year-old nephew’s shoelaces. It might be an inconvenience to raise your four-year-old nephew to adulthood. I mean, does the kid want to go to college? Who’s paying for that?

2.    If you do it, will you resent the person who’s asking? This is why I stopped volunteering for a local pet rescue organization years ago. I offered to help trap some feral cats. Then they asked me for money to feed the feral cats, money to pay the feral cats’ vet bills, and wanted me to adopt the sixty-three feral cats I’d helped catch. I was willing to give up an afternoon to help trap feral cats. That was not enough for them. So I quit, hung a remarkably lifelike zombie mannequin being eaten by remarkably lifelike Styrofoam cats in the volunteer coordinator’s yard, and put a note on it that read “YOU.” All of this would’ve been avoided if I’d just declined to help to begin with.

3.     Or will it make you feel good to help them out? Sometimes, it’s nice to say yes. Yes, I would be happy to share this platter of fries with you. Not too many. Wait, is this a soup kitchen? Sigh. I guess you can have the whole plate. It’ll make me feel like a better person, even if it will also make me feel like a hungry person.

The lesson for today is this: it’s okay to say no. You don’t need to be a doormat. There are lots of people who will mistake kindness for weakness, and demand more of you. For these people, stock up on the remarkably lifelike zombie mannequins. You’re gonna need ‘em.

Bra shopping is not the titillating excursion you men seem to think it is. I don’t think I'm asking for much, but it’s practically impossible to find a bra that fits well, lifts, separates, looks pretty, and makes the girls look twenty years younger.

I recently had to go bra shopping. I’ve been on a diet, and there has been some shrinkage of the boobage, which of course nobody mentions when they talk about how great losing weight is. Probably because the prospect of having to figure out your new bra size, then finding something decent that does the job, is an experience that will drive you to cram the HoHos in an effort to avoid it. But I’m a big girl (okay, not so big—that’s what made the trip necessary in the first place). I decided to take my measurements to get an idea of what size I might be, then head over to Kohl’s, as they were having a sale.

I found a few different websites that explained how to measure your band and cup size. This involved measuring around the waist under the cleavage, then around the back above the girls, to verify band size. I did so, and found that the difference was approximately two and a half inches. None of the sites knew what to do about this. Apparently, these two measurements should’ve been the same, and I was a freak of nature. Next, to determine cup size, one must measure across the bust, then subtract the band size. I measured three or ten different times. I sprinkled dust from a unicorn’s horn on my measuring tape and chanted “Beetlejuice” three times. Nothing helped. According to my measuring tape, I was either a 32A or a 40DD.

Armed with this completely useless information, I headed to the store.

The thing about bras is that if you want a good one, they’re not cheap. I found several lovely selections that would’ve required me to roll over a CD if I wanted to actually purchase them. However, I was not there for the rhinestones and push-up padding. I headed right for the Warner’s and Bali, which may just as well have been labeled the “sensible” section.

Bra labeling had changed over the years. Gone are the days of just choosing between “18-hour support” or “all-day support.” I was looking at t-shirt bras, concealing petals, bands that reduced underarm bulge, cups that would make me look up to two sizes bigger, and minimizers. There were “satin tracings” and “comfort revolution” selections; “ultra light illusion” and “smooth-n-seamless.” I just wanted something that kept my boobs off of my belly. I grabbed a handful of brassieres that promised to hide my unsightly back-fat rolls (something that I had never once in my life even thought about, until Bali planted the notion in my head) in sizes ranging from 32A to 40DD, and headed for the dressing room.

Four hours later, I had one—yes, one—bra. It was practical, white, lifted and separated, and though it wasn’t particularly sexy, it did have a little lace bow right between the cups. My size was neither a 32A nor a 38D, but somewhere in between. It was a sensible size. I felt like a real grown-up that had achieved a minor victory that day as I left Kohl’s.

I tried out my new bra that week. I wore it on Tuesday. By the end of the day, the straps were digging into my shoulders, the band was riding up my back, and I kept having to run to the ladies’ room to rearrange my décolletage. I called the manufacturer and complained.

“But how’s your back fat?” the saleslady trilled. “All we promised was that you’d have no unsightly back-fat rolls. You don’t, do you?”

She had a point. It did occur to me, however, that I would also have no back fat rolls if I stopped wearing the darn thing and went commando—er, brammando.

I haven’t been this comfortable in years.

I get that life is hard. Sometimes, it out-and-out stinks. Perhaps the snow in New England has been getting you down, or a mounting pile of bills has you thinking of desperate options. More and more, I’m hearing about people going for one solution that many of you might be tempted to try. Are you, gentle reader, thinking about selling your soul to the Devil? Here are some things you need to consider before signing in blood on the dotted line:

Are you aiming high enough?

Your soul should fetch a goodly amount from the Devil. After all, people are selling their souls on eBay for upwards of $475.00 (I’m not making that up). Make sure you ask for all of it—fame, fortune, love, happiness, and maybe a lifetime supply of DoubleStuf Oreos. Go for broke. You can always give up the Oreos during negotiations.

How much do you really know about Satan?

Sure, you probably know the Devil went down to Georgia that one time. Or that a friend of the Devil is a friend of yours. But if the entirety of your information on the Prince of Lies resides in old Charlie Daniels and Grateful Dead tunes, you might want to bone up on your Beelzebub knowledge before entering a contract with him. Find a nice, chatty Catholic priest, perhaps. Or read a book. Maybe the Good Book.

Do you have a good lawyer?

If we’ve learned anything from Faust or “The Devil and Daniel Webster,” it’s that the Prince of Darkness is a tricky little bugger. Before you sign a contract with him, make sure you have a competent attorney review all the paperwork. Don't chintz out on this important step. Might as well go for the best money can buy—after all, you’ll surely be able to afford it once the deal is done and Satan bestows a ton of money on you. (You ARE asking for money, right?)

What can you expect, weather-wise?

Perhaps the most tempting aspect of eternal damnation in Hell is the heat. The glorious, glorious heat. (I live in New England. The thermometer peaked at -2 degrees today. Brimstone sounds darn cozy right about now.) But a quick review of Dante’s Inferno might have you thinking twice about taking up residence in Hell. For instance, did you know that there’s no guarantee you’ll wind up somewhere warm? Dante describes the third circle of Hell, where all the gluttons hang out, as being full of vile slush produced by never-ending icy rain. Icy rain. Brr. And the last circle of Hell? You know, where the worst people go (like maybe those of you that sell your souls for personal gain)? They’re all encased in a frozen lake. Some of ’em are even being chewed on by the Devil himself, but just enough to make them bleed, not enough to warm them up with satanic saliva. Doesn’t sound warm and brimstony at all, does it?

Are you sure eternal damnation is the right choice for you?

If you’re still hell-bent (har har) on selling your soul to the Devil, make sure you’re making the right choice for you. Are you good at handling brutal torture, or does that sound like something you might not enjoy for all eternity? Is fame and fortune really worth being gnawed on by Satan while being encased in an icy lake? Wouldn’t it just be easier to play the lottery or buy your own DoubleStuf Oreos on occasion? And don’t delude yourself—once that contract’s signed, it’s signed. Don’t count on outsmarting Lucifer—if you can’t even outsmart your four-year-old nephew at Candyland, you’re not going to do well against the Prince of Lies himself.

Selling your soul: there are probably better options out there.