It wouldn't cross my mind to write about any topic from which I have emotional distance. If any of you think these dull, I can only imagine what you'd think of something I'm holding at arms length. Unless it's really obviously neurotic with lots of pathos (or bathos, which has it's own charms).
For "posts," neurotic is good. My neuroses might even work best when I'm unaware of them, but you all have me figured out. ("Tsk, tsk. How pathetic is she? Gimme more!") That's right, I can make the whole world sing in perfect harmony, fuck the Coca Cola, (they're doing all right...plastered all over the American Idol set like they own the joint). By being more neurotic, more pathetic, less self aware, more obtuse, I make everybody feel better about themselves. That's it!
I am so pleased with myself. (It takes so little...) This reminds of a Dave Berg cartoon where a car salesman is working over this Dad who brought his kid with him to the showroom. The salesman rattles off all the bells and whistles this car has that no other car on the market comes close to. "Ooh Dad, get it!" The kid is running around the car drooling. "Get it, Dad, get it!" The Dad seems to be softening. He's getting into it. Finally, smiling, looking relaxed, Dad breaks into a big grin, "Yeah, I'll take it." (The kid and salesman are both ecstatic.) Dad continues, "Then I can be the guy on the whole block with the car with more gadgets and stuff (pause) that need repairs."
That's me! I'm that car!
C'mon now! Be honest. That's the beauty of people like me. Everyone who reads this is thinking, "Phew! I'm glad I don't have that disease." No, I don't mean to be cruel, and I know that once again, I have made a gross generalization here. Some must be chomping on my words with more than a pinch of schadenfreude.
Oh, nice people, I don't have anything to quibble about with you. I like that I have may found my purpose in Fran no. 2. If my very existence makes people feel better, because, "...at least I'm not her..." I've succeeded. I have this vision in my head of two youngish (anywhere from 30 to 50) Manhattan women chatting over cosmos with thick New York accents. when they're not drinking cosmos, they're chewing gum. "Don't worry. It's sugahless (chew, chew) and at least I'm not huh." "Thank gawd for that."
Never came up with a reason for being in Fran no.1. The closest I came was after I burnt out of advertising that my "job" was to make those around me happy. Which is really not such a bad thing, if you can pull it off. It's only a bitty thing. But that didn't last long. I went from the one who soothed to the one in need of soothing. I still need the latter, big time. Probably forever.
I don't know how this ever came up, Diane, Chip's former partner, looked at me and out of nowhere said, "You must be high maintenance." I actually took her "analysis" seriously for about three seconds and asked Chip if that were so. He looked at me like I had three heads and said, no you're so low maintenance. (That's what I thought but maybe I was missing something.) Well, I'm high maintenance now. (I have a husband who doubles as my 24/7 nursemaid.) I don't think that's what Diane was talking about and I was SUCH a wuss, I never thought to ask her what about me made her think so. I think she was mad. That's what made her think so. Something screwy in her head. And there was a lot that was screwy to choose from.
I now have my marching orders. My job is to be pathetic as I can be. I'd prefer to be entertaining in my pathos. Actually, I better be. Otherwise I lose my audience for whom it is my calling to take them away from their own crap every now and again. Even if it's only for a little bit. And wallow in mine.