Funny how things turn out. Me, author of "The Manly Man's Dictionary," now a fixture in "Inspired Woman" magazine. My Dr. Phil-like plan to take over the world and establish a cultish female following is sooo working ... mWaa-ha-ha-ha-ha. This development, naturally, gave birth to this month's freshly edited (including a few new bells and whistles): "Introducing Dr. Phil's Next Project." Enjoy!
Can anger really be “managed” with deep breathing exercises, laps around the block and articulating feelings? No doubt, Dr. Phil is itching to squeeze another book out of the topic, especially if fate puts him on a collision course with my friend Chad.
Chad who? you ask, eyebrows raised, eyes suddenly jaundiced. After all, we’re surrounded by Chads – friends, neighbors, coworkers, infiltrators of the helping professions, lovers of horror movies. They’re out there right now, running around without warning labels, speaking before thinking, plotting your demise with smile-plastered faces. Know a Chad? ‘Tis of itself cause for concern. Even so, outing this Chad is completely out of the question. Revealing his surname would only result in more pointless bloodletting, of which I have vowed not to abet.
Why Chad and I are tight is beyond the scope of this character study. Suffice it to say that our friendship is my own therapist’s Stonehenge – an in-your-face reality that defies explanation but, nonetheless, cannot be ignored. After scrutinizing the phenomenon, one is reduced to the most elementary of explanations.
“It is what it is,” I say, sprawled out on the couch.
In the end, after consulting the ghosts of Freud, Jung and the masters of shrink, my therapist can only shake her head and grunt. But don’t take my word for it; judge for yourself.
This is the Chad that fate dealt me:
“She asked me what color to paint the bedroom,” he fumed, referring to a recent conversation with his wife. “Anything but yellow, I told her, then left for an out-of-town meeting and came back to – what else? A yellow bedroom.”
Furious, he hit speed dial.
“Why am I standing in a yellow bedroom?” he demanded.
“It’s not yellow. It’s goldenrod.”
“Oh, goldenrod. Well, that’s nothing like yellow now, is it?”
“Gotta’ run, Honey. Bye.”
“Not under my watch,” he mumbled.
After a quick trip to the hardware store, he buried the goldenrod under a coat of black latex. Before his wife returned home from work, he was gone – traveling to the next conference, picking black paint specs from his fingernails.
Fifty miles down the road, she called.
“Vincent Van Gogh,” he answered, then set the cell phone on the passenger seat, turned up the “Poisen” CD and let her vent. They would kiss and make up later, he knew, like always, like the week before.
That day, while she spent the lunch hour catching up on soap operas, he spruced up the sedan with Windex, Armor All and Tire Foam. Half an hour later, the Olds sparkled.
The next few minutes were a blur. While he scrounged through the fridge for a worthy leftover, his wife powdered her nose, grabbed her car keys and pecked him on the cheek.
“See you later,” she said, rushing out the door, jingling her keys like a sleigh bell.
That’s when the real soap opera began.
After filling up on a questionable burrito, Chad opened his car door unprepared for what he saw: there, on the passenger seat that he had meticulously cleaned only moments ago, lay a mound of fast food cups and wrappers, and a sprinkling of French fries. Protruding from the trash heap was a lipstick-stained straw.
“What the … ?” he screamed.
Counting to 10 was the last thing on his mind. The offense transcended the marriage vows. He promptly drove to his wife’s office, unlocked her car and returned the favor – stacking the trash in a 2-foot pyramid on the passenger seat. If only he knew that she would be giving her supervisor a ride home after work …
That night, the couple had words. During the fray, Chad threw out the book on anger management, refusing to: contort himself into the lotus position, find his “happy place,” empathize or back down. But he did take one small step.
That night, for the first time, he openly discussed his feelings. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t sugarcoated. It would have sent chills down Dr. Phil’s spine, but afterward, Chad felt like a new man.
He redeemed himself several weeks later, adorning his wife with diamond earrings.
“For putting up with me,” he said.
They hugged. They kissed. They gazed into each other’s eyes and felt something that words could not express.
The REAL Story:
- A Little Music with That Column (spot on, methinks)?
CLICK HERE - Chad Who?
They hung in the Bush-Gore election. They have their own republic: a landlocked country (which Chads refer to as "the hinterland") in Central Africa. The Chads, like greenhouse gases, can no longer be ignored. This Chad, the Chad in question, granted me the surname green light on the blog only (just not in the magazine). He is Chad Reisenauer - one of the elite whom I could follow around with a pen and pad and never suffer for things to document and expound upon ... without need for embellishment. - About Dr. Phil
Dare I open my mouth? I am jealous - all those fans, mostly women, hanging on his every word ... like Barry Manilow, like Michael Jackson. For Dr. Phil groupies itching for an alley scrap (to mete out punishment for anyone who DARES speak ill of him), please take a couple of deep breaths. I mean no harm. - "Inspired Woman" Subscriptions
You can get your annual subscription by mailing $18 (printed every other month) to: Berget Publishing, 311 S. 8th Street, Bismarck, ND 58504.
email: ifguyscouldtalk@hotmail.com
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