Saturday, December 02, 2006

Knowing What You Want

I've been taking another little break from blogging, though you never wander far from my mind. I've been thinking about things... Christmas (of course)... and how it's not fair that I can't eat junk like I used to and get away with it. And don't tell Tom, but I've also been tearing off chunks of bread for the mice in the backyard and training them to come when I call. It's like keeping pet mice in the back yard.

I am so bad, I know.

I've also been thinking that, as a child, I'd watch tv commercials and find myself craving Jif Peanut Butter and Wonder Bread and Chatty Cathy and being clueless that those commercials were influencing my childish longings.

Now, though, I get these adult longings, but they do not come from tv commercials--I have grown way past that. Mostly, tv commercials just annoy me now. No, my longings and desires have moved way, way past tv commercials.

I am, now, influenced by movies.

Long ago when Home Alone first came out, I was mesmerized by that house. (If you've seen the movie, you know exactly which house I'm speaking of.) I mean, I loved all the colors and the arrangement of the rooms and the lighted windows at night. I was never crazy about the kitchen, but I did love that the house had a basement and an attic.

And well, at that time, Tom, Naomi and I lived in a new, double-wide mobile home. I had to stretch my imagination extremely out of shape to believe it was anything like the Home Alone house. But a few years later we moved to our present house and finally, I had my basement and an attic, too, though it was a second-floor, unfinished attic and the house was much, much smaller. But still.

But because I have changed and evolved, my tastes have changed and evolved, too, and when I watch Home Alone now, the house looks, well, a bit too 1980's for me. No, now the house of my dreams is the one from the old 1930's Blondie and Dagwood movies. I watch those movies sometimes for the plot, but mostly, to let my eyes gaze and dream upon Blondie's house and all her classic, cute stuff.

And then there's the black coat which Susan Lucci wore in her movie, Ebbie. Finally, only last year, I found just the right coat at the perfect (Salvation Army) price and because I have such a WILD imagination, I wear it and pretend I look as terrific as Susan did, when in reality, the only things she and I have in common are that we're the same height and our hair is brown and sort-of the same length.

And then of course there are the three-quarter shelves I put above my kitchen sink because Blondie had some above hers... and the dark curtains I bought for our sunroom because I liked the ones in Welcome to Mooseport... and the record player I put on my Christmas list because Jessica in Prancer had one... and the vintage Christmas record I bought because of the vintage songs in The Polar Express (not to mention Gary Hobson's Craftsman lamps and yellow pillowcases in Early Edition).

And maybe it sounds silly for me to bring all this up, but actually, I have a point to make. For many years, I was too vague in my thinking, my wishing and my desiring. Instead of actually knowing who I was and what I wanted, I more often walked around in a fog where I only complained that I never seemed to have what I wanted. That other people had nice things, but my stuff never seemed to go together or look quite right or express who I was inside.

The problem was I didn't know what I wanted because I didn't know who I was, and therefore, I didn't know what I liked. Or in most cases, I didn't realize that what I liked was ok, even if no one else liked it. Even if everyone else thought I should like and want and desire what they liked and wanted and desired. I was wishy-washy, indecisive and afraid to dream big.

But when I finally began to listen to the voice inside of me rather than all those swirling around on the outside, I began getting clues as to who I was and what I wanted. And it was as though I awoke from a long time of sleeping and found myself seeing things I realized I loved, even though I wasn't always sure why. And they were suddenly everywhere I looked--even in the movies.

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