published Jan. 28, 1999 Editor’s Note:  Due to low ratings and continued obedience problems, the column regularly appearing here has been temporarily put on hiatus. In the meantime, The University Register is proud to present syndicated columnist Gabriela Lambers, whose advice is credited with saving at least twenty-five lives from the depravity of the Internet. Let us know what you think of this column. Because Gabriela Lambers’ content is geared more towards family values than is the saucy fare normally found in this section, the whorehouse coupon insert has been moved to Arts and Entertainment. Thank you. Dear Gabie: Generally speaking, my son “Kincaid” has always been a good kid. His performance in school, as I always tell him, is all that any parent could ever want. He is a straight-A student and a member of the Art Club. Recently, he was elected chair of the Art Club’s Supplies and Chemicals Committee. Despite all of his extracurricular involvement, he has continued to get good grades while working at the local Paint World store after school… until now. Last week, he started coming home at about 5 a.m. He tells me that he has to work late at the store, but I don’t think that late hours are appropriate for Kincaid to be working. I know he still works hard at school. He’s so afraid of making a mistake in his homework that he has shelves and shelves of correction fluid in his bedroom. He asked for a chemistry set last week so he can study for science tests more diligently. Now I suspect that he might have started smoking, as well. I found twelve crates of butane lighters under his bed. I’ve never seen him smoke, but maybe he’s seen others do it at Paint World. There are so many mendicants and derelicts hanging out at places like that. What do you think? Should I make him give up his job, or am I just being old-fashioned? By the way, “Kincaid” is not his real name. —Wausau, Wisconsin Gabriela says: This is not the first time I’ve heard about a problem such as your son’s. In most situations, I encourage teenagers to work after school. For youngsters such as Kincaid, employment can provide valuable lessons that will prove beneficial in whatever occupation may come. Now for the bad news: The most likely occupation for Kincaid after he graduates is drug dealing. Your situation echoes hundreds of letters I’ve received from parents whose children have been abusing household chemicals, such as glass cleaner, printer ink, and bouillon cubes. Not only are these substances delicious and fun to consume, but oftentimes they can be both addictive and lethal. Recently, household chemical abuse has worsened due to the contemptible marketing strategies of advertising agencies. Rubber cement can cause severe circulatory problems and heartburn if eaten before it has solidified. Yet, I’ve heard stories about certain rubber cement manufacturers who artificially flavor their adhesives with such varieties as barbeque and wintergreen. Parents, please discuss the dangers of household chemicals with your children. Watch your kids for the obvious signs of chemical abuse, including paint in their mouths, stockpiles of cleaners, and breath that smells like thinner. Also pay attention to their flatulence and stools. Household chemical users often pass “scrubbing bubbles.” Maybe it would help Kincaid to contemplate his problem on paper. Ask him to brainstorm all of the negative consequences that might result from his household chemical abuse. While he’s writing, do not let him use a mechanical pencil, as he may grind up the lead and inhale it. Dear Gab Lambers: Back in the '60s, I was a beatnik rebel who spent my time writing poetry at coffee houses in the greater Baltimore area. I had never really thought much about my future, and I never thought that anything could be more important than Jack Kerouac or my trusty black beret. Then, I met someone who changed everything. “Diane” was a younger woman — a “hippie,” as they said then. Man, this hepcat was incredible. Diane and I met every day in a field to chat about the world, until we were chased out one afternoon by a farmer and his german shepherd. In my conversations with her, I learned that there are other ways of looking at things that my restrained coffee house life hadn’t taught me. Diane had her crazy marijuana; I preferred to smoke my poems after I had finished writing them. We were as different as the rain and the snow, but even so, we fell in love. Then, she headed off to Woodstock for a gathering with some of her hippy friends. Weeks later, she still hadn’t returned. Even though I am now a married stockbroker with two children, I continue to love Diane in my heart. Last December, I read your letters from wartime couples who had reunited decades later. If they can find their love again, I thought, why can’t I? I have left my wife and kids to pursue a lifetime with Diane, and I’ve never felt happier. Thank-you, Gabriela. By the way, “Diane” is not her real name. —Hokah, Minnesota Gabriela says: Your story is incredibly touching. There are a number of men who could stand to learn from dedication such as yours, including Troy and Gene, my ex-husbands. Troy and Gene, if you’re reading this, I hope you rot in hell. Thanks a lot for wasting thirteen years of my life.