5 Reasons Why Insanity Doesn't Work (Part 2)

Good sports are hard to come by, especially in my family. I come from a long line of paranoid, defensive, no-names who think that they are important enough for the world to plot against. 

In Part 1 of this Insanity Blog, my mother was a good sport. A really good sport. I told her that I had written about her and that I was sure she didn't want to read it. I said it would just make her upset and that I would write a Part 2 that she could enjoy because it would be Mom-free. Crazily enough, she agreed not to look at it. 

Used With Permission From Google Images

The post was well received, and although she heard that it was so popular that it was syndicated on the Masquerade Crew site, as far as I knew, she still didn't peek.

But then, about a month later, my cell rang and I wasn't around to pick it up.

My mother has a flip phone. She can't text, and she doesn't know how the voicemail works.

So when I didn't answer and the robot lady I've named Meryl came on, our relationship began to slip:

Meryl: "You've reached the voicemail of  CF Winn. Please leave a message after the tone."

Mom (sounding urgently annoyed): "Christina! Christina! Hello! Hello! Are you there? (pause) Are you there? (waits exactly .00002 seconds) Hello? Fine. *TSK* Call me back!" 

*CLICK*
 

Later, after I listened to her message, I was sure of three things:

1. She thinks the voicemail works like an answering machine.      

2. She doesn't sound happy.

3. She must've broken down and read the blog.

My palms were so sweaty that I almost dropped my phone while I dialed her back. 

I called her house because I know:

1. Mom never answers her cell phone. She says she can't hear it ring because it's the phones fault. <And my hearing is just fine, so why don't you all stop bugging me to get it checked out?>

2. If she isn't at work or chauffeuring my Aunt Mary <the Olympic Gold Medal Winner for Couponing> to the supermarket for her weekly <training> shopping, then she's home.

She never answers her home phone either. Sometimes it's because <My hearing is just fine!> she has the radio or the TV volume up loud enough for the entire block to enjoy SURVIVOR or 1010 WINS with her, but mostly because she just doesn't. Is she screening? Is she too tired to get up and answer it? I don't know, but I need to be loud so she can hear me over Sam Champion's weather report.

Mom's Robotic Answering Machine that I have secretly named Fred: "Hello, no one is available to come to the phone right now. Please leave a message at the tone."

Me: "Hey Fred! What's happenin'? Looks like it's you and me again since MOM! doesn't ever want to pick up the phone. Let me ask you something Fred. I'm so used to her not picking up although I KNOW YOU'RE THERE MOM! that I never worry that something is wrong. Would you tell me if MOM! had fallen and couldn't get up? Would you alert me if MOM! needed CPR or if MOM! was choking? Huh Fred? I think after all this time, we've developed a trust and a close enough relationship where..."

Mom (completely frantic as if I was about to hang up and not in the middle of a serious conversation with my VoiceMale): "Hello? Hello?"

Me: "Are you ok? You don't sound too good."

Mom: "I sound perfectly fine. Who is this?"

Me: "Mom, it's your daughter. Why don't you ever pick up? You have caller ID and can see that it's me. Is it that you enjoy eavesdropping on my conversations with Fred?"

Mom: "What? Who's Fred? I did answer. See? I'm talking to you. Sometimes I don't hear it ring. This phone is a piece of garbage."

Me: "Then why don't you get a new one so you can hear it and pick up right away?"

Mom: "What did you say?"

Me (after a deep breath): "You called me. I'm calling you back. You sounded like something was wrong."

Mom: "Wrong? No. I sounded perfectly normal. I just wanted to know what time you were going to pick me up for Bella's soccer game."

Some people suffer with with Bitchy Resting Face, but me? I've got Bitchy Resting Voice terrorizing me at every turn ...        

Used With Permission From Google Images

1. Echo...echo... echo...

We live in a time where information is often distorted; sometimes as a result of manipulation in order to grab an individual's attention, and sometimes via media hysteria - the phenomena that happens when a crazy, misunderstood piece of news takes off and engulfs the internet - much like what started the Salem Witch Trials, but on a larger, more technological scale.

If you've ever played the Telephone game, then you know what happens when you can't hear the message, or if you really aren't listening. It can be tempting to ask, "What?" or repeat the phrase that has just been spit-whispered in your ear, but that would be against the rules. In the real world those guidelines don't apply and some people take advantage. For me, repeating is the new scratching your nails on the chalkboard sound. The kind that if I have to listen to it, I want to punch myself in the neck just to have something else to focus on.

For example, my last trip to Target went something like this:

Customer: "Excuse me? Where are the dog treats?"

Employee (pointing): "In that aisle, past the cat toys."

Customer: "In that aisle?"

Employee: "Yes."

Customer: "Past the cat toys?"

Employee: "Yes."

Customer begins walking.

Employee: "No not that one. The next aisle."

Customer: "Not this one?"

Employee: "Right. The next aisle."

Customer: "The next aisle?"

Employee: "Yes."

By then I had collapsed by the air fresheners and was in full seizure mode. It was like a strobe light of the verbal kind and I had watched a little too long.

My aunt loves to reminisce. She'll tell you stories of cats she's owned, birds she's given refuge to, and our family's history... right down to how she saved us all from disfiguring birth defects brought about by inbreeding because she did not give in to her cousin's flirtatious advances at my great-grandfather's funeral. 

The problem is that we never know which facts are true, exaggerated, or made up. She's just not a good listener. When my mother calls to speak with her, Aunt Mary gives vague "Uh huh" answers that are usually muffled by the soap opera that's on <because the volume is at a million decibels>. It's no wonder that when my mom says, "Christina is coming to visit" it gets twisted into, "Christina would rather eat dirt than have lunch with you". 

Maybe if she'd repeat things back, we'd all know that she 's listening, and I could be sure that it's true that several people in her neighbor's grief group want to read my book, SUKI. Could I tolerate her saying things again and again? I'll get back to you on that one. Yes, back to you. 

2. Go Green?

My family is full of collectors: My aunt collects Tupperware, my uncle collects mugs, and my mom collects anything that is on sale or free. For a while, I unknowingly collected plastic bags. The ones you'd put your groceries in at the supermarket. 

When stores started giving away the fabric shopping bags, I was all over it. Although I would reuse the plastic versions in my smaller garbage cans, I, even with three kids, could not generate enough trash to justify my stockpile, and have now not only broken the plastic habit, but have developed an allergy to them.

The only time I will use plastic is when I buy meat. They put out those tissue thin produce bags around the meat cooler so that, in theory, you pick your cut, easily slide it in, and walk out without blood dripping from your arms as if you decided that Waldbaums was the perfect place to slit your wrists.

Do not even get me started on how hard it is to figure out which side of the bags open. But once I've cracked the code and begin to ease my lamb chop in, it usually rips. Right down the seam. And the same thing happens for the next three or four tries. Finally, looking like I was just attacked behind the toilet tissue, it's time to check out, and every time, yes, every time, the cashier will ask, "Do you want me to put your meat in a plastic bag?"

While I realize that the bag I just wrestled with doesn't look like much, after the struggle it just put up, I believe very strongly that we should acknowledge its existence.

The other day, my son and I went grocery shopping and picked up a dozen eggs and a few other things. As we loaded them up on the belt, I informed the cashier that I had my own bags. She grabbed for my eggs right away without responding and began pulling out a plastic Stop and Shop sack.

  

I figured she didn't hear me and repeated myself:

Me: "I have my own bags."

Cashier: "I know. I just always put the eggs in plastic so that they won't get crushed...

She sort of trailed off as if she caught on to how stupid her statement was, making it completely unnecessary for me to ask the important questions:

How does that work exactly?

1. Is the bag super padded...or padded at all?

2. Does the bag come with its own bodyguard?

Hmm...maybe I jumped the gun on this super-bag idea. There might be more to this protection thing than I originally thought. My self esteem has been crushed enough times to warrant giving it a try. And my dignity? That and a beautiful set of wine glasses were destroyed by my alcoholic ex-husband. Maybe I can get her to let me have a bunch of them. My kids will be on their way to college soon and could use the extra armor...

                  

          +                   

3. Time Travel

Bell bottoms, fanny packs, and fluorescent socks. They were once very popular, but like microbes and mass extinction, they are a mystery and better off left in the past. For some, leaving things behind is hard and just when the rest of us least expect it, we are confronted with a Tyrannosaurus Rex that is not only ugly, but that we had hoped would remain buried. 

One of the moms at school is like the mullet Billy Ray Cyrus should never have had sported in the first place. She wears high-waisted jeans that gather tightly at the ankle and her hair is a hybrid - Farrah Fawcett lost a rumble with hair spray and high eighties hair. She's painful to look at, especially when she takes off her jacket and reveals a t-shirt with shoulder pads.

Joan Rivers scans the red carpet looking for fashion offenders but she should really just hit up a suburban playground. It's a party of nostalgics, frozen in time and waiting for the next cycle of crop tops and parachute pants to grab the nation by storm. 

 

Used With Permission From Google Images

But here's the thing. These trends weren't cute when they were popular, so they've been banned from ever returning. As I look out across the sandbox, I feel like I'm watching The Time Traveler's Wife, except that the period hoppers are allowed to keep their clothes on between decades... and I have to wish that it just wasn't so.

4. Got Juice??

When my Uncle Paddy was young, he was a tough guy. He was big, he was always in trouble, and as smart as he was, along the way, he lost a few marbles. And so it goes, youth fades and aging happens. Uncle Paddy now breathes with an oxygen tank, gets around with a walker, lives in a nursing home - and it's a little too late to start searching for those marbles. 

Used With Permission From Google Images

Every couple of months, Aunt Mary - his ambassador of crying wolf and his personal banker - gets a mayday call. Once, he wasn't feeling well and was moved to the nursing home's sick quarters. Aunt Mary reported this to us all as, "Uncle Paddy is taking his last breaths. You need to say goodbye to him." I and my three kids raced over to the home and had my cousin, his daughter, on speed dial, so she could hear him utter his final thoughts. When we got there, he was in a tiny curtained cubicle complete with three square feet for us to squeeze into and a roommate; an elderly man who kept moaning in pain and speaking to his dead wife. Uncle Paddy, as feisty and sensitive as ever, told the man to "Shut up" and three days later was well enough to move back into his regular room.

The last time he called, he was really suffering. Aunt Mary could tell. 

Her version: "Those stupid nurses are refusing to give Pat his juice. He needs it to live. He found someone to go out to the store and get him some, but they said it's $35 a gallon!... Of course I sent him the money. He needs the juice!"

Reality: Uncle Paddy does not like the food they serve and has stopped eating. He is insisting that the only thing that keeps him alive is this juice - Hawaiian Punch. In an effort to get him to start eating again so that he doesn't die, the nurses told him they'd get the juice for him, but that there is a surcharge for delivery. They figured he wouldn't be able to afford it and that he'd give up and eat the cold lasagna and rubber hot dogs the state deems fit for human consumption. And by the way, someone get a hold of his daughter. Of course Aunt Mary happily laid out $105 to save her brother's life. Anything for family...but she wants it back.

Used With Permission From Google Images

On my last visit, I noticed that he had a mini-fridge from his youngest son, fully stocked with juice that his daughter had bought for $2.99 at Walmart and hand delivered to him herself...AND thanks to the "surcharges", the nursing home had a new wing.

5. Gay Is The New Black

Equal rights for African Americans used to be all the rage. In fact, just saying African Americans instead of Blacks was considered progress. Interracial couples are so common now that it's hard to believe that a family member once asked me if I was doing it for shock value instead of asking if my boyfriend made me happy. Laws have been created and changed over the years regarding everything from slavery to integrating schools, in an effort to recognize us all as equals.

With an African American sitting in the White House, and the novelty of him being the first to do so having worn off, some of the outspoken have moved on and finally see him as just another sitting president, and as is our MO, those who do not preside, instead criticize - his politics...and homosexuals. 

Used With Permission From Google Images

And so a new trend was born. Lawmakers could've moved on to child abuse and neglect in order to protect our children, the ultimate innocents, but instead Gays became the new Black.

First, the issue was Same-Sex Marriage, but as more and more states are changing their laws to recognize these unions, just like the legalization of pot, it's only a matter of time till life, liberty, and the pursuit of alternative lifestyles rule our great nation as our fab 4/20 fathers had predicted.

Used With Permission From Google Images

Used With Permission From Google Images

With blazing and praising looming on the horizon, there are those who see that their worst nightmares are becoming a reality and so they grasp for some type of control. They come up with ridiculous laws without thinking of the ramifications of their actions.

Most recently, a few states have proposed empowering businesses with the right to turn away gay customers based on religious grounds. If their religion is one that believes in giving up all worldly possessions in favor of living in poverty, then not only do they have a case, but why restrict just the gays? Why stop at the nine million people in this country that are open about who they are? Why not just close up shop and ban everyone? 

I'm not here to change minds or to convince one group or the other to reconsider their choices. All I'm saying is if you're going to have an agenda, make it an intelligent one.

Here's a bit of reality:

In my local high school, there is no stigma attached to being gay. In fact, homosexuality is so popular that my kids are in the minority because they don't consider themselves at least bi. I don't know if this is the trend across the nation, but I can tell you that our high school is full of some movers and shakers. They follow current events and have strong opinions about what they are hearing and seeing. It doesn't matter if they are gay or straight, because in our school, all walks of life are respected and embraced. It'll just take one of those students to grow up and become an elected official one day and enact laws that could affect some of our more outspoken retirees:

It's the year 2028 and an obese woman enters a local pizzeria. She lumbers toward the counter slowly; the wear and tear of her controversial life supported by only a walker and a gold crucifix swinging judgmentally against her bosom with each heavy step. Because of her size, the younger adults that have come in cannot pass, and a line begins to form behind her. By now, discrimination against Gays and African Americans is a thing of the past, and the customers chatter about their lives, some of which involve same sex relationships. With her hearing aid turned up to the max, the overweight, old-school woman can hear their conversations and is not impressed. But her *TSK's* are drowned out by her laborious panting as she finally reaches the counter.

Woman: (Holds up a manicured pointer finger while she catches her breath): "One *gasp* sec..."

Pizza Guy: "Dude! I know you! Hey everybody! There's a celebrity in the house! This is that lady that thought that the right to ban gays from shopping was cool with God! Whoa! I think you're the first famous person we've ever had come in. Can I take your pic for the wall?"

She nods, smiling and posing, and almost able to speak.

Pizza Guy: "Thanks! That's so cool of you to let me do that." He's silent now and looks at her expectantly.

Woman: "You're welcome. I'll take a slice of Sicilian and a half dozen garlic knots."

Pizza Guy: "Wait. What? Dude, ha ha, let me explain. I know some of you old folks are out of touch. The law you tried to get passed got vetoed, but the one about not serving ancient, fat, bigots didn't. And believe me, I get it. Aging happens, life happens, and it sucks to have things you can't control or choices you make discriminated against, but the law is the law. Sorry."

Used With Permission From Google Images

Karma is a perpetual bitch folks. In the midst of youth and power, sometimes we forget to look ahead at the consequences. Our words, actions, and the insanity that we create but does not work can haunt us...for even Pizza Guy will be old and possibly overweight... if his product is quality.

Now if we want to target a group of people, I propose we zoom in on the moody, self absorbed crowd that is contributing to world hunger by eating everything in sight - even the Coffee Cakes that were clearly labeled MOM, but managed to disappear anyway. I call these terrorists...TEENS. 

 CF Winn is the award-winning author of The COFFEE BREAK SERIES, a hilarious 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

Insanity: 5 Reasons Why It Doesn't Work (PART 1)

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

A few months ago, I wrote a post called "Things I Learned From My SoccerTeam". It was very well received and I could feel heads nod in agreement as they read the opening line,

 "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? 

Once she said it after serving me what she called a "rich man's breakfast" of steak and eggs...on paper plates. Sometimes our hurdles are more than just verbiage...


READ PART 2 : http://simplystick.blogspot.com/2014/03/5-reasons-why-insanity-doesnt-work-part.html

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