I said I’d be back and here I am, but in between I forgot. Right now I’m thinking there is nothing worthwhile watching on TV, even for mindless relaxation. In other words, I am at odds with myself, feeling tense and thinking okay, steady, steady. Deep breaths, AJ, deep breaths.
I think I cleaned some four year old dust today – in a corner, behind an old coat stand. Shameful. Yes, I know, but at least now it is sucked into the vacuum – the dust that didn’t escape to rear up and attack my nose. I, in turn, sent the little escapees flying into another dimension with one of my robust sneezes. Actually, this cleaning thing is a hunt for the brass plate that fits on the mail slot. The screws loosened and the plate fell off and during the process of getting new screws, we had a misplacing accident. I have tried “being the plate” and psychicly recognizing my location. It did not work.
My attention has been diverted by a hawker – someone who does some sort of dramatic throat clearing. My father had this God-awful thing he did to clear phlegm; I can’t do it, but two of my grandkids can. And my husband has his own hawk. Drives me crazy. He just did it; I want to scream, “STOP THAT!” but I know that is not being understanding. Usually that doesn’t stop me, but tonight I am going easy on him . . . assuming he finishes up pretty soon.
The thing my dad did was so annoying that hearing it repeated in my grandkids’ genes does not tug at my heartstrings. I think it is a primal thing – my reaction. I am kind of shocked that I wrote that. You would think I would gladly listen to the hawking if he could still be alive – yet I know, really know, I would be rolling my eyes, if not remarking, on the sound.
I remember in “On Golden Pond” Henry Fonda had an angina attack on the porch toward the end of the movie. He kept saying “Ethel, . . . ” and after each utterance, Katharine Hepburn answered him with a desparate “what?” Yet after the third of fourth “Ethel”, she snapped, “Yes, what IS it, Norman?” (Well, words to that effect.)
I am not one to be patient. My father sat me on his lap and read me the funnies since before I can remember. He would explain them, too. Then I got older and was catching on by myself and would snap, “Yes, yes, get on with it.” I think I learned to read real soon after that.
Oh, here’s another confession: I can’t stand to listen to someone read aloud. They go too slowly. And if they act out the part or do dialect and accent, I think, “Oh, God.” Storytellers . . . I want them to get to the point; I do not want to be expected to laugh, chuckle or react to suspense or humor in their story. Okay, Garrison Keillor is an exception, even though I don’t like his politics. Frankly, I resent his politics . . . appearing at the Democratic convention some years ago and saying what he has about McCain and Palin – the cad. Oh, well, I think I’ll just go chew nails and I think I’ll avoid Keillor stories afterall.