If I were to
start this post with the played out definition of insanity that so many people
love to quote, then I'd just be perpetuating the cray.
Instead, I'd like to
offer up an image that doesn't resemble an OCD-like repetitive behavior. To me,
insanity is best demonstrated by purposeful, illogical actions, sometimes repetitive, but never making sense.
Drunk dialing your ex is a great example:
Ex: "We're over, so don't ever call me again."
1 week later...
*Ring Ring* ...*Flip To Voicemail*
Drunk Dialer: "Haaaaayyy! It's me. I just wanted
to tell you that I had the DJ at Passions play our song and dedicate it to you.
It was real slow at first, but then it came to that part about *singing badly* 'You're the only one I want forever',
and Bobby and Chrissy actually cried!
Which was bad because then Bobby spilled his drink on some tool and they got
into a big fight and I wound up yelling at the bouncer for telling Chrissy that...wait.
Gary! Who am I calling? Are we ordering pizza?! Oh no, ok, I got this. Sooo...um,
yeah, when I called you last Saturday night, it was all about me....I was all
like, 'I love you Boo...I miss you Baby'...
*crying* So I've decided to be less selfish in our relationship and start
thinking about what you might want too. *anger* Wait. What? Did the phone just
cut me off again?? He's not gonna get
my message and he's gonna sleep with that hoe Angela! *Phone hitting floor and
exploding into a million pieces*..... *more crying* Gary! I forgot to get the
extra topping!"
And so there lies the drunk dialer, drowning in a
pool of vodka filled tears, wanting something she can't have - the love of her
life and a blouse that doesn't smell of vomit.
We all have moments where the insanity takes over, but
when we invite it in to stay, life becomes a little bit tricky.
1.
Religion
My aunt has a
reputation for being very religious. She doesn't swear or drink, and going to Sunday
Mass is very important. Yep. Aunt Mary prays with the rest of the congregation
every week, front and center...on the couch, facing her TV.
About sixteen years ago, my grandmother got so sick
that she was bedridden. She lived with my aunt, who took very good care of her,
but eventually she slipped into a coma. It gave Aunt Mary the perfect excuse to
basically never leave the house. She was always a homebody, but after a car
accident that left her unable to commute to work, she retired and limited her outings
even more.
Once my grandmother was unconscious, my aunt refused
to leave her alone, except to go grocery shopping...and don't get me started on
that. If there was an Olympics for couponing, Aunt Mary would be a ten time gold
medal winner. General Mills would put her on the Wheaties box covers, dressed
like Bruce Jenner and photoshopped onto the orange background. Grinning and ripping
through a ONE DAY SALE sign, she'd grip a stack of coupons in one hand,
and her refund money in the other, while the limp bodies of worn out cashiers with
carpal tunnel strewn across the aisles behind her would block the way of customers
paying full price.
 |
| Let Me Take A Selfie |
As devout as my aunt is, she decided that she could
watch the Sunday Mass on cable TV in case her mom suddenly gained consciousness.
And she'd turn the volume way up, so that my grandmother could hear it in the
realm where the comatose go.
After she passed away, my aunt still preferred
the TV masses to actual church. I believe it was partially the freedom to allow
her agoraphobia to completely set in, but also because my mother, afflicted
with the
fear of getting anywhere on time, would drive her to the church just as
the priest would be finishing up the sermon and they'd miss half of the service.
Just how religious or not religious are we anyway?
And why is there so much competition? News-watchers listen to the media gleefully tally up the
deaths of people caught in holy crossfire. Some scoff at the commotion, sure
that there isn't even a God at all, and complain that these people are killing
themselves and others over nothing.
What if they're all wrong?
Back in the early 80's, Shirley Maclaine stood on a
California beach with her arms outstretched yelling, "I am GOD!" Many
sneered, and the late night hosts had new fodder for their opening monologues,
but what if she's been screaming the truth at the ocean all of these years, and
we haven't been listening? What if we're all pieces of the whole and we've been
wasting time fighting about the existence of ourselves?
 |
| Shoe Goals |
All I know is, if I could wrap my head around the
fact that "I am GOD", I wouldn't be worrying about what everyone else
thinks. I'd be all like, "Hey Angels, go fetch me those Guess boots I saw
on sale. There's a lot of good I could do if I was wearing those. And while
you're at it, I'm feeling a little wiped. Order me a latte. Tell them it's for
GOD, so don't skimp on the espresso."
2.
Spectator Sports
"When
you step out onto the field to play, remember that the other team is not the
enemy."
I was proud because it seemed that I had reached so
many with my heartfelt words about sportsmanship...and then soccer season
began.
I no longer coach and I have to be honest. Sitting
in the spectator section is a big switch.
Getting to the game early is important. I like a
seat close to the half line, so that when the teams switch sides midway thru, I
can still have a good view. Sometimes I am sitting next to parents from the
opposing town and that's ok:
"When
you step out onto the field to play, remember that the other team is not the
enemy."
About five minutes before half-time, my mother
arrives, breathless, and interrupting my focus with no less than three items to
blame for keeping her from seeing the game from the start. She stands there,
listing things like...
1. "The directions to this place are all wrong."
<Mom, you live ten minutes away, have been here no less than twenty times, and everybody else made it here without a problem>
2. "The legs just didn't want to work
today." <The legs?? Whose legs?? And you just left that poor person laying
there unable to move so you could get to a soccer game that's half over??>
3. "I can't believe you didn't <Drive here 40 minutes early, drop off your kid, and come all the way back to> pick me up! <There are worse things in the world than waiting for a half hour in my driveway while I get ready> And so what if we're a little late? Someone will tell you <half describe the awesome moves she used> about your daughter's
goal. You'll be all caught up!"
...before looking around for a full thirty seconds
and declaring,
"Ya know, you're sitting in enemy
territory."
It never gets old. She announces it at every game. Loudly.
For the hearing impaired.
Then she opens her lawn chair and roots it firmly to
a spot next to me, but just slightly behind, so that in ten minutes, when the second half
begins, and I'm once more engrossed in the game, she'll ask me, "Can you <stop watching the game you're so into> move your chair back a little <get up and miss your daughter scoring again> so I can see? You're right in
front of me."
<because I did arrive twenty-five minutes late
and purposely insult everyone around you before positioning myself here so I
could further destroy the joy you feel when watching your kid play>
 |
| The Insanity Of The Crowd |
Mom shouldn't be so critical of the other side. She
doesn't realize, but she's sort of one of them. Our audience has more in common
than they know. There's an unofficial, two part chorus that sings every time one
of their players falls down. This group appears at almost every adolescent sporting
event. They are a loyal, busy, and insane bunch.
Yesterday, I was watching my kid play for the school
team, and the choir was more turned on than usual. It was an aggressive game, and
there was a lot of pushing, but sometimes the adrenaline rush kicks in and
players may be pulled down by the momentum or their own feet. No matter, the singers do not discriminate or watch as carefully as they think they
do.
"OOOHHH"
Every baritone and soprano at perfect pitch and
volume yells out, holding the notes for a full four counts, and lacing their
melody with accusation. My mother leads the crowd. A player fell. It must've been because of a push.
And now, our players are no longer paying attention
to the game. All eyes have turned to the seats because in actuality, the cries
are so loud and painful that it seems as if one of our bystanders is hurt. The game continues and as an opposing player breezes
past, the parents scream at the kids, "Pay attention!"
For the next 40-60 minutes, the cycle continues...and
it makes me wonder, with all of that awareness and focused energy, why aren't there
more millionaires in the world?
3.
Twitter
Thanks to "A" for tweeting this little
tidbit last week:
"FUCKING GIANT ROACH IN MY KITCHEN THAT I MAY OR MAY
NOT HAVE KILLED WITH RAID ITT FELL BEHIND THE STOVE OH CHRIST"
In one hundred and thirteen
characters this Tweep was able to convey a level of terror known only to some...
without punctuation. She was so concise that she not only had twenty-seven
characters left if she had wanted to hashtag something like:
#INeedToCleanMoreOften or #IKillBugsWhilePosting, but was able to insert an
extra "T" in "IT", no doubt to emphasize the enormity of
her assailant...and/or possible cleaning problem.
Twitter, with its limited character
usage and hashtag popularity, has forced us to become better writers. There's
no room for long drawn out scenarios like the time my mother was asked by her
doctor, "How long has your leg been swollen like this?" and she took
a full four minutes to explain how she's had a problem with swelling almost all
of her life and why she's had it, when the answer was really "three weeks". Postings have
to be concise and entertaining or no one will read or retweet them.
The social media platform itself is
so fed up with long talkers that the old alert: "Your tweet is too long. You'll
have to be more clever", doesn't even pop up anymore. Instead the
offending characters are pink lined and the "tweet button" is
deactivated. #TheBirdIsBurnt
Tweeting a few times a day seems to
be a good writing exercise for those who aspire to pen the "Great American
Novel". Thirty thousand postings later, I push myself to post cleaner,
wittier tweets, my only measure of success being how many followers I
accumulate each day and how many times I am RT'd.
Unfortunately for my mom, writing a
bestseller is not in her future. She is still struggling to send emails without
the first sentence of her message appearing in the subject line. In ALL CAPS.
I never have to open them. When I
see, "RE: CAN YOU PICK ME UP FOR THE
SOCCER GAME TOMORROW?" I send it to trash and move on. I have her
convinced that if you put the message anywhere except in the body, it
automatically gets deleted.
4. Sprinkler Games
In Feng Shui, water is often related
to finances. If you have a leak, the "masters" encourage you to
repair it quickly, so that your money is not "washed away". I'd love
to know what they have to say about sprinklers.
The Sprinkler Games have many
players. There are those who never water at all, those who have to notice that
their grass and plants are parched before offering a bit of refreshment, and
then there are the serious players. These are the people who water regularly,
even going so far to set a timer so that the schedule is maintained.
The dedication shown is admirable
and their determination is only matched by mail carriers. Those sprinklers go
on and stay on for the entire allotted time...rain or shine. I've seen homeowners
walking in and out of their house during a full on typhoon, avoiding the stream
as they run to their cars or front doors, undeterred by the fact that we will
accumulate four inches of rain by nightfall.
I have to say though, that I would
never have noticed this particularly organized group if it wasn't for the fact
that they tend to use those trigger sprinklers, the ones that look like tiny
guns and blast streams of water hard enough to take the arm off of a small child. My car has been pinged by the
sharpshooters so many times that I'm not really sure the Sprinkler Games have
anything to do with keeping your lawn and plants green. It has been my
experience that ninety-five percent of the water being tossed around never
touches a blade of grass or the tip of a leaf. Instead, the jets hit my car and
the pavement. The houses and schools in my area have the cleanest walkways and
streets I've ever seen.
My daughter gets very upset when she
sees well watered cement. She is a practical girl and considers this silly
habit to be wasteful.
She wants to write a letter to all
of the offenders:
Dear Lawn Keeper,
I have to talk to you about your watering practices.
Whenever my car stops at the corner right in front of your
house, I can't help but notice that you have your sprinkler positioned
perfectly. And by perfectly I mean that if you are trying to hit my brother in
his left eye, making him to cry out in pain and seek medical help
immediately, then I owe you one for that atomic wedgie he gave me last week. The accuracy you demonstrate when that first jet stream floods my mom's back
seat but misses every blade of grass on your lawn is downright astounding!
But if I may speak for my children, my grandchildren, and even
my great-grandchildren, you are a big part of global warming. If this is how
you water your lawn, then I'm sure your carbon footprint is huge, as in Sasquatch-huge,
and although you super-size your food at Mickey D's when you hit the
drive-thru for your Weekly Sunday Dinner, in this case bigger is not better.
Sincerely,
Just Sayin'
When it comes to the Sprinkler Games,
my mother is the champ. Just when nobody expects it, she pulls out her
superpower...blame...and then she
wins the whole dang thing.
My Older Brother (the favorite
because the rest of us didn't want the attention): "Mom, what's going on
with your lawn? When was the last time you watered it? I can't see any grass
under the weeds and dry, brown hay!"
Mom: "We're all on a lockdown
schedule. I can't believe they're not letting us water the lawns more than
every other day. My grass looks like crap because of it. I'm not going to even
bother because it's dying anyway."
Older Brother puts his arm around
her and they stand together, gazing out her front window. A leaf falls from the
Asian Maple and drifts slowly to the ground...suddenly dissolving into a
thousand pieces the moment it hits the barren wasteland Mom calls her front
yard.
 |
| The Insanity Of Gardening |
Mother and son tsk at the same moment, shaking their heads at the injustices that
life hands out, neither willing to pull out the garden hose. Because that would be insanity.
5. Language Barriers
I was in Target the other day
looking at socks when a mother came by, pushing a small child in a shopping
cart. As soon as the little girl saw the Barbie panties on the rack, she got
very excited and started saying, "Underwears Mommy! I need
underwears!"
The girl was about three or four
years old and ripe for learning. Rather than correct her daughter, or at least
lead by example, the mother frowned and replied in a stern tone, "No you
don't need any underwearS." Then she repeated it.
Twice.
As I type, a red swiggly line
appears beneath "underwears"...even
the computer doesn't recognize it as a real word.
The list goes on and on. For
example, how many times have you heard: ascared, drownded, excape...
I don't even want to be in the room
with the person that says, "My perscription
prolly won't be ready till Febyuary 2nd, so I'll do my upmost to be patient, uncomplaining,
excetera."
For those of you who read that sentence
without stuttering and then asked, "What's the problem?", please go
join my mother at the back of the "never
be a writer" line.
If you speak like that and then
wonder why you are not in the list of top
money makers like actors and lawyers, it's probably because that is so painful
to listen to that you've killed off several potential connections to fortune
and fame.
If your doctor ever said, "Let
me axe the nurse to bring me a needle for that vaccination", you'd
probably grab your kid and run. Needles are scary enough, and now you're
throwing axes into the mix??
It's insanity to think that
setting up language barriers for yourself will work in your favor...unless
you're my mother.
Not only does she feel the need to announce to everyone when
she needs to tinkle, she does it loudly, with an English accent and several
long, drawn out rolled R's: "I
have to go to the baaathrroom." As if by sounding like some kind of
medieval town crier it makes the event much more important and less gross?
CF Winn is the award-winning author of The COFFEE BREAK SERIES, a quirky group of
short stories meant to be read while on break or in the waiting room of the
doctor's office. Her first novella, SUKI, has been grabbing
hearts and hugging souls all over the United States.
You can now order SUKI in paperback at BOOK REVUE, one of
the nation’s largest independent bookstores, by email at info@bookrevue.com or
by calling (631) 271-1442.
Learn more about SUKI at BOOK REVUE http://www.bookrevue.com/localauthors.html
More posts like these can be found at Humor Outcasts and The Patch where she is a regular contributor.
CF Winn is the founder of Winning! Publications, a firm specializing in
editing and promotion services for authors. Her latest project is the
just released Trailer Trash, With a Girl’s Name, a hilarious and
heartwarming story of a boy saddled with a girl’s name and forced into a
nomadic existence. Order it now: http://www.amazon.com/Trailer-Trash-With-Girls-Name-ebook/dp/B00IX0MIAO
