Crazy Is As Crazy Does

Up first in our “Just A Little Crazy” series is Pamela. She’s up way earlier than I am, her writing cracks my shit up, and she can be found here. And if you missed the introduction to this series, just scroll down a bit, or click here . . .

So here’s the thing.  I am not really one of those Go Out and Do Crazy Shit kind of people.  I’m actually the person the Go Out and Do Crazy Shit Kind Of People come to after they’ve gone out and done crazy shit.  I listen attentively.  And then I tell them that whatever it was that they did, was pretty stupid.


Not that I haven’t tried to do crazy-ish sort of things.   I have.

One time, The Mister and I decided it might be fun to smoke a bowl and watch porn.   It didn’t turn out to be as much fun as I’d hoped.  It seems that in order to enjoy smoking a bowl, a previous bowl, or ninety, is useful.

I think porn would crack me up if I was stoned.

But I wasn’t.

And for the record?  The Mister was stoned.

I am the human equivalent of milquetoast.

I’m just not really into that whole adrenaline rush thing; I don’t crave excitement. I enjoy routine, a certain degree of predictability. I ruin movies for The Mister with my ability to suspend my disbelief, not on purpose, I just can’t help it. Honest.

So I’m here to write about the craziest thing I’ve ever done.

Skinny dipping… that’s crazy, right? I went to a cottage on the Finger Lakes with some friends when I was a senior in high school, and we went skinny dipping, stone cold sober. That was a short, totally crazy-ish story.

Vanilla milquetoast. That’s me.

The Mister and I live in the small village where we grew up.  Very. Small.  Not even a stoplight. About five years ago our street (one of three in the village) got a sign. It was very exciting. Pretty much everyone in town is in bed by 10 each night, except for the ratty children who have been roaming about lately, stealing hula hoops and egging houses.

Our neighbors to the east are an elderly couple. Our neighbors to the west are lovely, sort of shy. To the south, through our back yard, lives an older woman whose husband died a few years back from cancer. The neighbors to the southeast have a dog that poops in my yard and eats my compost, including the occasional chocolate bar that accidentally gets dropped in the bin. Their kids were courteous enough to leave a trail of empty cans of fluorescent shaving cream and bottles of Corona (some full) between their back door and my garage last Halloween, after they decorated my screen door and both of our vehicles…after they paintballed my house. Special, I know. And our neighbor to the southwest is a wonderful lady who is everybody’s auntie.

We all can stand in our respective yards and chat easily, except for Auntie, who is slightly deaf. We shout to Auntie.

If you are from a small town, you know there is always a certain behavioral code. There are a number of things you just don’t do in the Village. First, you don’t paintball your neighbors’ homes. Second, you don’t practice your mad graffiti skillz on your neighbors’ homes with shaving cream. Third, you don’t leave full bottles of beer lying about, especially when it’s Corona, and extraspecially when you do not leave a lime. And fourth, you don’t have sex in your back yard. Even when it’s dark.

Unless, of course, all of your children are tucked in bed, you’ve enjoyed a fine bottle of wine with your spouse, and had an amazing caprese salad, with glorious fresh mozzarella, tomatoes and basil from your garden, and homemade balsamic vinegarette.

There was definitely some baguette involved. Bonjour, entendre.

And just seconds after the, ummm, baguette had been put away, our western neighbors let their dogs out for last call.

It was like they were waiting for us. How terribly considerate.

The funny thing about this (is there just one?) is that before, during, and after, I never once considered that we might be doing something reckless, the thought we were doing something crazy never crossed my mind.

I have been informed, however, that doing it in one’s back yard, in full view of God and everyone, even if everyone is not watching, is crazy. And I think that might be the craziest thing of all.

28 thoughts on “Crazy Is As Crazy Does

  1. Ya know, I don’t think you’re ever going to get over that Halloween thing. You should – but I don’t think you will. Because my dad is 80 and he still HATES the neighbor’s kids, who are now 49 and 47, respectively. They used to throw beer cans, trash, yada yada over our fence when their folks were gone and they were having a Par-Tay that my sister and I had to watch thru our bedroom windows. One night my dad was sitting on the front porch (creepily unseen in the dark) and they walked across our lawn to get to a neighbor’s house and he heard them say, “Stomp stomp stomp…he HATES it when we walk on his lawn!! laugh laugh chuckle chuckle…” twisting their little heels in the old man’s grass. Anyway, my dear mother (who was not as bothered by the neighbor kids) is buried right next to the mother of these now grown neighbor kids (one of whom is a librarian). My dad will be buried next to my mom someday. And every time we go to the cemetary he says, “those damn kids will be walking across my grave”. And they probably will :)

  2. Sex. Drugs. Tattoos and earrings. Damn! I’ve got my work cut out for me. By the time Saturday rolls around, I’m gonna look like a saint compared to you guys. Save something for me–please!

    (I knew I should have taken Monday!!)

    • I keep thinking about a tattoo, but then I think about a tattoo on wrinkly skin, and my (in)ability to choose a picture, and decide against it. I look forward to your version of crazy on Saturday!

  3. This might reveal something about me, but I have always been way to chicken to skinny dip! So I’m less crazy then you are! Doing it in the backyard IS pretty thrilling, but I don’t think it counts if the walls are ones you have to scale with equipment if you want to see anything!

    I think God is okay with sex since that is or use to be the only way we could procreate…just a thought :)

  4. Milquetoast. What a cool word.

    Our neighbor, to the left, is a retired Lutheran pastor. So we do it in the backyard every chance we get . . . with no fence.

    Yeah, that’s how we roll here at The Cheek . . .

  5. The thing about skinny dipping that freaks me out is the thought of a fish swimming somewhere it shouldn’t. Ahem. There are some small fish, you know.

    Great post…super crazy…not vanilla.

  6. it is kinda sad that you can’t get it on in your own back yard, huh? but i guess if you live way out in the country you could. but then there are the mosquitoes to contend with….

    • Oh we got it on, alright.
      And we have the fourth baby to prove it. Not that he came with a stamp on his forehead that said, “CONCEIVED IN THE BACK YARD” or anything, but just trust me on that one.

  7. Sex in the backyard sounds great, exept in the city where no one ever seems to sleep. There’s always someone somewhere and the backyards are just too small to find privacy anywhere. I’m just not that crazy and I’m almost sorry for it. Vanilla Milquetoast is my middle name. Who told you?

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