Growing up, I was a devoted reader of Pauline Phillips, the original Dear Abby, whose column became an American institution. I didn’t necessarily read it for the advice. What captivated me was her style. She was direct, refreshingly honest, occasionally irreverent, and blessed with a sense of humor that could make even the most uncomfortable situations seem manageable. She had a way of telling people exactly what they needed to hear, whether they wanted to hear it or not.

I loved that.

And somewhere along the way, I realized I had become a bit of a Dear Abby myself.

You see, life has provided me with quite an education. I’ve spent the better part of my professional career as a Vice President of Human Resources, navigating everything from workplace romances and spectacularly bad decisions to corporate politics, employment law, and the endlessly fascinating complexities of human behavior. Trust me, after decades in HR, very little shocks me anymore.

As if that weren’t enough, I also owned and operated a wedding and event planning business, where I discovered that nothing brings out the best—and occasionally the absolute worst—in people quite like a wedding. I’ve planned celebrations that were breathtakingly beautiful, extravagantly elaborate, and, behind the scenes, sometimes worthy of their own reality television series.

And that’s just my professional life.

On the personal side, I’ve loved deeply, lost painfully, buried both of my parents, and experienced the kind of joy and heartbreak that only living a full life can deliver.

I also became a father through surrogacy long before it became a relatively familiar path to parenthood. Together with my same-sex partner, I raised a daughter during a time when having two dads wasn’t exactly commonplace. We navigated school, friendships, social expectations, and all the challenges that come with raising a child who, in many ways, had a family unlike anyone else’s in her classroom.

And somehow, we all survived.

Oh, and did I mention that I come from a large Italian Catholic family? The kind where everyone has an opinion, nobody hesitates to share it, and privacy is more of a suggestion than a reality. Had someone thought to put cameras in our homes, the Kardashians would have looked positively boring.

So, between the corporate boardroom, the wedding aisle, the family dinner table, and the sometimes-bumpy road of parenthood, I’ve accumulated a rather impressive collection of life experiences.

Some were wonderful. Some were painful. Some were downright ridiculous.

But every single one taught me something.

And now, lucky you, I’ve decided to share what I’ve learned.

Welcome to Dear Alfie.

Have a question about workplace drama? Employment law? Wedding etiquette? Relationships? Marriage? Parenting? Family dysfunction? Grief? Or perhaps you’re simply wondering whether you’re the only sane person surrounded by people who seem to have completely lost their minds.

Believe me, I’ve probably been there, seen it, managed it, planned it, survived it, or at the very least, have a pretty strong opinion about it.

And I am not particularly shy about sharing those opinions.

There’s an old saying that life doesn’t come with an instruction manual. Well, I’ve always wondered why not. After all, if we’ve collectively made the same mistakes for generations, shouldn’t someone have written a few things down by now?

Which brings me to the real inspiration behind this column.

My daughter.

Now, I love my daughter more than life itself. But somewhere between childhood and adulthood, she apparently concluded that her father—despite decades of professional experience, a lifetime of personal lessons, and a fairly respectable track record of predicting human behavior—knows absolutely nothing.

Sound familiar, parents?

Over the years, I’ve offered her advice on everything imaginable. Relationships, friendships, careers, finances, and the inevitable consequences of questionable decisions.

She listens. She nods. She occasionally even appears interested.

And then she proceeds to do exactly what I advised her not to do.

Naturally, when events unfold precisely as I predicted, I resist the overwhelming temptation to say, “I told you so.”

Well, most of the time.

Her response is always the same: “Dad, I had to learn it for myself.”

Really?

You HAD to learn it for yourself?

I understand the value of experience. I appreciate the lessons taught by the school of hard knocks. But for the love of God, if someone who’s already walked into the brick wall is standing there warning you about it, wouldn’t it make sense to take a different route?

Apparently not.

And therein lies one of life’s greatest ironies.

For decades, executives, employees, colleagues, friends, and even complete strangers have sought my guidance. They’ve listened to my advice, considered my perspective, and occasionally thanked me for helping them avoid a disaster.

But my own daughter?

She’d apparently rather experience the disaster firsthand.

I’ve been assured by other parents that someday the tables will turn. That one glorious day, she’ll recognize the wisdom of her father’s words and perhaps even utter that magical phrase: “Dad, you were right.”

I’m not holding my breath.

But should that miraculous event occur, rest assured there will be an entire column devoted to it.

So here we are.

Dear Alfie is my opportunity to share a lifetime of lessons, observations, opinions, and occasional unsolicited wisdom with anyone willing to listen.

And here’s the funny part: Much of what I’m going to tell you, you probably already know.

You’ve heard it from your parents. Your friends. Your spouse. Maybe even that little voice in your head you’ve been conveniently ignoring.

But somehow, when the very same advice comes from a complete stranger, it suddenly sounds profound.

Go figure.

I won’t pretend to have all the answers. But I do have a lot of experience, a reasonably good sense of humor, and very little patience for unnecessary nonsense.

You may agree with me. You may disagree with me. You may occasionally think I’m completely out of my mind.

That’s perfectly fine.

These are my truths, shaped by the life I’ve lived, the people I’ve encountered, the mistakes I’ve made, and the lessons I’ve learned. What seems perfectly obvious to me may not seem quite so obvious to you.

At least not yet.

But give it time.

I have a sneaking suspicion you’ll come around.

So pour yourself a cup of coffee, a glass of wine, or something considerably stronger, depending on the subject. Settle in, bring your questions, and prepare for a little humor, a little wisdom, and a healthy dose of reality.

Because life is complicated enough without pretending we have to figure everything out on our own.

And remember, when all else fails, ask Alfie.

With love, laughter, and absolutely no guarantees,

Alfie

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