Do Not Pass Go. Do Not Collect $200.

The American Dream of achieving prosperity through ingenuity and hard work is still alive and well. However, when you combine this with someone who is functionally insane (or maybe just not the sharpest knife in the drawer-- it's sometimes hard to tell the difference), the results are often entertaining. And illegal.

The borderline-criminal act in question occurred back when I worked at a local college. One afternoon I went to the copier room to make use of the machine, but it was already occupied by my coworker, Brian. Whatever I had was not urgent, so I decided to just come back at a later time.

An hour or so went by, and I returned to the copier room, only to find Brian still there making copies. Nothing about our jobs required us to be tied to the copy machine for that long. If that was the case, our employer would make us hand over our shoelaces and all sharp objects at the start of each work day. So, obviously he was working on something personal. And massive. There was a good story behind this marathon usage of the copier. I HAD to know.

I managed to pry Brian off the copier and asked him what in the Sam Hill was he doing. He explained that he had devised a brilliant plan for making extra cash. He had a textbook for one of the classes that the college was offering that semester (I assumed he had taken the class in a previous semester). His plan was to make copies to sell to students that were taking the course. He was so excited about the profit margin of this little venture that he was even contemplating buying textbooks for additional classes and selling copies of them.

There were SO many things wrong with his plan that I sat silently for several seconds deciding what to tackle first. I chose to start small. I pointed out that while most businesses look the other way when their employees make the occasional personal photocopy, they tend to blow a gasket when an employee abuses company resources in order to subsidize his side business. And, in fact, if our company knew that he had just burned through over 80 sheets of paper and no telling how much toner, they would fire him on the spot. And then they would fire the spot.

Next, I introduced Brian to the term "copyright infringement." It was apparently a new concept for him that a book company (not to mention the bookstore and the authors) wouldn't want some Joe Blow from off the street to sell their product without permission. It was understandable that he did not know the exact term for his misdeed. (Actually, it's not understandable, but go with me on this.) However, he should have at least known that his plan wasn't strictly legal. I guess he was too busy counting the big piles of money he thought he was going to make.

Brian was a little disappointed that I had crushed his get-slightly-richer-quick plan. Still, he was grateful that I had stumbled upon him first and not someone with keys to the pink-slip drawer. I was happy to help. It was important to help Brian understand the legal implications of his actions. Plus, it gave me the opportunity to laugh at his attempt at entrepreneurship. Of course, it was mostly about the helping. The laughs were just extra.

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The Mysteries of Cellophane

The thing about being functionally insane is that crazy is rarely on the surface. Usually, insanity is buried deep under many layers of "socially acceptable behavior" and "work place decorum." But like a $1.29 goldfish after three months, crazy eventually rises to the top in one form or another.

It took almost a year of working a temp job before this particular woman's bloated carcass of crazy broke the surface. And I would like to stress that she was completely normal up to that point: normal conversations, normal behavior, and normal appearance. Normal, normal, normal.

"Tina" and I had developed a pretty good friendship over the months. We even got into the habit of trading office gossip. On this day, our conversation wandered onto (believe it or not) 'crazy coworker' stories. Having been with the company for several years, Tina had a wealth of stories. But I didn't hear a single one of them. Her actions spoke louder than her words.

As she talked to me, Tina reached into her desk drawer and removed a packet of vitamins sealed in a cellophane pouch about the size of an index card. She opened the packet and emptied the pills into her hand. Next, while she was yakking on about somebody else being crazy, she proceeded to fold that cellophane wrapper into tiny squares about eight times!

Now that's merely odd. What made it outhouse rat insane is that she then pulled out a rubber band, which she wrapped snugly around the tiny square of plastic. And finally, she tucked her little bundle into a pocket inside of her purse.

By this time, the whole conversation was a wash for me. My mind couldn't hold onto a thing Tina was saying because it was abuzz with questions, such as:

• What's so important about that cellophane?
• What does she do with the cellophane when she gets home?
• Is whatever she does with the cellophane so complicated that she can't take care of it here at work?
• Why the rubber band?
• Does she think the cellophane will make a break for it if she doesn't secure it tightly?
• Is this a hobby for her?
• If so, then what particular qualities does she look for in her collectible cellophane?

I didn't, however, ask Tina any of these questions. I couldn't. It would have meant acknowledging the crazy, which would have resulted in one of two possible outcomes. One, she would become embarrassed by the acknowledgement, and then things would become awkward between us from then on. Or two, she (thinking that her actions were board-certified sane) would invite me into her crazy cellophane imprisonment/hobby, which would make things super awkward between us. Either way: no fun for me.

So I did the only thing I could. I nodded and smiled for the next ten minutes. Then I said something nonsensical, like "I guess these papers aren't going to staple themselves." And then I got the heck away. Thankfully, Tina never did this in front of me again (although based on her near-automatic actions, this was clearly a habit for her). Maybe she wisely added another layer of "socially acceptable behaviors" to hide her crazy from me. Or maybe with that last piece of vitamin wrapper, her cellophane collection was finally complete.

I'd like the meal, hold the food.

Sometimes a person can have a lot on her mind. She can be juggling a mental list of errands that span from what she has to do that day, to the things she needs to do next week. Therefore, it is perfectly excusable if she accidentally does something that makes you not only question her sanity, but also wonder how she dresses herself in the morning. After all, she is normally an intelligent, quick-witted, smart, brilliant, clever and unassuming genius who hates to toot her own horn.

You do realize that this "she" is me, right?

Anyway, here are the details of my temporarily-stuck-on-stupid moment. I was going home after a long day of work and running errands. I had decided to stop by Wendy's drive-thru for a quick dinner, and then straight home. I still had to throw something in a bag because I was driving out of town at 5am the next morning. I was also working on a project for my upcoming family reunion, which involved several trips to Target and Walgreens, not to mention the countless man-hours I was putting in with all the cutting and pasting (I mean literally, with scissors and glue).

So all of this was going through my mind when I ordered and paid for my value meal, plus it was important to remember to get my debit card back with my receipt. The girl at the window handed me my card, receipt and pop. Great. I put everything away securely and pulled off. As luck would have it, there was a perfect opening in the rush hour traffic for me to jump in and speed off for home.

I'd driven about four blocks, still arranging in my head that evening's schedule of eating, packing and scrapbook-making, when I realized that I could not smell my food. As a matter of fact, I couldn't remember even receiving my food from the drive-thru lady. I then replayed the transaction in my mind: card, receipt, pop, pulled off... Dang it!

Do you know how difficult it is to make a three-point turn in rush hour traffic? Let me tell you, people in a hurry to get home do not want to be inconvenienced by some moron doing a traffic-clogging driving maneuver. Well, too damn bad! This moron left her paid-for food at the drive-thru, and she is going back to get it RIGHT NOW. Try not to burst a blood vessel during the 15 seconds it takes me to turn around.

The girl at the window was really sweet when I returned for my food. In other words, she managed not to laugh in my face when handing me my meal. But we all know she laughed afterwards. Well, as long as my stupidity gave her (and you) a moment's joy, then I guess I've done some good in the world. You're welcome.