Tales From the Dork Side

By Phyllis Coletta

Does life confuse you too?

Tales From the Dork Side is a hilarious compendium of stories about how we sail through our lives filled with crazy men (Cowboy Bob), kids, problems with sex, food, and facial hair.

What do men really want? (Food and Sex: "F Squared"). What's a good day of parenting? (When you put the kids to bed alive). Laugh and learn how to lower your standards while raising your Joy Index.

"Sometimes I laugh so hard it hurts. Tales From the Dork side is great medicine for when we take ourselves too seriously.” Marianne Chadwick

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phyllis Coletta
• Release date: Dec 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9780988672604

Phyllis Coletta

I'm a writer, coach, and speaker but really, who am I to tell you anything? Why would you buy my books or listen to me speak or set me loose on a roomful of decent folks? Who am I to teach you anything?I’m certainly no scientist, therapist, counselor, mega-coach, movie star, expert or authority on anything other than myself. I’ve had a rollicking fun adventurous life, raised three boys as a mostly-single mom, practiced law for 15 years (I am now in recovery), taught high school English, became an EMT, a cowgirl (not a good one, but a cheerful one), a ranch hand, back up wilderness guide (the one who does all the scut work), and a Buddhist chaplain. I’ve worked in classrooms, courtrooms, emergency rooms; with ski patrollers, cowboys, doctors, lawyers, teachers, and kids. Born and raised in Philly, I’ve lived in a 300 square foot cabin off the grid on 5000 acres in The Middle of Nowhere, Colorado. From the Jersey shore to the Purple Mountain Majesties, I’ve skied, rafted, climbed, biked, run and hiked through life. It’s a pretty fun resume but I’m no Dr. Phil. Except for my JD degree which is technically a doctorate, making me - indeed - Dr. Phyl. Having collected so many experiences, I am a helluva storyteller.How else to put this? I was born to inspire other people to their best and highest selves. Nothing is more fun for me - NOTHING - than being a positive, collaborative, sensitive, intellient and fun agent of REAL CHANGE. Try one of my books on for size, or contact me about coaching or speaking. We can just talk for awhile and then see what you think. The truth is that everything you need to know is right inside you. I can just help clear the air.

Book preview

I have never been cool and I’m pretty sure that’s not a quality that develops in your 50s so chances are I will remain a dork until I die. I’m okay with this.

The other day I saw a really chubby kid, maybe 13, with reddish hair. He was struggling with his backpack, hanging out at the edges of a horde of kids waiting to get on the bus. I could feel his wavering and fear. Man, I thought, it’s hard to be a human.

Isn’t it kind of funny that we’re all here, stuck in these earth suits, trying to figure out what the hell is going on? And nobody really knows, yet we all hold forth about this and that, blathering about our beliefs, our emotions, blah blah blah. Honestly, what the fuck?

I have a degree in Theology from Boston College because I really, really wanted to understand God and the world and my life purpose. Turns out it all comes down to this T-shirt.

RELIGIONS OF THE WORLD

Taoism: Shit Happens

Hare Krishna: Shit Happens, Rama Dama Ding Dong

Hinduism: This Shit Happened Before

Islam: If Shit Happens, Take a Hostage

Zen: What Is the Sound of Shit Happening?

Buddhism: When Shit Happens, Is it Really Shit?

Confucianism: Confucius say, Shit Happens

7th Day Adventists: Shit Happens on Saturdays.

Protestanism: Shit Won't Happen Again if I Work Hard Enough

Catholicism: If Shit Happens, I Deserve It

Judaism: Why Does This Shit Always Happen to Me?

Jehova's Witness: Knock Knock Shit Happens

Unitarian: What Is This Shit?

Mormon: Shit Happens Again and Again and Again

Rostafarianism: Let's Smoke This Shit

That's it folks. That's all we've got. It's the best we can do. Shit happens, and I'm trying to figure out why. My other favorite T-shirt says simply QUESTION AUTHORITY. My parents would be dismayed, would in fact roll over in their graves, if they knew all that college tuition came to this. At college, as in the rest of life, anything of value I learned just by going out and living and these blogs are the result of all that living. I want to thank all the fabulous characters in my life who have given me fodder for these tales. And now, as I hold forth and hang out, it would be great if you would hang out with me. The journey is always more fun when you’re with your posse. A Posse of Dorks. Watch out, world.

Friends

THE GIRLFRIEND MAFIA

I just dropped my two college girlfriends at the Denver airport after our Third Almost Annual Wet Dawgs Reunion. There is nothing that renews my soul like hanging out with chicks who have known me since the 70s. It’s like bathing in the River of Jordan, sometimes almost literally.

We are the Wet Dawgs because our first attempt at this connection was grandiose and we decided to climb Mount St. Helen’s which is pretty much like walking on the moon. It poured for hours and by the time we got back to our base camp and piled in the car we were a little cranky and smelled exactly like wet dogs – thus the name. Rain followed us closely on the next reunion in Liz’s neck of the woods when we decided to spend a weekend pampering ourselves in Provincetown, Massachusetts. The weekend included a day at a spa where we wore big robes and put cucumbers on our eyes. When it was time for massages a very large lesbian woman named BARB stepped into the room and said,

Who’s Phyllis?

Man, she kneaded my back like it was bread dough and though I wish it was the endless rain I felt the truth was BARB sweated on me the whole time. I was an uncomfortable Wet Dawg, getting massaged by a sweaty lesbian.

This year it was my turn to host the Dawgs in Colorado and I no sooner hit I-70 West after scooping them at the airport than we unloaded. Within 20 minutes – this is typical of women – we had discussed Diane’s creeping menopausal depression, Liz’s fear of financial devastation, and my endless Cowboy Jake stories.

I’m trying all the natural stuff, Diane leaned in from the back seat, But some days I just can’t take it anymore!

She paused.

Give me the FUCKING HORMONES!

We applauded both her commitment to doing the natural bullshit first and then caving in to the tried and true medical way. We compared our menstrual histories, and horror stories about the 50-something female body.

What the hell is this belly? I asked while speeding down the highway and grabbing the alien that has taken up residence on my navel.

I got one too! Liz chimed in.

Look at this! Diane said as she undid her seat belt and whipped up her shirt.

This is why we love our girlfriends, especially the ones who have been around since about the Civil Rights Movement. We have been through divorce, death, trauma, tears, babies, men troubles too complicated to touch, and now we are aging together, probably badly.

I’m so afraid of being a burden on my children, Liz shared as we stopped for gas, I mean, what if I get that MLS disease?

A real estate illness? I asked, You gonna die from a house listing?

No! she responded, That disease named after the guy, you know.

Yeah, Diane chimed in, He played football or something then couldn’t breathe. How would you like to have a disease named after you anyway? What was his name?

And so on.

I assured Liz she probably wouldn’t contract MLS and she then revealed that her blood pressure was out of control to the tune of 220/134.

Geezus! I almost ran off the road, You’re gonna stroke out! Who’s gonna wipe your sorry stroked out ass anyway?

See, that’s why I worry, she said, But it’s okay. I got medication.

She pulled out a semi-garbage bag.

I give up. I take meds. I even have a pill splitter.

We spent the weekend biking, running, hiking, eating pizza, sitting in the hot springs, catching up on the kids, siblings, and two remaining parents that we had followed for decades like a mysterious soap opera. After one hike Diane piled in the car looking like a mentally unbalanced Annie Hall. She was sweaty, her skirt slightly askew, with the wide brim of her hiking hat folded way up high on her forehead. The look was accentuated by flip-up old lady sunglasses. I started the car and stared at her.

Yo Diane, I said, You look breathtaking.

She tossed her head back.

But not in a good way.

I’m not sure why or how they put up with me and I am astounded they still like me. I’ve been nothing but the smart ass for 35 years, the Village Idiot, the Court Jester, pointing out the inanity of all of it, of us, of life. When Diane unfortunately confided that she thinks about death every five minutes I rolled my eyes.

For the love of God Diane, I extolled, You are gonna freaking die. Get over it.

For some reason Liz thought it was wise to reveal the fact that she didn’t know how to swim. After 35 years you still find out this kind of stuff. I was shocked.

Oh, come on! she said cheerily, I doggie paddle!

As if this was something to be proud of. Previously I had volunteered to take care of Liz when she was old but I rescinded that offer as soon as I heard about the doggie paddling. Later in the weekend, though, I relented and again committed to being there for her to wipe her drool and pull out old lady chin hairs.

The guys will be dead, I announced, And there will be no health care. Nursing homes smell no matter what you do, so we need to have a Red Tent.

This is a concept named after a book by Anita Diamante about Jacob’s tribe of Israel. When they would set up camps as they wandered endlessly, (because the guys wouldn’t ask for directions), the women would raise a Red Tent, just for women. When they menstruated or gave birth, they all shared the red tent, calming fears and sharing girl wisdom. This is my vision for old age, me and my girlfriends in some house somewhere, a modern day Red Tent. The last one standing gets the house, I think, and nobody will be allowed to be too talkative or obnoxious. We will just be old lady girlfriends, eating and farting our way into the sunset.

See, what guys don’t understand is that girlfriends are like the Mafia. In utero we pinky swear across the cosmos to our soon-to-be-BFFs that we will take a bullet for each other. We sort of take an oath that we will bring secrets to our grave, and never break The Girlfriend Code. In The Family of girlfriends we can say anything, do anything and still be universally embraced and loved. No outsider can penetrate the Girlfriend Mafia because there just ain’t no mountain high enough. The only