Dear Sisters, do you remember when Mom would comb our hair in the bathroom on Heisey street on any given morning with the trademark blue comb from 1970? Okay, I'm pretty sure you're with me so far. Does anyone else remember that she would be in a sort of transe (how do you spell that?) as she was reliving some conversation and then every once in a while she would look up in the mirror and smile at herself and actually respond with her part of the conversation either audibly or unitelligably (how do you spell that)?
I do that. I find myself zoning out and going over something that happened earilier like yesterday at book club, I said some funny stuff and people laugh and then later I obsess over whether or not I'm really that funny or if maybe they just felt embarassed for me and laughed to make me feel better. I think I'm funny, but, maybe I enjoy the response too much and just want to relive the moment. Maybe I don't get out enough with people and it's just my poor little mind's way of getting a little fake dose of social interaction. Am I insecure? Am I self-absorbed? Is my mind going? Am I a truly desperate house wife? Is this normal? What's the deal? Do you do that? I'm concerned. Be honest.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
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2 comments:
there is nothing wrong with you. making asses of ourselves is the only hard evidence that we are related. your issues, which we share, are also evidence of our inherited social incompantance; we were raised to think that boundaries do not exist when it comes to trying out new material. rest homes, deathbeds, funerals and book clubs are not exempt. family and friends look to us to be inappropriate at all times. if we don't do it, who will?
i didn't address your question. maybe you should formally relive those moments at the end of each day. write a script, make costumes, film them. just go all out in an effort to make sense of things. p.s. you are funny and if any of those white bread pansy-asses don't think so, have them call me up and i'll give em somrthing to laugh uncomfortably at.
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