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 98: How to Get into Trouble

Okay so this one time I was living with my mom outside of Atlanta; I was in the five-year-old department. We lived in a nice apartment complex called Tanglewood; I remember it very clearly,...it had little fake timbers like we were living in Robin Hood's refugee camp. Anyway. We were the last apartment on the end of one of the buildings and if you walked across the parking lot and down a little slope, there was a swimming pool.

My uncle - who must have lived nearby; this part is fuzzy - once threw me in that pool to teach me to swim. It was barbaric, but it worked. I mean...I'm here aren't I? My uncle also had a maid named Sally who looked after me in the afternoon. One day, while Sally was watching me, I sneaked (snuck?) away and walked down the hill and jumped in the pool and swam around until I looked like a really white raisin. The problem was I did not tell Sally I was going to the pool and she lost her ever-lovin' mind looking for me. I was finally located by her laser-beam eyes and thrown into the back of a pickup truck, whereupon I was delivered to my uncle, who was building a restaurant at the time (I remember! I was called Mrs Boomer's! What Georgia town was this? Athens? Marietta? Kennesaw? one of them, I'm sure). I sat in the back of the truck in the parking lot and waited and waited and waited for hours. Or maybe it was five minutes...you know how things are when you're a kid and you know the hammer's about to come down.

And then my uncle walked across the parking lot, dropped the tailgate and spanked the hell out of me. Don't worry, Oprah...it wasn't abusive; it was instructive. To this day, I do what I am told and people named Sally terrify me. They should just load up a plane full of Sallys and let them loose in Afghanistan because when you see a big ol' Sally wearing an apron headed your way waving a rolling pin, you put up your hands and surrender. I can't even watch The Sally Field program with the grown kids and the problems, whatever it's called. Because in addition to her Sallyness, she also has brittle bones and I always worry that she hasn't taken her Boniva.

I think my uncle also spanked me once because I refused to eat a tomato. But maybe that's something I should share with my therapist.

Episode 95: How to Shop at the Liquor Store

Yeah so, I have a god-daughter. Can you imagine? Someone said: "hey DG, I would like to entrust my daughter's spiritual education to you in case I die in a lawnmower accident or am accidentally poisoned like that guy on 'Big Love.'" I mean: really? On whose list am I even in the top ten thousand when it comes to spiritual development? Even my dog kneels and prays and then when she's done, she looks at me reproachfully as if to say "I ain't bringing any tennis balls to HELL, so you better get your SHIT together..."

One day, my close friend (let's say) Shmoozy* took god-daughter (hmm, ok, let's say) Shamille* on a series of errands. One of the errands involved going to Wal-Mart, one involved visiting a hair salon called Hair It Is and one involved going to the liquor store. Luckily for Shmoozy*, this particular liquor store had a child-friendly play area, presumably provided to give the ladies of the local metropolis enough time to peruse the aisles to select a poison to dull their particular sorrow. Not that Shmoozy* would need such a thing! No,no, she ain't no Real Housewife! She knows how to do it already! Anyway, it was the usual sort of play area: a pit of colored balls, a rocking horse, a mobile made of rusty nails and insulin needles. But Shmoozy* plopped my god-daughter into the little plastic-fenced-off area and went on her merry way, looking at the "pinots" and the "cabs" and the "whathaveyous" that are available here in our little corner of America. In other words: jars of moonshine.

So after a few minutes of browsing the new release section, Shmoozy* made her choices, checked her five cases of liquor out and then tried to retrieve Shamille* from the play area, whereupon Shamille* threw a hissy fit and screamed I NEVER WANT TO LEAVE THE LIQUOR STORE...I LOVE IT HERE.

Which explains my godfather position in a nutshell, if you ask me....

*not their actual names. Suzy and Camille are their actual names.