Bradley Cooper Could Be My Sponsor

I’ve decided to quit drinking. I think my life will be much more rewarding without alcohol. It’s a depressant. I need positive relaxation like meditation and yoga and squeezing a ball that has an image of an evil man on it which I will not disclose.

I’m going to reach out to Bradley Cooper. Ask him if he’ll be my sponsor. I’ll be like, “I’m married. This is simply me wanting to sober up. A beautiful kind face with striking blue eyes helps in the recovery process. It’s science, man. What do you say?”

Story Pitch

I am so excited to discover that my town has its own version of Moth Radio, the storytelling show.

The group meets at different venues around town. Certain submissions are picked and the people tell their stories. 

The theme of the next one is immigration.

This is my pitch. I would love feedback.

My great-great grandfather’s name is Kris Kringle. He immigrated from Denmark in (?)

My mother had a photo of him. He had a long beard. He was wearing a tall top hat. He was surrounded by his twelve children outside of his farmhouse in Denmark.

He fathered his youngest child at some stupidly old age, like 76.

I know nothing of this man except that there was a time Denmark changed its sir name system because there were too many Sorensons and Eriksons. People were told to pick a name. Kris Kringle picked Kringle because they lived on Kringle Creek.

One day I got the big idea to try and find the farmhouse on Google Maps and Earth.

After many hours I found Kringle Creek. Lo and behold there’s an old farmhouse B&B run by Hazel Kringle. I messaged her. Turns out we’re related.

My dream trip is a visit to that B&B. It’s just a hop, skip and a jump from the fjords in Norway.

Really, A Door-Slamming Ghost?

I received a message from the tenant who lives upstairs. He says, “What’s with the constant door slamming?” He was trying to sleep.

I tell my kids to be mindful of not slamming the kitchen doors.

My daughter says, “I swear to god Mom Charles and I were sitting quietly in my room when Dad texted us to not slam the doors. We thought it was the tenant doing it.”

Then, “MOM, I’M PRETTY SURE WE HAVE A DOOR-SLAMMING GHOST IN THE HOUSE.”

I walked away thinking I’ve been royally punk’d by my kids.

Other Than A Dead Baby I’m Good

I never discuss my job with my kids. I’m disappointed that I did today. I was at my wit’s end.

My thirteen year old son is upbeat when I arrive home from work. He says, “How was your day Mom?” I say, “Not so great. It involved a dead baby.”

My son says, “I’m so sorry Mom. Other than a dead baby did you have an okay day?”

I laughed. Then I felt guilty for laughing.

Mary Oliver My Idol

The poet Mary Oliver passed away yesterday. She is a great inspiration. Poetry is not my forte but this is one I wrote:

It’s as though the grove of bamboo knows my heartache

The fierce wind impersonates my troubled mind

I watch the green stalks bend low

They pop against each other like a symphony of the seven trumpets

Armageddon in the bamboo grove

Drowning out the planes and trains and my troubled mind

The wind settles down

The green stalks stand tall again

Rising in glory

Peace returns to the bamboo grove

Peace returns to me

 

You Called The Police?

Today a coworker told a story about her daughter calling the police after she took her phone away. Apparently this is a trend thing that’s happening. 

The kid calls the police to report stolen property. The police have to respond. The police respond and tell the kid they’re a minor. Their parents have the right to take their phone away. Then they leave.

I’m betting that in many cases after the police leave the volume in the house is similar to a Metallica concert.

From The Book

I’ve been writing a memoir for about three years. It’s really just a lesson in writing. It’s been great practice.

Some of my posts are from the book. This is a portion of the chapter where I discuss me being a pain in the ass teenager.

Mom makes an appointment for me to see her therapist. She’s been seeing the therapist for several months. After she starts therapy the phrase dysfunctional family is born into her language. Whenever Mom says, “my therapist says” the response from my father looks like a tsunami erupted over his eyes.

I tell Mom I think our family is rather normal (whatever that means) compared to family stories I hear from my friends.“Mom, I think our family is pretty damn vanilla.”

I’m the leading contributor to the family’s dysfunction – the headline news at the therapist – I have no room to speak about family dysfunction, other than to share with Mom that my friend John’s father was arrested for embezzling five thousand dollars from his company to spend on his wife’s brother who has become his lover.

Mom sips on a glass of the fiber powder, Metamucil mixed with water, a glaring example of my point.

Talk therapy is very beneficial if you have a good therapist. This is not one of them. The therapist starts our session by requesting that I list all of my male and female personality traits.

What the hell? Aren’t you supposed to ask me why I feel the need to self-medicate or why I am not working harder towards my future?

I’ve never given any thought to my male and female qualities. It’s like taking a test I haven’t studied for.

Then she asks me to recall a difficult childhood memory.

“Well, I wasn’t allowed to play in the woods with my neighborhood friends. My father was worried about snakes and ticks. Pretty damn ridiculous if you ask me.”

The therapist stares me down like my doctor looks down my throat with his little light.  

“I ignore my father because I think it’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. Plus, I want to play in the woods with my friends. One day I return home covered in mud ’cause I fell in the creek. I know I’m up the creek with my father. No pun intended.”

More staring.

“I sneak through the back door. The family is watching TV in the den. Dad catches sight of my muddy clothes and hauls me into the den. He’s madder than hell. He throws me over his leg and spanks the tarnation out of me. My sisters sit on the couch laughing. That happens a lot. That there is some therapy-worthy material don’t you think?”

“How did that make you feel?”

“Completely humiliated. Also, my butt hurt.”

The therapist writes notes. The session could not end soon enough.

“We’re not returning to the therapist,” my mother announces the night before an appointment.

“Good. I don’t like her. What prompted this decision?”

“She thinks that I’m a lesbian and that I’m in denial about it. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a lesbian, but I’m not.” Mom is nervous to say it.

“What? Can you please find another therapist that I can talk to about our therapist.”