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2012-02-05T10:55:00.000-08:00

www.philcobbsdinnerforfour.com

Phil Cobb's Dinner for Four Homepage

2010-09-23T16:44:00.000-07:00

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Los Angeles, CA — That's where it's happening and this is my story. I'm an ex-chef turned mortgage broker with a clairvoyant ex-girlfriend who tells me I'm going to die at one of my dinner parties. I respect honesty but the news caught me off guard because I've been doing a lot to get back into shape. I even got in touch with a few old friends. Things couldn't be better. It's a brand new day. –Phil Cobb
My buddy, Raymond, has most of the answers.

Announcements
01.01.12 — Check back soon for our 2012 release date.

Phil Cobb's Dinner for Four • Contact

2010-09-20T12:23:00.000-07:00

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Phil, Leslie and Randy

go for one more

awkward night

Contact

wildlarkflick(at)gmail.com

Tom Colitt - LA Femme Film Festival

2010-09-09T13:22:00.000-07:00

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Tom Colitt

You're invited to a screening of

PHIL COBB'S Dinner for Four

at The LA Femme Film Festival

October 17th @2:00 p.m.
Renberg Theatre
1125 N. McCadden Pl., Hollywood, CA 90038
Tickets available at www.lafemme.org
Tickets are also available at the door
$10 ea. • $150 all-access • $59.99 union members

Purchase tickets
Watch the trailer on YouTube
Check updates on Facebook
Visit us @ pcd4.com
Contact Circus Road Films for more info.

Therese McLaughlin - LA Femme Film Festival

2010-09-08T13:20:00.000-07:00

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Therese McLaughlin

You're invited to a screening of

PHIL COBB'S Dinner for Four

at The LA Femme Film Festival

Purchase tickets
Watch the trailer on YouTube
Check updates on Facebook
Visit us @ pcd4.com
Contact Circus Road Films for more info.

Corby Griesenbeck - LA Femme Film Festival

2010-09-07T13:14:00.000-07:00

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Corby Griesenbeck

You're invited to a screening of

PHIL COBB'S Dinner for Four

at The LA Femme Film Festival

Purchase tickets
Watch the trailer on YouTube
Check updates on Facebook
Visit us @ pcd4.com
Contact Circus Road Films for more info.

Lanre Idewu - LA Femme Film Festival

2010-09-07T11:14:00.000-07:00

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Lanre Idewu

You're invited to a screening of

PHIL COBB'S Dinner for Four

at The LA Femme Film Festival

Purchase tickets
Watch the trailer on YouTube
Check updates on Facebook
Visit us @ pcd4.com
Contact Circus Road Films for more info.

Louis Jacobs - LA Femme Film Festival

2010-09-06T11:08:00.000-07:00

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Louis Jacobs

You're invited to a screening of

PHIL COBB'S Dinner for Four

at The LA Femme Film Festival

Purchase tickets
Watch the trailer on YouTube
Check updates on Facebook
Visit us @ pcd4.com
Contact Circus Road Films for more info.

Alexandra Hoover - LA Femme Film Festival

2010-09-06T10:44:00.000-07:00

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Alexandra Hoover

You're invited to a screening of

PHIL COBB'S Dinner for Four

at The LA Femme Film Festival

Purchase tickets
Watch the trailer on YouTube
Check updates on Facebook
Visit us @ pcd4.com
Contact Circus Road Films for more info.

Ted Lange - LA Femme Film Festival

2010-09-06T10:39:00.000-07:00

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Ted Lange

You're invited to a screening of

PHIL COBB'S Dinner for Four

at The LA Femme Film Festival

Purchase tickets
Watch the trailer on YouTube
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Visit us @ pcd4.com
Contact Circus Road Films for more info.

Katie Lowes - LA Femme Film Festival

2010-09-05T09:08:00.000-07:00

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Katie Lowes

You're invited to a screening of

PHIL COBB'S Dinner for Four

at The LA Femme Film Festival

Purchase tickets
Watch the trailer on YouTube
Check updates on Facebook
Visit us @ pcd4.com
Contact Circus Road Films for more info.

S. Peace Nistades - LA Femme Film Festival

2010-09-04T10:05:00.000-07:00

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S. Peace Nistades

You're invited to a screening of

PHIL COBB'S Dinner for Four

at The LA Femme Film Festival

Double Header • Eric will also be appearing on October 15th @6:00 p.m. in "Nothing Special", another selection at this year's LA Femme Film Festival.

Purchase tickets
Watch the trailer on YouTube
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Visit us @ pcd4.com
Contact Circus Road Films for more info.

Dave Dale - LA Femme Film Festival

2010-09-03T08:50:00.000-07:00

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Dave Dale

You're invited to a screening of

PHIL COBB'S Dinner for Four

at The LA Femme Film Festival

Mantra Rocks • Dave's music is featured in the film. His new CD
Mantra Rocks is available now. Listen here

Purchase tickets
Watch the trailer on YouTube
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Contact Circus Road Films for more info.

Josh Stamberg - LA Femme Film Festival

2010-09-02T20:19:00.000-07:00

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Josh Stamberg

You're invited to a screening of

PHIL COBB'S Dinner for Four

at The LA Femme Film Festival

Purchase tickets
Watch the trailer on YouTube
Check updates on Facebook
Visit us @ pcd4.com
Contact Circus Road Films for more info.

Eric Pierpoint - LA Femme Film Festival

2010-09-01T20:13:00.000-07:00

home cast and crew facebook youtube

Eric Pierpoint

You're invited to a screening of

PHIL COBB'S Dinner for Four

at The LA Femme Film Festival

Double Header • On October 15th @6:00 p.m., Eric will also be appearing in "Nothing Special", another selection at this year's LA Femme Film Festival.

Purchase tickets
Watch the trailer on YouTube
Check updates on Facebook
Visit us @ pcd4.com
Contact Circus Road Films for more info.

Starting Over • Submit

2010-08-09T10:44:00.000-07:00

"I keep telling myself the seasons were meant to change. I can still shift gears. But what if the parts are out of stock? Maybe my whole life is a fluke, like a meteor. But it’s nothing a good dinner party can’t fix. Good company and a few good stories. That should do it. Let me hear 'em." -Phil Cobb

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______________________________________________________

YOUR STORIES RECOVERY BREAKUP BROKE

LOST NEW CITY NEW RELATIONSHIP EX-FRIEND

WINDFALL NEW HOUSE ANOTHER COUNTRY

DIVORCE NEW CAREER BANKRUPT NEW JOB

Submit a story
If you have an inspirational or entertaining take on some of the pain, heartache and heartburn you've been through as a result of a breakup, divorce, pink slip, alcohol addiction, cross country move or relocation, please submit. If you're starting an exciting new career, new business venture or new relationship and you have a story to share, please send it. You can mention upcoming works or previous works, note any upcoming events such as a book signing or speaking engagement.

SUBMISSIONS: Creative non-fiction, personal essay, journalistic essay, fictional essay, poetry. Web publication. Up to 1,000 words. Format single or double-spaced. Please limit bio to 60 words. Include photo.

EMAIL: wildlarkflick(at)gmail.com
SUBJECT LINE: Starting Over submission

Starting Over • Your Stories

2010-08-09T00:05:00.000-07:00

"I've been there, through recovery and back, and I’ve got nothing to preach about. I guess you could say I’ve cleaned up my act but maybe it’s more like I’ve refined my hang ups. Anyway, feel free to share your ups and downs here. It’ll make me feel a lot less like me and more like everybody else." -Phil Cobb

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______________________________________________________

YOUR STORIES RECOVERY BREAKUP BROKE

LOST NEW CITY NEW RELATIONSHIP EX-FRIEND

WINDFALL NEW HOUSE ANOTHER COUNTRY

DIVORCE NEW CAREER BANKRUPT NEW JOB

Scott Saalman reflects on the passing of a family member, Grandma Lil', and considers the sundry items he'd like placed in his own coffin in The Things They Buried: You Can Take It with You. read

Deborah Ludwig charts the destructive path of vanity, low self-esteem and makeover madness in I'm Enough, an excerpt from her book, Rebirth. read

Cari Dubiel, who formerly described herself as a "quiet, bookish nerd", writes about the leap she took into the world of marriage in Engaged and (Not) Loving It. read

Holly Patton takes a hard look at how a loved one's rage threw her into the "in-between" and how strength helped her find a way out in Rain. read

Erin O'Riordan explores the dynamics of family
relationships as a family prepares for the passing of one
of its own in Finding Aunt Phil. read

William Cuccia opens up about battling depression
and finding meaning in nature's little hummingbird in
an excerpt from Hope, Lessons from a Hummingbird:
A Redemptive Adventure of how a regular guy got free
from depression and rage. read

Dallas Woodburn writes about excess and a need to wipe
the slate clean in Waterlogged, Yet Still Drinking. read

Linda Lou writes about her journey after a mid-life divorce
in an excerpt from Bastard Husband: A Love Story. read

Sage Cohen tells the story of her first love, Andres, in
Living Below the Radar. read

Bob Hazleton shares an excerpt from his new book,
Dads Matter: Principles, Lessons & Stories on the
Remarkable Impact of Dads. read

Bob Hazleton • Dads Matter

2010-08-05T14:23:00.000-07:00

StartingOver

YOUR STORIES RECOVERY BREAKUP BROKE

LOST NEW CITY NEW RELATIONSHIP EX-FRIEND

WINDFALL NEW HOUSE ANOTHER COUNTRY

DIVORCE NEW CAREER BANKRUPT NEW JOB

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submit a story

____________________________________________________

Reaping the Rewards of Not Giving Up

by Bob Hazleton
My younger son Jesse was the cutest little kid you could imagine. He was so cute I thought we should have taken him to do modeling or acting. He was cute, and he knew it. Jesse would hug his first grade teacher’s legs, and she let him get away with the cute act. He got away with so much in the first grade that I discovered at the start of his second grade year that Jesse couldn’t read any word over three letters long. I bought Hooked on Phonics and spent a year working on his reading.

It really hurt when Jesse started to go downhill. He got suspended in middle school for being involved in “drug talk.” We caught him and a friend with pot ready to celebrate April 20 (4-20 is the teen code for pot smoking). Jesse got caught stealing cigars from a local grocery store then got defiant when the police and the store manager questioned him. He started skipping school and stealing beer and money from us. The worst was when he wrecked the house looking for a Nintendo game system we had taken from him. My wife Sherry was so scared she called 9-1-1. Jesse heard her calling, so he slammed the phone down while screaming and cussing at her. That brought five screeching cop cars to our house.

Sherry and I tried everything we knew how to do. We took him to our counselor numerous times. He got tested for attention-deficit/ hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), but he was just fine. We tried a child psychologist; Jesse refused to go to the appointment. We had an intervention at his high school. The principle, the French teacher, the wrestling coach, Sherry, and I all showed up. Not Jesse, though!

I really wanted to blame the school, because I didn’t want to believe that I had anything to do with Jesse’s struggles and downhill slide. My older son Keith was fine. What an understatement! In high school, he got only A’s, graduated valedictorian, and didn’t do drugs or drink.

Yet there was Jesse, drinking, smoking pot, getting into trouble with the police, and stealing money from us. I questioned every belief I had about my skills as a dad. When Sherry and I made the tough decision to remove him from our house, I was crushed.

What had I done wrong? I really started to beat myself up . . . but then there was straight-A’s Keith. It helped a little when someone told me I didn’t have any more to do with Keith’s straight A’s than I did with Jesse’s problems with the police.

For a while, after Jesse went away to a program, I kept it to myself. I still thought that people would judge me. I thought that people would talk behind my back. I thought that they would think I was a bad dad.

What I came to understand is that we cannot make decisions for our children. We cannot force our kids down any particular path; all we can do is create boundaries for them. We can give them our advice and counsel. We can teach them our values. What our children do with all of this is up to them.

I learned that all the things I had taught Jesse—and all the things that he learned while he was in the program—were still there inside of him. I learned that perhaps these lessons and tools need time to percolate and stew, but what you teach your teen is never wasted—sometimes there is just a delay factor.

Jesse must have been one of those late bloomers. He eventually got his act together. He graduated from high school while in the program. His GPA was over 3.5, and he gave a commencement speech as the honor graduate.

But after eight months back home, things started to go downhill again. He enrolled at Oregon State University and informed us by voice mail, “It’s a whole new world.” Apparently that meant he could do anything he wanted and could come and go from our house as he pleased.

During his first term at Oregon State, he got a 2.7 GPA without trying, but there was constant turmoil with Sherry and me. He got busted for pot possession and for taking my car without permission. We finally kicked him out of the house and let him fend for himself.

In his second term at Oregon State, Jesse just stopped going to classes and got a 0.0 GPA. He lived with friends for a while. He got evicted from an apartment, after his so-called friends spent his share of the rent. He started couch surfing and sometimes snuck into our garage to sleep.

Jesse eventually earned his way back into our house. He bounced between fast food jobs before he got a certified nurse’s aide certificate. He worked at a nursing home for a year and then got a job at the local hospital, where he is now a unit secretary. He enrolled at a community college where he got 3.8 and 4.0 GPA’s. He transferred back to OSU after a year and a half. He graduated with a general science degree in March 2009, got married in April 2009 (I performed the ceremony), and then enrolled in a nursing program. He did this all on his own dime—he paid for his education himself! Once he found something that was important to him, he did everything in his power to make it happen. This is the power in having kids work for things, rather than giving it all to them.

The experience with Jesse also changed my life. I quit my well-paying and secure job as an engineer and started conducting personal growth seminars at specialty schools for at-risk teens. My experience with Jesse and other teens inspired me to write Dads Matter, detailing the remarkable impact of dads.

Excerpt from "Dads Matter" copyright © 2012 by Bob Hazleton.

Bob Hazleton is the author of Dads Matter: Principles, Lessons & Stories on the Remarkable Impact of Dads. Over the past ten years Bob has been involved in personal growth seminars for at-risk teens and their families. He is also a Certified Performance Coach and Experiential Facilitator, a registered professional engineer, a football referee and, of course, a dad.

Visit Bob at dadsmatter.com and bobhazleton.com .

Sage Cohen • Living Below the Radar

2010-08-05T14:15:00.000-07:00

StartingOver

YOUR STORIES RECOVERY BREAKUP BROKE

LOST NEW CITY NEW RELATIONSHIP EX-FRIEND

WINDFALL NEW HOUSE ANOTHER COUNTRY

DIVORCE NEW CAREER BANKRUPT NEW JOB

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____________________________________________________

Living Below The Radar

by Sage Cohen

When I was a little girl facing one of the endless Important Events du jour that inevitably went Terribly Wrong, my father would say to me, “Experience is what you get when you didn’t get what you wanted.” My father knows many things. I have collected his gifts of wisdom as a kind of dowry. He has much to say about pain, truth, energy, healing, love and kindness. But it is this aphorism about experience that has been my little lifeboat of truth, helping me navigate the farthest waters of disappointment, the darkest hours of alone.

I remember when I broke up with my first love, Andres, at age 19. I felt like my heart – blind with starvation – and lungs – empty of his breath – would simply quit. I stayed up all night sobbing so hard I suspected one of these useless organs might be vomited out of my convulsing, now-meaningless body. Squeezed into a little phone booth in the lobby of my dorm so my smugly jealous roommate could not revel in the told-you-so revenge of my pain, I asked my father for instruction on surviving heartbreak.

“It’s just pain,” he said. “It can’t kill you. Let yourself feel it, and it will move through you and be gone.”

I wanted Andres, but I didn’t get him. Or more accurately, I didn’t get him on the terms I wanted. What I got was heartbreak that I learned how to survive. Approximately a year after Andres and I went our separate ways, I remember thinking, “Thank God this happened. Now I know I can live through anything.” This was my first conscious investment in the Experience savings account that has been paying long-term dividends ever since.

It’s been 18 years since I met Andres at age 18. My practice of welcoming, sitting with and learning from this great teacher Experience has cultivated in me the still well of wisdom through which my father first spoke. To this day, I call Andres and thank him for making things so deliciously impossible for me. Our love was the launching pad through which I committed to being grateful for every pain that broke me open to something more possible.

My father taught me how to drive, how to swing a tennis racquet, that when you are given extra change at the cash register, you always return it. Together, through his patience of repetitive testing, we letter-pressed an entire vocabulary of synonyms and antonyms into the pulpy paper of my teenage mind. I remember the look on his face after reading my essay on The Once and Future King in 10th grade. “You are a writer,” he said with reverence, handing me back the carefully typewritten, double-spaced pages. And I believed him. Through the mirror of my father’s acceptance and insistence, I have come to see myself as a woman of worth.

The city of Portland sees things a little differently. I’ve been photographed driving under the influence of poetry. Rather than appreciate the alternative interpretations my daydreaming mind might bring to the concept of “speed limit,” Big Brother has said, “Enough is enough.” Driving 36-38 MPH in a 25 MPH zone four times in two years is grounds for a 30-day license suspension. I have been grounded.

I didn’t want to break the law; I didn’t want to be punished. It is, of course, much more convenient to drive. But I have too much experience stumbling upon feast in the paradox of famine to get myself tangled up in upset about my temporary license suspension. Because of my father and his willingness to welcome what comes, I am eager to experience 30 days without a car. What will life be like below the radar? Who will I be without the privilege of driving I have enjoyed my entire adult life?

Maybe I will be cured of daydreaming. Maybe I will learn that driving is a reckless endangerment of my creative mind and will choose to give it up altogether. Maybe not driving, not talking on my cell phone while driving, will result in me discovering a phone booth in my neighborhood. Maybe I’ll scrunch myself up in that booth and call my father. What we say will be underscored by the unspoken pain we have each in our own way learned to appreciate and survive.

copyright © 2012 by Sage Cohen

Sage Cohen is a prize-winning poet and the author of Writing the Life Poetic: An Invitation to Read and Write Poetry (Writer's Digest Book), The Productive Writer: Tips and Tools to Help You Write More, Stress Less and Create Success (Writer's Digest Books) and the poetry collection Like the Heart, the World. Learn more at www.sagesaidso.com and www.writingthelifepoetic.com.

Linda Lou • Bastard: A Love Story

2010-08-05T14:04:00.000-07:00

StartingOver

YOUR STORIES RECOVERY BREAKUP BROKE

LOST NEW CITY NEW RELATIONSHIP EX-FRIEND

WINDFALL NEW HOUSE ANOTHER COUNTRY

DIVORCE NEW CAREER BANKRUPT NEW JOB

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____________________________________________________

Starting Over — Vegas Style

by Linda Lou

A week after I moved to Las Vegas, I put my bastard husband on a plane to the other side of the world—back to where he came from, New Zealand. By then he was actually my ex-husband, on paper anyway, and he wasn’t always a bastard. No, he was perfect and I loved everything about him. Until his thirteenth beer.

The next day, I went to a divorce support group I found in the Meetings section of the local newspaper, listed between Cross-Dressers of Las Vegas and Friends and Family of Incarcerated People. (And I thought I had problems.) As I sat in a circle of strangers waiting for my turn to “share,” I glanced at the Absolutely No Swearing sign hanging from the ceiling and thought, this will be a challenge.

“I’m Linda,” I began, “I have no husband, no job, and you people are my only friends.” Everyone laughed at my pathetic truth.

Most people come to Las Vegas buoyant with anticipation. Having blown out the last flicker of hope for my marriage, I arrived feeling depressed and deflated. Three years earlier, I began a Wild West adventure with my second husband, a university professor eight years my junior. I didn’t think twice about leaving my grown children, a young grandson, and the rest of my family back in upstate New York, where I spent the first forty-three years of my life. But now I missed everyone tremendously; I felt so lonely I offered to make the cable guy a sandwich after he hooked me up just so he’d stay and chat a while. Yet I couldn’t bear to return to the dreary Northeast.

No, determined to make a life for myself in Sin City, I plodded forward. I experienced the frustrations of looking for a professional level position in a job market where valet parker and cocktail waitress are the coveted career options. Desperate and running out of cash, I took a job selling timeshares. Three weeks later, I got fired for the first time in my life—for not selling timeshares.

The dating scene proved to be equally disheartening. When my first post-divorce date arrived at my door not with flowers in hand, but a brochure detailing his chronic mental condition, I couldn’t help but conclude I really know how to pick ‘em.

Lucky for me, I found the perfect antidote for my depression and misery; I became a hospice volunteer. (Obviously I wasn’t good at long-term relationships.) I believe that helping other people is the best thing you can do when your own life is in the crapper, and I got much more from my volunteer experience than I gave. By sitting with patients at the end of their lives, I gained a much greater appreciation of my own.

Though I would have preferred to sulk at home weeping over my video of Princess Di’s funeral, I forced myself to explore the Vegas neon nightlife. I checked out music venues and started hanging out at a bar on the west side of town that had open mic comedy every Sunday night in the back room. After several weeks of watching the comics, a voice in my head told me to go ahead and sign up for stage time.

But the biggest accomplishments of my new life came through the local writing community. Although I’d worked as a technical writer for many years, I hadn’t explored creative expression until I joined the Henderson Writers Group, a critique group for writers in the Las Vegas Valley. With their help, I crafted my journal entries from my first year alone in Sin City into a memoir, Bastard Husband: A Love Story. For two years I served as the group’s vice president and I regularly present at the Las Vegas Writers Conferences and other programs for writers.

As for my Kiwi ex, I will be forever grateful to him for leading me out west. We’ve remained good friends in the six years since our divorce (living in separate hemispheres helps), and he makes it a point to visit Las Vegas every time he returns to the States. But the truth is, I doubt I could boast my record of accomplishments had we stayed together.

At the risk of sounding like the Pollyanna I can sometimes be, I believe everything really does happen for a reason. Most importantly, I’ve learned that in the end, your heart beats only for yourself.

Excerpt from "Bastard Husband: A Love Story" copyright © 2012 by Aging Nymphs Media.

Las Vegas-based Linda Lou is a Guinness-drinking humor writer, spirited blogger and occasional stand-up comic. Her memoir, Bastard Husband: A Love Story, chronicles her experience starting over in Sin City after a mid-life divorce, threaded with reflections on the relationship that led her there. She has been a monthly columnist for www.Living-Las-Vegas.com and has had numerous personal essays published in anthologies including Chicken Soup for the Soul: Divorce and Recovery. Linda speaks frequently about writing, the creative process and topics related to the empowerment of women over 40.
Now available — Bastard Husband: A Love Story, a memoir about starting over after a mid-life divorce... Vegas style! Order yours at www.bastardhusband.com

Dallas Woodburn • Waterlogged, Yet Still Drinking

2010-08-05T13:56:00.000-07:00

StartingOver

YOUR STORIES RECOVERY BREAKUP BROKE

LOST NEW CITY NEW RELATIONSHIP EX-FRIEND

WINDFALL NEW HOUSE ANOTHER COUNTRY

DIVORCE NEW CAREER BANKRUPT NEW JOB

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____________________________________________________

Waterlogged, Yet Still Drinking

by Dallas Woodburn

Watching the news is, in my opinion, even more depressing than an Arthur Miller tragedy. People die in car accidents. People die in gang violence. People die of terrible diseases. People die too soon.
Jennifer Strange died too soon. At twenty-eight. She left behind three young children.
Did she die in a car crash? No.
Drive-by gang shooting? Again, no.
Strange drank herself to death. Sadly, it isn’t unusual to hear about people — college students especially — dying from drinking too much booze in alcohol-poisoning deaths, often related to fraternity hazing or drinking games. Strange’s drinking game was indeed strange — she drank water. Too much water. An estimated two gallons of water.
Why? She was trying to win a Nintendo Wii video game for her children.
There’s a good chance you’ve already heard about KDND 107.9 radio station’s “Hold Your Wee for a Wii” contest by which Strange lost her life. Though she complained her head hurt, and though a nurse called the station to warn about the dangers of water intoxication — yes, there really is such a thing, and yes, it is known to be dangerous, even deadly — the DJs sarcastically laughed off concerns and Strang kept drinking. And drinking. Hours later, she was found dead in her Rancho Cordova home.
Arthur Miller wrote about suicide and murder and war. All are tragic today, but our modern American society also faces a menace growing more and more out of proportion: excessiveness.
It’s hard to imagine a more twisted example of excessiveness gone wrong than Strange’s death. Next to the air we breathe, water is the most essential ingredient to our survival.
Food is another obvious necessity. And yet, how ironic is it that adaptations that once perpetuated our evolution as a species — such as the ability to efficiently store extra calories and the natural attraction of humans to the taste of fats and sugars — are now killing us. Obesity and illnesses related to being overweight are killing an average of 300,000 Americans a year, according to the United States Department of Health and Human Services. That’s nearly 1,000 people every day. One death every 90 seconds.
Only in America. We are inundated with excess, and yet we still can’t get enough.
True, few of us will literally die of an excess of water as Strange did. But how many of us are “drowning” by the overabundance in our lives of much less-essential stuff?
I, for instance, share my apartment with three other girls. Between us, we own thirty-eight pairs of shoes. That’s right. Thirty-freaking-eight.
That’s a lot of shoes. And it doesn’t count the numerous pairs we left back home.
Shoes litter the floor of my overstuffed closet.
On my bookshelf sit thirteen paperback books I want to read. I know that with schoolwork and clubs and other commitments, I will be lucky to get through two of them by the end of the semester. And yet, there they sit. Waiting. I will lug them home with me, and when school starts again in the fall I know I will lug them — plus half-a-dozen new “must reads” I’ll pick up while browsing Barnes and Noble — back with me. Why? Because I need choices. If I didn’t have my thirteen books what would I use to fill their spaces?
In today’s world, everyone has their own personal library: laptop, printer, scanner, Internet access. There are dozens of other “essential” gadgets, as well: stereo systems, video games, home gyms, televisions, personal DVD players. And it isn’t enough anymore just to own these essential technological gadgets. There are always newer models, better versions, more expensive brands to upgrade to.
Drowning in excess makes it nearly impossible to fully enjoy the present moment. We can’t wait till we can afford a bigger house, or a newer car, or the latest gaming system. I can’t wait to finish the first of my thirteen books so I can move on to the next one. But why? Why can’t we just be content with what we have? Why are we always in such a rush, pushing forward, straining for the future? Why do we keep guzzling bottle after bottle of water, hoping to win the Big Prize — a prize that, even if we win it, likely won’t satisfy us for very long?
I watch the news, so I have grown accustomed to hearing about death. Deaths of mothers, fathers, sons, daughters. Deaths at war and deaths at home. Tragic deaths; senseless deaths. They always make me pause, saddened. But Jennifer Strange’s death hit me especially hard. Not just because she left behind three young children, and not just because her death is such a bizarre and tragic waste. Also because, I think, I recognized myself in her. I recognized our generation in her. I recognized our country in her. Cause of death: excessiveness. Only in America.
I can hear the DJs laughing sarcastically, switching to a commercial for another “necessity” we will buy.
Today, I’m starting over. I'm turning off the radio and the evening news. I’m unplugging my iPod headphones. Instead, in honor of Jennifer Strange, I’m cleaning out my closet. I’m giving some shoes to Goodwill. I’m sending home every book but two or three. I’m turning off my cell phone and computer for a couple hours. I’m going to try to “drink,” so to speak, only when I’m truly thirsty.
Strange, isn’t it, how you can be so waterlogged and not even notice?
copyright © 2012 by Dallas Woodburn

Dallas Woodburn is the author of two collections of short stories and a forthcoming novel. She has also written articles for Family Circle, Writer's Digest, Justine, Motherwords and The Los Angeles Times. Check out her website for information about her nonprofit literacy foundation and youth publishing company: www.writeonbooks.org. You can also follow her blog at dallaswoodburn.blogspot.com.

William Cuccia • Hope, Lessons from a Hummingbird

2010-08-05T13:49:00.000-07:00

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Nurturing

by William Cuccia

In the depths of my struggle with depression that lasted about 30 years, my wife and I found an injured hummingbird in the grass. We spent one week providing constant care for this little bird we named Hope, and forged a strong, transformative bond with it before relinquishing it to a conservation expert. This bond with the little creature helped lead me into recovery, teaching what it meant to nurture and be nurtured.

It takes time and patience, but you can teach hummingbirds to land on your finger to feed. That’s right - they will fly to you and feed while perched on your fingers. You can have them eating out of the palm of your hand. Getting these tiny birds to trust you enough to do this and feel safe is a process, though. It takes patience, repetition and nurturing.

Nurture is defined, “To care for and encourage the growth of,” but what does that mean from a practical perspective? How does nurturing others and being nurtured play out on a daily basis? Do we ever get to a point in life where we say I have been nurtured to my fullest and I have no need for it anymore? As a former pastor, I follow religious news and in the past few months I’ve heard of three pastors that have fallen to sexual sin and had their lives destroyed. Do these men no longer need nurturing? On a broader scope, there’s an economic crisis that has cast many people into the throws of uncertainty like never before. The need for a nurturing society is very strong. How can a person make it in life without being cared for and encouraged to grow and learn from what life brings?

Life is about learning how to nurture yourself and find nurturing from others so you can become something great, be at peace with yourself and know that you have given your best when times get tough. You will become great in your relationships with God and others. Yes, you will make mistakes along the way and you will fail yourself and others. What will you do when that happens? Those surrounded by a spirit of being nurtured know that they can make it another day and that there is always another opportunity.

Nurturing is about learning how to help you care for yourself and teach you how to care for and encourage the growth of others along the way. Let me give you an example. My friend Evan shared this experience with me recently. He was pulling into a gas station to fill up his car when someone in another car cut him off, pulled in front of him and took the gas pump that Evan was going to use. That made him angry! On top of that, the offender had the opportunity to pull up to the next pump so Evan could still use the pump he had originally intended to use before this person had cut him off, but he didn’t budge and Evan had to wait, which made him really angry!

Just as Evan rolled down his window to share how angry he was, a hummingbird flew up to his window and hovered there for a moment, made eye contact with Evan and flew away. Evan’s plans were altered by the appearance of that hummingbird. Just a little reminder that it wasn’t worth getting all lathered up and possibly doing something he would regret later.

When Evan shared this with me I was honored to think that my experience had made enough of an impact on him to alter his decision. Sometimes just sharing life’s experiences is enough to care for and encourage others in their time of need. Nurturing can become a way of life – a very good life. I still make mistakes, I still fail myself and others, but I’ve learned what’s important is how I respond when I make those mistakes. That is the importance of this idea called nurturing. Life is too hard to think we can just walk through it alone and be fine. Instead, we need to be nurtured and then learn to nurture others. That makes life worth living, exciting and fulfilling. Simply, it makes us grow. I joke all the time that I don’t know if I’ll ever grow up but I know now that I want to grow and continue to grow. Learning how to nurture and be nurtured helps us grow. Who knows? When you look back five or ten years from now maybe you will have grown up and become someone great who has an impact on the lives of others.
copyright © 2012 by William Cuccia

William Cuccia is the author of HOPE, Lessons from a Hummingbird. As a pastor, he ministered in Canada, Japan, Cambodia, The Czech Republic, France and Mexico. Later he became a corporate sales trainer and, presently, he is a chief financial officer for a company in Southern California, where he continues to speak at a number of churches. He is co-founder of Hands Helping Hands, a non-profit corporation that helps support other non-profit organizations. Please visit hopebooktoday.com. Contact Elaine Krackau at elaine@prbythebook.com | 512.733.5145 for more information or to schedule an interview with the author.

Erin O'Riordan • Finding Aunt Phil

2010-08-05T13:39:00.000-07:00

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Finding Aunt Phil

by Erin O'Riordan

I don't have any in-laws. My husband, Johnathan, hasn’t spoken to his mother or father in years. I’ve never met them.
One day in 2005, Johnathan and I were at a graduation party for a college student who’d worked for our remodeling business. The student, Kathy, lived three cities over from us. By coincidence, Kathy’s parents’ home wasn’t far from where Johnathan’s former sister-in-law Greta used to live.
She still lived there, it turned out. As we were on our way back to the bypass that took us home, Johnathan decided to drive by Greta’s parents’ house. There she was, carrying in some sports equipment she’d just bought at a garage sale. She invited us in. We sat on her parents’ couch, and I got to listen to stories about my brother-in-law and two nephews. At the end of the visit, Greta gave us Johnathan’s mom’s (Anne’s) phone number.
Johnathan called his mother on the first. We tried to visit her later that day, but she wasn’t home.
On May 5th, I was at work. I was a tech at a mental health hospital, working with elementary school kids. We were baking chocolate chip cookies when Johnathan called to tell me that his Aunt Phil, Anne’s younger sister, was in the hospital. I’d heard of Aunt Phil before. At first I’d pictured her as a confused uncle, but "Phil" was really just a nickname for Phyllis. Johnathan liked her; she was like a second mother to him. But now she was in the hospital, battling cirrhosis of the liver. Because she’d recently had a double bypass, she wasn’t considered a candidate for a liver transplant. The doctors gave her a few months before her organs began to fail. Aunt Phil would die.
In the span of four days, I went from having absolutely no contact with my in-laws whatsoever to suddenly caring about one. One who was fighting a losing battle with a terminal illness.
After all of my cookies were baked and I came home from work, Johnathan and I got on the bypass and went to Aunt Phil’s hospital. We brought flowers. Aunt Phil greeted me warmly. She didn’t look like a dying person, actually. Her abdomen was swollen; Phil understood this to be from internal bleeding. But otherwise she seemed healthy. She was surprisingly young, only 56. The weirdest thing about this, though, was that Johnathan looked like his aunt. They had the same nose.
Aunt Phil told me about the time Johnathan, age three, sat in her driveway, eating mud. She told me all about Johnathan’s adventures with her daughter, Rachel. (Rachel was out of town that night.) They were like brother and sister. Johnathan has a sister, but he doesn’t know her well. It was hard for me to wrap my mind around him having a good, close relationship with any family member.
About two weeks later, Johnathan and I went over to Aunt Phil’s house. Rachel was there, with her three daughters. They’re adorable little things, very smart, and they all love to play softball. Aunt Phil, their grandma, was getting her things ready to go into a nursing home. (Remember, she was only 56.) We ordered a pizza. Rachel told me about how Johnathan and his brother used to hop on train cars. She and Johnathan once set a field on fire. Before we left, Aunt Phil gave us a photo of her parents, with her mom sitting on the back of an elephant. Her father used to work on the farm that took care of the Ringling Bros. Barnum & Bailey circus animals. That photo hangs in our dining room today.
I’d heard a little bit of Johnathan’s family history before, but only from Johnathan. His relatives confirmed everything he’d told me, including his rocky relationship with his mom.
The last time I saw Aunt Phil, she had Johnathan and me bring her a hamburger Happy Meal so that she could give the toy to her granddaughters. She ordered it with a Diet Coke, even though caffeine is terrible for people who’ve had heart problems. Aunt Phil did whatever she wanted, just like Johnathan does.
Before we left, she gave us a box of things Anne had sent over. It included pictures of Johnathan as a child, and some of his childhood books and toys. Which was good, because the line of communication between Johnathan and Anne had already broken down.
Aunt Phil died on June 19th, 2005. That day, Johnathan and I went swimming and visited my parents. The next day, as I was on my way to work at the hospital, I got the news. Johnathan called me, saying he’d just gotten off the phone with Rachel, who said that Aunt Phil passed away.
The funeral took place on June 21st, the first day of summer. It seemed more like a family reunion or a picnic than a funeral, with everyone joking around and Phil’s granddaughters running around, playing. No one seemed particularly sad. Maybe it was because Phil’s death was expected a month in advance, and we had time to prepare. Maybe it was just that way because that’s how Phil was– tough, full of life, funny, and not too sentimental. But I missed her. We all did.
For the brief time that I knew her, Johnathan had a second family, other than the one he married into. That was weird, but it was good weird. It was almost as if I had a mother-in-law. Johnathan continues to have a friendly, though long distance, relationship with his cousin Rachel. And none of this would have been possible if we hadn’t, coincidentally, been invited to our helper’s graduation party.
copyright © 2012 by Erin O'Riordan
(Names of living persons have been changed to protect their privacy.)

Erin O'Riordan, despite what her Irish name may lead you to believe, is of mixed Catholic, Protestant, Jewish and Pagan descent. Following the philosophy of Joan Borysenko, she proudly embraces all of her diverse spiritual heritage. Her spiritual-sexual writings include the Pagan-ritual-inspired erotic novel, Beltane, from Eternal Press. Visit her online at www.aeess.com.

Holly Patton • Rain

2010-08-05T13:29:00.000-07:00

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Rain

by Holly Patton

“I am sick of you being so mean to me! You are so God caring, damned engaging, so passionate with everybody but me. And I am damn sick of it!”

I listened to him rant and thought, well, finally he can cuss properly.

He used to try to tell me that it wasn’t necessary for me to use two different cuss words in a sentence or certainly not to break them up. But I did. I do. And now, he had learned it. Split infinitives, mixed tenses be damned.

His voice got louder and louder as he stepped away from the black Bosch dishwasher where he threw the pink fiesta plates into the organized box.
He stepped towards me, his brown eyes filled with rage and for a second I thought he was really going to do it. I never have been afraid of Hunter Perkins, but for one short scary second, I thought he was going to hit me.

I could feel rage and frustration seeping from his pores just like the plastic smell that always stuck to him. Those damn plastic gloves he had to stretch out and place over his big hairy hands multiple times, each day, patient after patient, taking those plastic covered fingers, prodding open the next smelly mouth, probing and poking. All the while, greeting everyone, young or old, scared or relaxed with “How’re you doing today, Miss Walker?” “ Hey, Fred, how’s your back feeling today?” Jovial, kind, patient.

But here, tonight with the rain outside this river house falling with an intense, new fury, he looks at me with dark hate in those kind dentist eyes.

It isn’t true hatred. No, not the kind of hate that capriciously explodes; I know that kind of hate. My shoulder still bears its scars.

This is a milder, simmering, smoldering kind of hate — born of years of frustration of thinking you had everything you wanted but then watching it just slip out of your hands, like the sand at the beach. No matter how tightly he grips his fist, it still slips out. Back to the beach. Back to its natural home.

I am the reason for this gentle, mild-mannered man’s pseudo hatred.

Me, like the sand. I can’t be caught or held for long. I escape by whatever means necessary or available to my home. The sand has the beach. I have me. I don’t know where my home is any longer.

Physically, I still reside at 895 Edgewater Drive, but I’m not sure if I really feel like I’m at home there anymore. It is empty now — at least today while I am here in New Hampshire. Well, no, it isn’t completely empty; Catty is there, but it is empty of me and Raney and Patton, my sons, my center. It doesn’t feel like home without them, my boys, and their noise and their sweat. I miss red Georgia clay being tracked in by their Timberland boots.

I am adrift now, my sons grown, and I abide now in this in-between relationship. In-between friends, in-between marriage. No mad passion, no abuse.

I know he doesn’t hate me. I know he is as weary as I am with this rollercoaster relationship. Up down, still scary. I love those adrenaline filled rides at Six Flags but to live on one all the time, it is too much.

He doesn’t expect my reaction. Still, after eight years, I think he thinks one day I will turn into another woman. A woman who is calm and content. A woman who does not split up her cuss words or chaff at the mere mention of marriage.

His words. His tone. His half menacing manner. I don’t respond with kindness or gentleness. I don’t walk over to him and wrap my arms around him, reassuring him of my love for him, and my desire to spend the rest of this crazy life with him.

I don’t do that. Because I can’t. I don’t know how it feels to be normal after twenty years of being divorced. I need to lean into normal, I know I should, but how?

So, instead, I pick up the phone and call a cab.

I sit in the red leather chair and ask, “How much is it to come out to pick me up at the Chattahoochee Hill Country Park and take me home?”

“Ma’am, where is home?”

“Ma’am, are you there?”

“Oh! Yess, I’m sorry,” and I tell them the numbers on the street in the city where I have lived for 15 years.

“Addy, please. Hang up the phone, baby.”

I look at him and say with all the caustic sarcasm I can muster at 10 p.m., “Baby? Did you call me 'baby', really, because I just saw you hate me and now, you call me baby?”

It is my time to be angry and mean. I am tired. And, yes, yes you can be bone-tired. It is not just some simple Southern expression. I put down the phone and stare at him as he reaches for me.

copyright © 2012 by Holly Patton

Holly Patton is a writer, speaker and minister who has written for most of her life. She writes and presents sermons every week as an ordained minister and is now working on two books, a book of essays for the non-churched and a novel about love, loss and God. She is the mother of two sons, Raney and Patton, and proud grandmother of Addison Cain, a redheaded joy. Presently, she lives in Little Rock, Arkansas. Her website is under construction but you can reach her by email at Hollypatton(at)comcast.net.