Do you ever have moments of total and complete self-awareness? Like the clouds part and the sun shines down on you like a golden halo and you have an amazing insight into your own character?
For some, this might occur when finally, after years of planning and preparation, they summit Mt. Everest. For others, it could be the moment they run, without thinking, into a burning building to save a small puppy. "I am strong," they might realize. Or, "I am brave."
For me, a profound realization such as this happened yesterday. Only instead of seeing into my innermost humanness and thinking I am strong or I am brave, I thought:
I am a fucking crackpot.
Now, in my family we use the term ‘crackpot’ quite liberally. In fact, one of us is always saying to another a variation on this theme:
"Are you cracked?" we ask rhetorically.
As in, my Mother wanting to use ACE bandages to tape magic healing crystals to various parts of our body. "Are you CRACKED?"
Or, the time she fell and smashed her head on a hotel room floor and taped a photograph of a Russian healer to her head, which she kept hidden under a floppy straw hat for the next few days.
"It’s working," she claimed. "I know I don’t have a concussion and my headache and blurry vision are improving!"
"Are you CRACKED?" my sister, Dad and I would retort. (And that time we meant it. Given the head injury and all. You know, like she cracked her…anyway.)
So, the fact that yesterday the term ‘crackpot’ was the first word to pop into my head during my moment of self-awareness is not surprising. It’s really depressing, but not surprising.
Here’s what happened: I arrived home early (mid-afternoon) after getting yet more blood taken for yet more tests. (I had asked my doctor to order the CD3 panel of tests, for my upcoming consult with Dr. Fertility Specialist in a couple of weeks, which is not at all relevant to the story but I know how you like details.)
So, I got home and Bosco was not at the door like he usually is, wagging and panting and mostly just thrilled someone is finally frigging home to pay attention to him and throw his purple plastic football around the living room.
I yelled for him, and normally if he’s not at the front door, I hear a loud thud upstairs which means he’s been sleeping soundly on our bed, most likely with his butt right on BeBop’s pillow which always, for some disturbing reason, makes me smile. But I didn’t hear a thud. So I yelled some more, and looked around the living room. No Bosco.
Immediately I felt my heart race and I swear I could feel my cortisol levels hitting the roof. I ran up the stairs to check BeBop’s office and our bedroom, Bosco wasn’t anywhere.
I started to panic. And I do mean PANIC. Shortness of breath, heart jumping through my chest, scrambled thinking which made it hard to do anything constructive.
Just for some extra background: we live in a small condo, with no yard. There’s no way for the dog to let himself out (like through a doggie door). And the cleaning lady had been there that morning. And my super secret fear is that she will mistakenly leave the door open and Bosco will make a run for it. Not that he’s ever done anything like that — he hasn’t. You just have to know about my completely baseless paranoia that one day this will happen in order to comprehend the absurd level of panic I experienced.
It’s happened! I thought, my worst FEAR HAS COME TRUE. Bosco has escaped and it’s raining and what the freaking HELL do I do now?
In my panic, I thought to call BeBop. Which? WORST. IDEA. EVER. Please use me as an example and learn from my mistake. Do not call your husband in a moment of total detachment from reality.
"OMIGOD, heh heh," I panted into the phone. "I just. Got home. And Bosco. ISN’T HERE!!!" At that moment I thought to look in the basket where we keep the leash. "And. His leash. Is Gone. AND IT’S POURING RAIN!!"
"Don’t worry, I’m sure the dog walker came by to walk him," BeBop said calmly. As if by now he’s grown accustomed to my panicky phone calls of doom.
"But today’s not her day and she e-mailed me and didn’t say she was coming," I croaked into the phone. I was on the verge of a total panic attack at this point, sweaty palms, shallow breathing, overall freakoutedness.
"Do you think Bosco put his own leash on and took himself for a walk?" BeBop asked, again in the calm, my-wife-is-a-whack-job-and-sadly-that’s-my-lot-in-life tone of voice.
"I don’t know!" I yelled. "I am going outside to find them. I’ll call you back as soon as I know something." I said. But what I really thought was, he’s gone. The cleaning lady let him out six hours ago and he’s lost in the pouring rain and my life is seriously, seriously over. I cannot handle this. I can’t I can’t I can’t. Tiger just died a year ago and that almost killed me and I can’t endure this again. I will die. I will most surely DIE.
And then I opened the front door, and Bosco was bounding up the steps, with the dog walker right behind him. He had on his little raincoat and was so thrilled to see me at the door he jumped up and down and slobbered all over me.
"I almost had a heart attack," I told the dog walker, trying to be all casual and detached about it. And then I could feel my heart rate slow and my breathing return to normal.
And I was relieved. But also at that moment? The epiphany, the flash of recognition, that I am crazy. That I am terrible in a crisis. That I am prone to overreact and that’s an understatement.
The clouds parted, the sun shone down on my head and I thought:
I am a crackpot.
Then I called BeBop to tell him Bosco was fine, that he was right about the dog walker. And then he laughed at me, but did I feel bad? No, because that’s what sane people do. THEY LAUGH AT THE CRAZIES.
Did I feel like a complete moron? you ask. Well, thanks for asking. Yes, as a matter of fact, YES. I felt like a total asshole. Like a crazy asshole who comes undone over nothing and can’t manage to hold herself together long enough to string one coherent thought after another.
But at least I’m not attaching clear glass beads to my lower back or taping photographs to my head, right?
At least I got that going for me.
For now.
for what it is worth, I don’t think you are a crackpot….I am betting I would have had the same reaction. but, yeah, don’t call BeBop again in that situation.
No not a crackpot, but a girl who loves her pooch so much she would do anything…. x
Damn I love your posts.. 🙂
OMG – I would have died. Or been in a fit of hysterical tears.
Crackpot? Nah, I don’t think so. But BeBop might be for even thinking you might be crazy.
I am so glad that he was returned safely. And seriously, I gotta see a picture of the raincoat.
Hehehe… yes, well, no taped photographs – that’s got to count for a lot, really. You made me laugh, as always. And if that’s what being crazy is? Heck, I wish we were all a bit more crazy.
Bea
My Dear Watson — how I do love your posts!!
Sorry to hear about your attack of the crazies! I would probably flip out in a similar manner though, were I ever to come home and my puppy not be found!!
Glad your doggy is okay though — and wearing his raincoat!?!? Ummm, PICTURES PLEASE???????? How cute is that?!!? I have been saying to my Hubby that I want to get Scarlett (our puppy) a little raincoat so we can take her for a walk in the rain, but he just laughs at me!
I am going to do it though! I mean, if I can’t have a baby to dress up in cute outfits, I might as well use my pup, right?!?!? 😉 LOL
No, a crackpot is someone who walks into the house and DOESN’T care that her dog is missing (and then tapes crystals to her body just because I love that image). You love your dog. And he wasn’t there. And you didn’t know where he was. And the last thing you need in your life is more shit. Plus, I think you were protecting Bosco.
Had to chime in and say that I’ve been there too. Live in a small condo, dog walker came on same day as cleaning lady, no dog there when I get home. In fact, every time our cleaning lady comes, I secretly worry throughout the day that she let out our dog, Fidget, or our cat, Simon. I search for them as soon as I get home and basically don’t breathe until I see them.
I may have a biased opinion, but I don’t consider us crazy. Just full of it: love.
No, you are not a crack pot. When you tell us that you have taped something to your head…you will have officially arrived at crackheadville and we will tell you we will. You probably thought your pup was stolen/lost b/c IF steals so much and it just seems natural that it’d steal something that meant so much to you…b/c well when has that ever stopped it? Seems like a rational thought to me.
Glad you found your pup.
You are not a crackpot. You are a concerned pet owner. I say it is better to freak out and be relieved to be wrong than to brush it off and then learn that something awful has happened.
I think we’ve all had moments like that – but you write about it so much better! I eighth the others – you’re not a crackpot!
If that makes you a crackpot, please know that you’re in good company. 🙂
I once made R come home from work because I couldn’t find the cat after 45 minutes of frantic searching. She’s an indoor only cat, and it was a small house.
It turns out she had created her own little private “hammock” and settled in for a siesta – we had a sheet on the underside of the box springs, and it had a small tear in it. While she was under the bed, she found the tear, made it a bit bigger, then climbed up in there to sleep. Since she’s only 6 pounds, it held her weight.
We finally figured out where she was when I clued in that it was odd that only one small area of the sheet was sagging…
I would have reacted in exactly the same way. Non-dog people might not understand, but I totally get it. Glad he wasn’t out all alone in the horrible rain. 🙂
Count me on needing to see him in his little rain coat! I would be in a panic if my fur babies were gone when I came home – so of course I don’t think you are crazy…just a good mother.
Sweetie, we are all crackpots at heart. You are blessedly, crackedly normal.
First, I don’t think you are a crackpot at all. Second I love your posts, they make me feel like I am not alone in the world .
Third, I am glad Bosco is safe and sound.
If you’re a crackpot, you’re the most hilarious and charming crackpot around. 🙂 And yes, I think we do need to see pictures of the raincoat.
PS I tagged you!
TOTALLY not a crackpot, Watson. You’re a hilarious writer, but totally not a crackpot. I think it was a completely reasonable reaction — or, at least, it’s exactly what I would have done. (So I guess you have to consider the source before you take my confirmation of your sanity too seriously…) I’ve run around the house like a madwoman looking for Jake when there was no way he could have gotten out. It’s never gotten to the point of calling Vikingboy or anything like that; however, I HAVE sat and timed Jake’s breathing after he sneezed a few times and I convinced myself that he had a respiratory problem — as VB looked on in disbelief. But I don’t think that’s weird at all.
If you’re a crackpot, so am I. The same thing happened to me many years ago. I came home one afternoon and the dog was not there. I called and called and she never came. I panicked, got in the car and drove all around town looking for her. Tunrs out she had gone into my bedroom and the door swung shut behind her, locking her in. She was in the house the whole time. When I finally found her, she had this look on her face like, “What the hell took you so long?” I was a mess.
Glad Bosco was safe and sound and that I’m not the only crazy out there.