Tag Archives: Self-Help

Meet The Mayor of Crazie Town

Hello, my long-lost readers.


You weren’t lost, I was.

???? Lost

You may be asking, WTF?  Why did The Mayor go from writing a hilariously funny and entertaining post every week, to barely a dozen over the last two years?

That is an excellent question and one I’ve been trying to answer for…well, the last two years.

I could tell you a lot of stuff happened, like:

My dad died,

and then;

My favorite aunt died,

and then;

My dog died,

and then;

We moved into the house from hell,

and then;

My husband was diagnosed with prostate cancer,

and then…

And then, I got stuck in Child’s Pose.  Literally.  Knees to chest, forehead pinned to a yoga mat.

My first yoga class in years and, unable to stand in Warrior 1, 2 or 3, I folded myself into Child’s Pose to wait for a position I could manage.  The problem became apparent immediately.  Once I arranged myself into Child’s Pose, huge crocodile tears rolled down my face and plopped onto the mat.  As the puddle of tears grew, the salty drops splashed back up onto my cheeks.

“Let’s continue our Vinyasa,” the teacher murmured to the class while tucking a pile of tissues next to me.  “Downward Dog…to Plank…to Cobra.”

I pushed up to try a Downward Dog but, the tears traveled upside down across my forehead and added to the growing dark patch on my purple mat.  Back to Child’s Pose, where I continued to weep silently until the class was over.

That was it.  I’m done.

I’m actually tired of being sad.

Khalil Gibran wrote: “The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.”

I figure by now, my life can hold a shit-load of joy.

For example, this brings me joy.

Blue Mayor

I’ve spent a small fortune at Shutterstock and thought it would be better to pay an artist I’ve actually met.  This is a creation from one of the extremely talented members of the WTF Critique Group.  Annie is an artist, a writer, an art critic and a world traveler.  I hate her awesome talent.  I think she has awesome talent!

I asked her to make a drawing that looks like me but add a top hat.

Done and done.

Meet the Mayor of Crazie Town. She confirmed that hilariously funny and entertaining blog posts will soon follow.


Somewhere along the line – after I’d rinsed and re-rinsed the shampoo from my hair – I realized I couldn’t leave the shower


If you could crack open my crazy head, you’d be surprised what you’d find. Well, maybe the lifelong residents of Crazie Town wouldn’t, but you new guys? You’d be surprised.

For example, a few years ago, I experienced a bout of depression. Nothing super-serious, like requiring the purchase of a straight jacket or anything. Just an overwhelming feeling of listlessness.

It started when I had trouble getting out of bed in the morning. Wandering around the house in my pajamas, I took long naps in the afternoon and most of my sentences were barely intelligible.

“Feeling better?” My husband, John, asked each day as he picked up the plethora of snotty tissues from around the vault I’d built in our bed.

“Uh-uh,” I answered.

“Any chance you want something for dinner?”


“Maybe we could take a walk. Some fresh air will do you good.”


Spending my day in the bed went on long enough for me to hone my listening skills to sonar submarine levels. The moment I heard the back door open, indicating that John was home, I jumped out of bed. shutterstock_70376086 copy Smoothing the covers, I’d run to the bathroom to flush the toilet and pull my robe tight as he walked in the room.

One day I looked in the mirror to see, on the lapel of my bathrobe, last week’s Chinese take out next to a blob of chocolate frosting I’d had for breakfast. I stared up at the ceiling trying to remember the last time I’d taken a shower.

shutterstock_88354360My bossy voice spoke up — the one that knows what everyone around me should and shouldn’t be doing. Only, this time she was talking to me and insisting that I march into the shower and start scrubbing.

As I stood under the scorching water, I sighed with contentment – happy to be stripping off the layers of grime. But, somewhere along the line – after I’d rinsed and re-rinsed the shampoo from my hair – I realized I couldn’t leave the shower.

“Of course you can,” Bossy Voice said.” Just turn off the water and step out.”

I pictured myself reaching for the faucet handles and then … well, that was the problem. The thought of the exertion it would take to dry myself off was just too overwhelming.
I remained in the shower while the water changed from hot to tepid. Even knowing that within minutes the water would be freezing, I stood there, postponing the gargantuan task of towel drying.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Bossy Voice chastised me. “And, you’ll be sorry when that cold water hits you.”

“I’m fine,” I whined. The first pellets of ice pummeled my skin and I yelped. Leaping out of the shower I decided I would always listen to Bossy Voice.

Wrapped in a towel, I pulled on my filthy bathrobe, crawled under the covers and slept until I heard the back door open.

Bossy Voice told me to show John I could get out of bed.

“Uh-uh,” I mumbled forgetting my commitment to Bossy Voice. I rolled over, pulling the covers around my head.

John peeled back a layer of blanket and whispered, “It’s a beautiful day outside. Maybe a drive would cheer you up.”

“Don’t think so,” I muttered.

“I’ll get you a hot fudge sundae,” he wheedled.

I rolled over and cracked an eye-lid. “With nuts?”

“And whipped cream.”

My eyelid clamped shut. “Don’t like whipped cream.” I started to roll away from him.

“I meant extra nuts,” he said “EXTRA NUTS!”

Keeping my eyes shut I said, “Did you just call me extra nuts?”

“I….no…I meant…”

“Kidding,” I said, opening my eyes.

He clasped my hand and gave it a tug. “Come on!” He pulled me through the house, toward the garage.

Fortunately Sonic didn’t have a dress code.

I’m a Triple Threat

I am an avid rule-follower and a control freak.  Not a good combination on a normal day.  But send me to the airport to get on a plane and all my addictive triggers kick in.

I have the normal irritations with the people who carry on enormous bags.   They hold up the line of passengers as they spend several minutes trying to jam their suitcase into the overhead bin.  (Wait.  That does irritate everyone else, right?)

But I have to take it a step further.  On one leg of a recent trip, we were on a tiny commuter plane.  The man in the seat across the aisle from us had just such a bag.  He couldn’t cram it into the overhead bin so he tried to shove it under the seat in front of him.  When that didn’t work, he just left it on the floor and put his feet on top of it.

I squeezed my husband’s hand in a vice grip.  “That’s never going to work,” I whisper through gritted teeth.

“Maybe it won’t.”  He shook his hand to return the circulation.  “But it’s not your problem, right?”

He’s technically right.  The man’s bag was not my problem, but it was a problem for my angst ridden personality.

Security screening at the airport is another big trigger for me.

“What?  I have to take my shoes off?”  the woman in front of me asks.  While she unlaces her *thigh-high boots, my Rule Following Alarm starts ticking. [*slight exaggeration]

“What do you mean I can’t carry it through?” she says holding a bottle of water.  “I haven’t even opened it yet.”  My inner Control Freak begs to intervene.

The security guard announces that all jewelry must be removed and I notice that the woman sports a gold chain with a cross on it. I shove my hands in my pockets.  As we inch forward the guard makes the no-jewelry announcement again and points to her necklace.

“This?” she says, lifting the chain off her neck.  “Surely, you don’t want me to take this off.”

I break out in a cold sweat as she pauses to slowly remove her belt.  “What kind of a country do we live in?” she complains.

“A country with rules!” I want to shout.

We are within inches of the x-ray machine when the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.  Right before the woman’s security bin slides on to the conveyor belt she turns it longways.   My fingers itch to reach out and turn the bin the other way so as to keep them the shortest distance apart in order to slide through the process quicker.

This is my third and final issue (yes, family, I said FINAL.)  I’m the Idiot Savant of Organization.  I walk into a room and my brain rearranges every piece of furniture into it’s most logical position.  A trait that has caused me no end of problems.

Oh yes, I’m a Triple Threat.  A Control Freak, Rule Following, Idiot Savant of Organization.

I understand they have officially removed the term “Idiot” from Savant.  But in my case, I think it still applies.

I think I can’t. I think I can’t.

You know those people who believe they can do anything?  Well, I am not (surely, to no one’s surprise) one of those people.

My husband, on the other hand, never met an obstacle he didn’t try to tackle.

Once, at a skating rink, he saw someone perform a half-axel, jump and turn.

He said, “I’ll bet I could do that.”  Away he went.  He raced forward, spread his arms wide, lifted off and twisted.

The thundering boom of his crash-landing shook the rink.   I slipped and tripped my way over to his limp body spread-eagled on the ice.  He opened his eyes, blinked a couple of times and said,  “I think I can do it if I build up more speed.”

I’ve spent years researching ways to become a self-assured “I Think I Can” kind of person.  My bookshelves bend with a library-worthy collection of self-help tomes :  Daily Meditations of the TaoBecome a Better You….The Power of NowThe Secret.  There’s even a section on parapsychology and the study of dreams.  But my Little Engine That Could, chugged along repeating, “I think I can’t.  I think I can’t.”

I recently completed my first novel and had the opportunity to submit it to an agent.  I spent weeks dragging my feet, pulling my hair, shouting, “I can’t!”

But, with the help and support of my writing critique group (who cleverly named themselves WTF Critique Group when they learned “I can’t” curse) I did it, I submitted the first three chapters of my book to the agent.

I’ve been flying high ever since.  Sure, there was a blip on my radar when I got her rejection letter, but this time I shouted, “I reject your rejection!”

My Little Engine That Could has a new phrase now.  “I think I might be able to…maybe?  I think I might be able to…maybe?”