17 Signs That You’re Crazy

Seriously, people – I could use the money. It’s not that we’re starving, but my boys – they think money grows on trees. Literally. They no longer believe in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny – but don’t be messin’ with their Money Tree. It’s out there somewhere – like my camera charger.

Thus, this post at content blogging because Legos are not free and neither are tap shoes. Or cheese for that matter.

17 signs that you’re crazy:

1) You eat when you’re bored: Technically, you should be doing laundry. Everybody has dirty laundry. Loads of it. But nobody likes to do it. So you avoid doing it by eating cheese and crackers. You sort your food but not whites and colors…and there it is. Laundry is racist. You’re crazy.

2) You forget your keys: In the car, in the house, in the office – doesn’t matter. Why’d you do that? Because you’re crazy.

3) You stubbed your pinky toe on an exercise dumbbell: That’s your body’s way of reminding you that you should be doing something with them. For the life of you, you can’t remember. Here’s a hint: put down that box of Ding Dongs and move that dumbbell out of the way, you crazy ass.

4) You called your mother for advice: Everybody knows that at your age, your mom is the only person in the world who will tell you the brutal truth. At any age, really – moms never sugar coat anything. They hate sugar. Well, the moms I know, anyway. Not that they won’t eat it themselves but they love depriving their kids of it. So yes, if mom got you depressed for giving you the cold hard facts about your character, just tell yourself it’s not true, you’re just crazy.

5) You bake and suck at it but still try to make cookies: The good news is, persistence is a good character trait. The bad news is, you’re wasting food – not to mention gas and electricity making inedible pieces of shit. I have two words: baking soda. Even though the recipe only calls for a tablespoon or four, doesn’t mean it’s optional. If you have friends who are really good at baking, then pilfer their stash. Everyone knows crazy people can’t bake.

6) You apologize to inanimate objects: Walls, trees, lamp posts and parking meters – it’s really their fault for existing. Stop apologizing, it’s just craziness.

7) You talk back to the news: Then again, you apologize to inanimate objects so, this is a given. It’s when the screen starts talking back that you – mi-i-i-i-i-ght wanna check yourself in.

8) You don’t understand bubble tea: And why should you? Imagine – a crazy person drinking bubbles. In tea, much less. If there’s gotta be bubbles in a drink, it should be grass flavored. Crazy people just do drugs. Right…crazy person?

9) You cry watching commercials: ASPCA, starving kids in Canada – Gatorade. Why you’re crying, nobody knows. You’re crazy.

10) You sing along to supermarket muzak: It must’ve been love, ’cause it’s over now. Only crazy people double shopping for chicken liver and kale chips with Karaoke.

11) You distrust anyone who wants to be your friend: After all, it takes one to know one – so chances are they’re crazier than you. The sane people are the ones who are always excusing themselves from you. They’ll say, “Oh, hey – good to see you. Gosh! I gotta run, my anus is calling me.”

12) You hear the phone ringing when it’s not: Okay, this could be resolved if you’d just change your ringer. If only there were a ring tone that shouted, “I’ll clean up for you!” or “Have a bag of money!” You’d never miss a call – or answer the phone when it wasn’t ringing and have people stare at you on the bus like – well, you’re crazy.

13) You think you’re lucky sometimes: There is no such thing as luck. Life is based on endowment. Tall, male, white-ish, with hair and a set of teeth that shows impeccable dental hygiene practice – they get first dibs. When you go all the way down the list, you’ll find your break. If you find yourself feeling lucky, look around for the other shoe before it lands on your crazy brain.

14) You stick with tradition: Did it ever occur to you that your great-great grandmother was bonkers? In her time, she didn’t have all the amenities society has now – for example: information. There is a difference between routine and tradition. Tradition is something that’s followed without knowing why – and that’s just plain crazy.

15) You don’t see life as a musical: But it is. The only reason we don’t break into song and dance numbers at the office is because of Local 802. There’s also the lack of really big fans to blow your hair back but as long as you have your tap shoes on, a musical number could break any moment. If you don’t see it, you must be crazy.

16) You have faith in sunscreen: It may keep you from smoldering but it does not work for vampires. Might do your craziness some good to get fried.

17) You find happiness in accidents: Because you may be crazy, but that’s why you’re happy. Have you ever met a happy control freak? Sometimes it’s better to be crazy than be the boss. If you are the boss and you’re crazy, think about the poor souls who work for you. They must be maniacs.

If you agree with any five of these signs, then indeed you are crazy. What you need to do now is see a bartender and ask for something special. Bring money with you but under no circumstances, should you offer the bartender sunscreen.

 

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Doing The Right Thing in Underpants

You know you’re in the right, when you’re in the minority. People hate the truth. They’ll ignore it rather than face it, even when it’s standing right in front of them, blocking their way forward. I had to sum this up for my boys after they watched “Lord of the Flies” recently.

They were profoundly affected by the story, they talked about it incessantly. They pondered why all the boys left the reasonable leadership of Ralph to follow the maniacal Jack and chalked it up to Jack being blond.

With that settled, they went on to discuss whether it was necessary – at all – to wear underwear if they were the only boys stranded on a deserted island.

Amazing what boys focus on.

Regardless what portion of the movie they happened to recall, they always went back to the camp fire dance in their underpants. I asked them if they saw a similarity in their own behavior, and they gawked. “No mom, we NEVER act like that,” they said.

Oh, really?

As soon as I said it was time to do their summer workbook, they flailed on the floor like fish out of water. They were kicking and screaming how stupid math and English were, after all who needs it anyway – if they had some pigs blood and ashes, they’d have marked their faces with war paint. In their organic cotton underwear.

Little savages.

Ironically, the summer workbook assignment for the day was to write a commercial about integrity.

“What is integrity?” Zuki asked.

“It’s doing the right thing, all the time – even when it’s not popular or fun. Even when you’re dancing around in your underpants.”

He was quiet for a while, which meant he was either thinking about it or he had imaginary flies buzzing in his head. Finally, he said, “Like Ralph and Piggy.”

At least he got it. Unfortunately, he also connected how those characters with integrity wound up dead or battered by the end of the movie – but what could I say. It’s not the Lego movie.

images

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Don’t Worry A Troubled Mind

“Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, it empties today of its strength.”
― Corrie ten Boom

“Worry Wart” was my middle name. I was born to worry. As a matter of fact, worrying was my main reason to become a parent. Parenting, I thought, was the perfect excuse to worry for every little thing.

Worry if the baby’s healthy. Worry if the child gets hurt. Worry if they’ll make friends and do well in school. Worry if my worrying is borderline psychotic and thus raise a serial killer with an unoriginal Modus Operandi.

That would be lame. Not even book rights. Oh my God, so much to worry about and so little time!

But like sleep and quiet moments, I soon learned that there is really no time to worry with kids. Shit just happens – regardless.

So I learned how to prepare.

There’s a distinct difference between worry and preparation. True, preparation is pretty much taking precaution on nothing more than an assumption; but to worry was just – immature. To give into it, gets you nowhere and actions based on it brings nothing but trouble. Just the thing worry was trying to avoid.

Ask anyone what they’re worried about and basically what they want to say is, “I’m worried that we’re gonna die.”

I didn’t want to worry to the point of becoming one of those moms. You know, the ones who are like, “Life? Oh no, that’s too dangerous for my children and I’m far too busy for that.”

It’s amusing how the modern mother became so irrational when the world became more accessible. They wipe everything clear of germs, pluck their children out of every challenging situation, fight their kids fights for them and then sit them down to a cardboard box of Chicken McNuggets because they forgot to pack a snack.

Their kids can’t eat fruit but they’ll eat mystery meat from a clown.

Okay, hungry children are demonic. Over time, we’ve accumulated a mountain of lunch coolers and water bottles to make sure my kids don’t “turn”. Our pantry is single-serving snack central and can city. All that’s missing is a Milky Way candy bar and we’d be ready for James Franco.

In all the years of outings with boys who are convinced we will resort to cannibalism when the subway stops, I’ve learned to be prepared.

While I can’t say that I never worry, I’m certainly not a wart anymore.

So, what are you worried about?

Troubled Mind

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Mean Green

#07. “Never be jealous.” – Miyamoto, Musashi (Book of Five Rings)

At the first sign of envy, my mother sternly said to me, “Don’t be jealous!” To this day, she still pronounces it “gel-ASS” but like her “strage” for storage and “turn reft at the right and make light at the corner,” it’s the message that counts – not a Shakespearean delivery.

At the time, it seemed unfair to expect a five-year old not to be jealous of her cute baby sister. Now, I see why. Jealousy and envy breed uncontrollably – like cockroaches – it infests and causes nuisance and at it’s best, Stephen King stories. You have to squash it immediately.

With my mother, it was a constant reprimand, “Don be gel-ASS! Don be gel-ASS!” She was too busy looking after my baby sister to bother with my antics. “I’m not jealous,” I’d say, “my belly hurts,” or “I didn’t know it was aspirin,” or “I was just trying to make Flambe.”

She’d just give me that look of disgust, which I too mastered and put to full use during the years I managed a hair salon. It’s a look that says, “Don’t try to play me without serving cocktails first.”

Scares the shit out of people. Especially minors.

While it’s simple to demand, it’s not so easy to turn a jealous cheek. My two boys show me that all the time. Should I offer any kind of praise to their friends or classmates, my sons will whine, “You love him more than me!”

I feel like saying, “Don be gel-ASS!” but boys don’t respond to commands. You yell, “STOP,” and they’ll look back at you while they continue running forward and smack into a mailbox.

Unlike girls, boys not only have a hard time registering their feelings – they don’t want to talk about it either. Almost every time I ask a boy if they want to talk about what’s bothering them, they’ll respond, “No. I just wanna blow something up.” So you see why Minecraft is so popular.

Boys can’t see that praise and kindness given to other people doesn’t lessen the amount given to them. They think of affection like a pizza pie. You give a high five to a buddy and a thumbs up to a classmate and there goes two-eighths of his hugs! It might be a Common Core thing. But there’s a security thing, too. When you point out another child’s merit, you are unwittingly pointing out the shortcomings of your own.

So now, when I pay some kid a compliment, I’ll search my brain for a compliment to give my guy as well. It could go like, “Katie, congratulations on your perfect score. And Zuki – you remembered to bring home your lunch box everyday this week. That’s outstanding!”

Although my mother’s upbringing of not giving into jealousy got me over my jealousy of my sister – and of ex-girlfriends – and of people who have summer beach homes, I fear one day it’ll rear it’s ugly head again when my boys grow up and start dating sluts. Ooh, did I say that out loud?

Hopefully, my mother will still be around to slap some sense into me when the time comes. Though from experience, I’ve noticed that grandmothers are far more picky over their grandson’s partner than anyone else.

Perhaps it’ll be my turn to tell her not to be gel-ASS.

Don't be jealous - smile dammit!

Don’t be jealous – smile dammit!

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A Hyped Up Dud

We don’t watch football – but we do have a Superbowl ritual. We’re suckers for game food – hot wings, nachos and guacamole and if there’s an unofficial day to officially serve them, well, why the Hell not. Plus, the Superbowl is one shot. One game. I can handle one game.

Unlike the past Superbowl games, with the Jets and Giants, I didn’t really care who won Superbowl 2014. But I expected two teams to play, at least. This game was like watching a live suicide. Oh, die already. Now I know how Vikings fans feel.

All week, I thought about taking the boys to Times Square’s Superbowl alley after school. As the game progressed, I was glad I didn’t. All the fanfare and the event was nothing but a hyped up dud.

My boys were sent to bed right after the half time show. They were reluctant as usual and whining, “we wanna see the Broncos score something!” 

I told them, if and when they do, it’ll be too little, too late. Was I right, huh? Huh?

That’s why being a sports fan sucks. These athletes are worshipped and paid a shit load of money and what do they do – choke at the Superbowl. Peyton Manning just wasn’t hungry enough. An unfortunate drawback of being a rich athlete – having the chops and no game. He lost it and never got it back. Not like Michael Phelps who used his loss to come back like a bat out of hell. I have no problem with him – he nice boy.

That’s what the average schmuck is waiting for in a superstar – for them to dig deep and find the spirit that whimsically pranced over to the opponent. That hefty paycheck is impressive, yes – but complacency is just boring. Nobody respects that crap. If you’re going to get soft and happy, build a state of the art Karaoke room and lock yourself away. Otherwise, go bankrupt if you have to but don’t show up for battle with manicured hands. Or sell out to a car commercial…Bob.

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It’s Not Okay But Who Cares?

Will we ever stop obsessing? We’re either too fat, too poor, too crazy or too stupid but in the end, nobody cares. We all wind up in the same place. Yes, this post has philosophical tendencies. It’s not because I had an introspective moment, it’s because Samu’s fish died and I was wondering how to get rid of it.

“Should we put it in the compost?” I asked my husband.

He’s a sick guy so he just laughed and said,”Yeah!”

Seriously, no – we didn’t put the dead pet in the compost. We took the traditional route of flushing the thing down the toilet. He had a mini-funeral and everything. I even cleaned the fish bowl in the dishwasher for the next tenant. Then we analyzed what could’ve killed the fish besides the overall neglect.

“I think it’s because you changed his name.” Samu said to his daddy.

Initially, Samu named it something ridiculous, then he changed it to Rex. Nobody called the fish “Rex”. Then, about a week ago, my husband decided that the fish didn’t look like a “Rex” so he changed the fish’s name to Fishy-poo. The name stuck and a week later – the fish died.

Coincidence? I think so. Still, I’m not going to ask my husband to name any pets in the future – unless I want them to go away.

What I wasn’t expecting was Samu’s mourning. Unlike the deaths of the previous pet fish and the hermit crab, Fishy-poo’s passing brought Samu to tears. He was sad and mopey for a while and he didn’t ask me right away if the void could be filled with another pet. It was the perfect opportunity to talk to him about appreciating life and living for the moment and all that good stuff that I often fail to practice myself.

As of late, I confess I’m a writer who hasn’t written. Every day that passed without writing a word, I used to convince myself that it was okay, there was life threatening laundry and classes to get to. But in reflecting, seeing Samu take our talk to heart, it’s clear that it is not okay.

“It’s okay” is just an excuse and who can do anything with those? Even the best excuse is still just an excuse, I tell my boys. When their homework is taking too long or there’s wads of toilet paper in the sink and I ask why, they know not to give me excuses. If they do for lack of memory, they are made to simply apologize – then do 10 plank push-ups. You’d think they’d look like Mr. Incredible by now instead of the scrawny chickens that they are.

So I’m writing again. And hating it. But love having written. My ass is getting bigger as are the dust bunnies and various other messes that would normally take up writing time to maintain. Certainly, it’s not okay but who cares? Otherwise, I’d have to name my life Fishy-poo.

Fishypoo copy

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Derailed

Recently, I read this article that instructed me to find a correlation with a random event to a problem in my life. “For example,” they said, “passing by a shattered window and relating it to your spouse’s flatulence.”

Well, that’s how I interpreted it anyway.

I can get obsessed with signs. If I hear a crow cackling a mad cry, I’ll walk the opposite direction to avoid the oncoming zombie it’s obviously warning me about.

So, when news filtered in about the Metro North train derailment, it occurred to me that this was it – a sign that described my current discontentment to a tee. Sure, trains derail all the time – but this one was big. It killed four people. Very rarely do I hear of a train derailment resulting in fatalities in New York. Other places are a different story and all I can say is, that’s what happens when you try to save a cow.

Of course, derailment as a metaphor is broad. So broad you might say I should go out and seek mad cackling crows to find a better direction. But for now, I’ll correlate every action. Get back on track like the derailed train. Get things moving again, like the rest of Metro North’s service. Lastly, lay to rest what’s gone.

What’s your shattered window?

 

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