Episode 112: How to Go to Rehab

OK, so rehab is funny. I don't mean "oh, that's weird" funny. I mean "uh-oh I am going to puke in a minute because I am laughing so hard" funny. In a lot of cases, that latter type is wildly inappropriate because it always happens like right in the middle of someone spilling their guts in a very intimate way and they say something like "oh, I was very upset because when I was one my kitty-cat died because she had been sleeping in the washing machine and one day my mother turned it on and drowned her and to this day, clean clothes upset me." I made that one up because I believe in other peoples' anonymity, but I am not disguising many of those facts too closely. Rehab is exactly like sitting on the porch of a country store where that porch is filled with old, crazy people telling stories that don't make any sense, only instead of a country store and old crazy people, it's a flourescently-lit room and a bunch of twenty-two year olds. And you.

One of the things that stressed me myself and I out the most was the part where I had to sit in front of everyone in my group ("group" is the word that they use in rehab for a group) and share (rehab for "talk") all of the consequences and repercussions of my substance abuse. I was nervous because I was in a large-ish group of what I can only call over-achievers when it came to the consequences department. I listened to everyone's awesome, dramatic stories about DUIs and car wrecks and houses burning down and whatnot - all of which I wrote down for my upcoming class in screenwriting - and kept thinking, gosh! They are so lucky to have all these stories to share! It makes sharing so easy! And then it was my turn and all I could think of was stuff like "oh, I was once so drunk I made a friend cry when I served Earl Grey as a morning tea at a bridal shower." Or "I was epically fucked-up when I didn't tip the mailman last year, so now he throws my mail on the ground." It was quite a quandary to be in to have all those eyes on me, waiting for the good stuff, and coming up blank. After some really hard thinking (read: when the detox meds wore off), I did manage to remember a whole bunch of terrible stuff, but there was a moment there when I thought I might get kicked out of this very exclusive club for not being thug enough. But I rebounded with my terrifying rock-bottom tale of drinking a glass of Corbett Canyon wine. That was well and truly too much for anyone to believe, and all of my group members shook their heads in disgust and admitted me to their ranks and, newly-forever-bonded, our eyes turned to the new fella, who was going on about something over there in the corner, something about being so drunk that he accidentally took all of his vintage Charlie's Angels dolls out of their original packaging and you could see it on our faces: some people are just beyond help.

Episode 86: How to Get Something for Nothing

Once upon a time, a long time ago, in a land far away - well, Virginia, anyway - my parents discovered that they were going to move to back to our ancestral homeland, North Carolina. Well, one of them discovered it anyway - Mom. Dad had orchestrated the whole thing! I think the exact announcement was "la la la, get off your ass and pack everything up, lady! We're moving!" Yes, I'm pretty sure that is an exact quotation but then again, I'm no stenographer.

Anyway, in their Virginia dining room, they had this cheap-ass polyester Oriental rug bought from whatever the equivalent of Target was at the time. It was a burnt orange and brown sort of thing with frizzy fringe. Not meant to be a family heirloom of any kind, just intended to be a bit of warmth on the feet. And now I digress because the rug was on a slate floor in the dining room...the very slate floor where people were murdered during a killing spree where some malfeasants busted in the sliding glass door and killed the previous occupants while their children cowered in a closet and then everything ended in a hail of gunfire further up the mountain and I discovered all this while watching the year-end wrap-up on the local news but, oh, maybe I should save the rest of that story for another episode, like maybe How to Get Your Parents to Tell You They Bought the Polanski/Tate House For a Song.

What was I saying? OH YEAH, the rug. So in anticipation of the move, Mom sent the rug off to a rug cleaner, who came and picked it up and then right before the move returned it all rolled up in brown paper. Mom had it loaded onto the Bekins van and then upon arrival in North Carolina, unloaded and placed in the dining room.

The North Carolina house required a lot of work so it took a few months and my good Christian grandmother Margie came down to help out occasionally. So it was finally time to deal with the dining room and Mom and Margie unwrapped and unrolled not a brown and orange polyester rug from a discount warehouse, but....a gorgeous black and lavender wool rug that was so handmade it practically had the fingernails of Persian children embedded in it. There was an awkward silence. Obviously the rug cleaners back in Virginia had accidentally switched the rugs all those months ago. Mom panicked. "What do I do? This is someone else's family heirloom! OHMYGOD." And then Grandma Margie settled deep into a bargello-covered wingback chair, took a long, deep toke of her Winston, exhaled, and said "I don't see the problem. Keep the rug."

And it's a Strong Family heirloom to this day.