Category Archives: Crazy is as Crazie Does

Why I Oughta…

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They only do these kinds of things because they love me, right?

Have you noticed that day three of any trip is when people wake up with a case of the crankies?  Our big obnoxious Catholic family is no exception.

I whine, “I wanted my egg ON TOP of my french toast,”  at my brother who is kind enough to cook breakfast-to-order for all sixteen of us each morning.

My sister is out of sorts because her towels are missing and she’s certain one of us is hiding them from her.  And, yet, when she tries to make me feel better because I’m missing my kids, I snap, “Can’t you just let me feel bad?”

My older brother is out of sorts because we’re all at the beach already and he can’t find us.  “You’re directions suck!” he says.  I lay the phone down and make him wait for five minutes while I slowly locate his son who knows how to talk “man” directions.

My younger brother is out of sorts because he wants us to play by the rules of the games and the rest of us want to make them up.  “You know, Anne Lamott has this great saying – W.A.I.T. = Why Am I Talking?” I say to him not realizing that I’m the one who should be taking the advice.

And yet, here we all are, a few hours later crammed around a dinner table eating mounds of spaghetti, laughing and telling goofy stories about ourselves.

We’re like a reality show for the bipolar set.  We wonder why in the hell we ever decided to plan a vacation together and in the next moment say, “You know, next time we should try upstate New York.”

I’ve spent a lot of time wondering what it is about my sister, brothers and I that make us stick together when other families grow apart.  After all we’ve had disasters that would have blown most families sky high – deaths, tragedies, more deaths – and it only seems to draw us closer.  Personally, I think we’re all survivors of PTSD, but I’m not actually a doctor so I can’t be sure.

I have to go now because even though I got so mad at everyone for not guessing my Catch Phrase word last night I didn’t talk for thirty minutes, a new game is starting and I don’t want to miss it.

 

 

Operation: It’s All About ME

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 A few years ago I wrote an essay about my trip to South Africa and it was published in the Kansas City Star.  Shortly after that, I received a call from the South African Consulate telling me how much they liked the story and asking me if my husband and I would attend their Freedom Day party.

“OF COURSE I WILL!” I shouted.

I may have been over excited, but it was because the night would be All About ME.  My husband is a politician, so I’ve spent years being “the spouse” at hundreds of events.  Some of the perks that come with being The Spouse are:

  • We arrive at a function and pick up our name-tags.  His will be printed in bold even letters, mine will be hastily hand-written.
  • People speak to me as if I’m in grade school – pasting a big smile on their faces and over-enunciating their patronizing words.  “I’ll bet you had a wonderful day of shopping while your husband was working, didn’t you?”
  • Or, I’m the one pasting the giant smile on my face while the two of them speak in some foreign language.  “I’m concerned about SB121.  Blah, blah, blah, motion to amend, blah, blah, blah, above the line, blah, blah, blah.”

But not this time.  This time, my husband would be the one standing around with nothing to say or do, a plastic smile plastered on his face.  The joy of Freedom Day increased with every thought I had about how miserable he would be.

We arrive at the event and the elevator doors open onto the first phase of Operation: It’s All About ME.  The name-tag table.  I’m embarrassed to tell you how giddy I was at the thought of having an actual printed name-tag and secretly hoping that his would be the one that was handwritten.  Yes, I’m dreadful.  I admit it.  Let’s just move on, shall we?

We walk up, and the assistant sitting behind the table jumps up.  “Oh!  Senator Vratil.  How nice to see you.  I have your name-tag right here.”  She hands it to him – neatly printed in Times New Roman.  As my eyes rake the table, searching for mine, I hear her dreaded question…  “And who’s this with you?”

All the color drains from my face and like a fish gasping for air my mouth opens and closes several times.  As hot, angry tears threatened to spill over my lashes,  I run to the bathroom where I pace back and forth, humiliated and enraged.  Sure, I’ve killed a mouse, I sputter.  Maybe even a few cockroaches, but I mean really, Karma?  Did I deserve this?

Pulling myself together, I finally return to my husband, who holds the vile hand-written name-tag in his hand.  I snatch the paper from him and rip it to shreds.

“Uh, are you okay?” he asks.

“Perfectly fine,”  I say, grabbing his arm and with my head held high, marching into the reception.

Since It’s All About ME, at first my brain only registered the humiliation I had just suffered by not receiving the golden award of a computer printed name-tag.  But eventually, even my ego had to shut up long enough to listen to the speakers.   They shared their stories of abuse and emotional struggles during apartheid and the joy they felt when democracy came to their country.

Sigh. I wish I could tell you that I had a complete change in attitude after those speeches.  I mean… it wasn’t like I was totally callous.  I did actually realize that in the big scheme of things, a sticky piece of paper with my name printed on it, is truly unimportant.

But at the end of the speeches, when they called my name and talked about the article I’d written, I have to admit that all I thought was… YES!  It’s All About ME!

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Guess what?  I’ve been writing this blog for a year!  Amazing.  If this post made you smile, share me on your Facebook page and if you’re feeling really generous, click LIKE on my author’s page.  Then again, maybe it’s not such a good idea to  reinforce OPERATION:  IT’S ALL ABOUT ME.