Baby Steps

(1-3 weeks on…give or take…)

“Dr. Marvin…You can help me…for the first time in my life, I feel like there’s hope…”
—What About Bob?

*


What About Bob was on.
Of course.
It had been on, solidly, for a week.


[On screen:  We are in Dr. Leo Marvin’s fancy Midtown-Manhattan office. There are awards on the wall, sleek metallic lamps, a large window overlooking the city behind the small, and a bronze bust of Dr. Sigmund Freud that surrounds an arrogant psychiatrist wearing a navy jacket and red tie. After listening to Bob Wiley—his newest patient for only a matter of minutes—Dr. Marvin recommends the following…]

    Dr. Marvin: Bob, there is a groundbreaking new book that has just come out— ah!

[Dr. Marvin selects one from dozens of copies of the same, completely visible, book…]

    Now not everything in this book, of course applies to you, but I’m sure that you can see, when you see the title, exactly how it could… help.

    Bob:  [reading the title] “Baby Steps?”
    Dr. Marvin: —It means setting small, reasonable goals for yourself, one day at a time. One tiny step at a time.
    Bob: [wonderstruck] …B a b y  S t e p s…
    Dr. Marvin: For instance, when you leave this office, don’t think about everything you have to do in order to get out of the building, just think of what you must do to get out of this room, and when you get to the hall, deal with that hall, and so forth. You see?
    Bob: Baby Steps!
    Dr. Marvin: Baby Steps.
    Bob: Oh boy…


Baby steps…
    deep, right?
Hilariously deep.
And agonizingly accurate.


*


Grey had moved the television from the master bedroom into the upstairs office across the landing. The master bedroom having a kind of force field around it at this juncture—invisible and undiscussed. I think all of us were aware that we did not want to be those people, whoever they were. Those people—the ones that got all histrionic about the loss of a loved one. As if that were somehow not okay.

Mom and I spent a lot of time wondering if we were reacting “normally.” Grey, Lilly and Kent spent a lot of time wondering the same thing. What do you do when you are eighteen and nothing this devastating has really ever happened to you yet? You can’t say things are “okay” or “allowed” or “understandable” because you have no idea if they are or aren’t— you are eighteen. You are a fetus.  The closest you have ever gotten to death is the class guinea pig dying in kindergarten.  You do not yet realize what you do not yet know.

So, in that vein, we did not actively close off The Room of Death. No. We just operated under a silent agreement that all would be quiet. We’d keep it light. We could and would pretend that all comings-and-goings to and from The Room of Death were nobigthing. Look at me Death, our silent attitude would manically screech, check me! Check me as I casually use the Master Bathroom as a legitimate alternative to other household bathrooms! I am using it because there is a shower/bath, and because it is a valid option and therefore should be utilized as such. The ‘someone died here like 5 minutes ago’ thing? Yeah. It is nobigthing.
It was.
It was a big thing.
So despite the odd gesture to waltz in and out of the room like dingbats, it pretty much remained untouched.

Hey-You-Guy-Brenda and Kent had gotten to work on the master bathroom (or, The Bathroom of Death, if you will--and I hope you will)— sorting through every pill, tube, catheter, plug, prescription bottle, and machine and, without a great deal of ceremony, threw all of it away.
    “We disposed of the disease” Kent said after returning from wherever these trinkets had been discarded, “and left the man.” Indeed—the gold watch, the spare loose coins he always counted as he thought and calmed himself, the scraps of paper covered in his signature all-caps scrawl, the distinctive cologne that smelled so much of him it pierced directly into my heart.

Those days were full of harrowing little tasks like that.

The death-sheets were cleaned and folded, the bed made anew, the room scrubbed down, the machines carted away—as if none of it had ever happened at all. Mom’s friends, along with mine, took on the duties that would eventually create The House of Death we came to know after the act itself was long past. All that could remind us of the horrors of terminal disease remained burned in our memories alone.

But the absence of objects is, too, a kind of silence.

No one could have prepared us for the pulsing soundlessness that perpetrated every waking moment, that the lack of Michael, along with the lack of his artifacts (both of the life and the lack-of-life variety) would in fact leave us with no touchstones to our anguish, no weapons with which to dig out emotions trapped so deep within our chest cavities only crude surgery could release them.


*


Dad’s office across the hall already had a small twin bed in the corner, and was now doubling as, what could only be described as “Mom’s Temporary Place of Sleeping.”

At the time we had one of those late-90s TVs with a built-in VHS player. It would swallow the already war-worn copy of Bob, and every time it reached the end of the tape it would automatically rewind, eject, and the VHS tape would sit in the open mouth of the TV, awaiting instruction—a blank face with its tongue sticking out.

Before a second of silence could go by I would panic, rushing to the machine to push the cassette back in. There are no words to describe how much I loved the way it swallowed the tape with such efficient, satisfying obedience, and adored the sound of the pre-digital cogs churning within, of each electronic stage it took to bring Bob’s infinite wisdom back to me again.

    Dr. Marvin: Are you married?
    Bob: I'm divorced.
    Dr. Marvin: Would you like to talk about that?
    Bob: There are two types of people in this world: Those who like Neil Diamond, and those who don't. My ex-wife loves him.

And again.
Bob— with his judicious ability to ask for exactly what he needs.

    Bob: [to man on bus] Hi, I'm Bob. Would you knock me out, please? Just hit me in the face…

And again.
Bob— knowing there is soundness even in folly.

    Dr. Marvin: I want some peace and quiet!
    Bob: Yeah, I'll be quiet.
    Siggy: I'll be peace!
    [Bob and Siggy burst into giggles]

And again.
Bob— reaching through the screen and speaking the truth directly to me…

    Dr. Marvin: Why are you always wearing black? What is it with you and this death fixation?
    Siggy: Maybe I'm in mourning for my lost childhood…

It was in this period that I came to know Bob beyond reason or sanity. In that week I exceeded being comforted by the light, harmless comedy. Not surprisingly, in fact, I did not laugh at all. I watched because it comforted me. I watched it because the “this moment,” and every moment that clicked along, really sucked, and it reminded me of life, of everything, before it.


Bob— on endless loop.
Bob— more comforting than any therapy (be it “Baby Steps,” “Isolation,” or “Death” therapies) or friend or food or love.

*

I would jolt— Dad and Bill Murray always shared a kind of “cadence,” particularly when Bill Murray went into his “child-like comedy” mode. “HA!” Bob would burst out, and I would jolt upward, certain Dad was back before I remembered, and sank back into myself, and the bed, once more. If I kept it on, somehow Dad would come around the corner any second and join me.

After a few days a family friend came over and into the room. She stood over me and glanced over my particular state of wretchedness and attempted to conceal how much the sight of my despair turned her stomach. She caught herself mid-shudder and plastered a frighteningly cheerful smile on her face,
     “I see we are doing a little too much sitting in this bed and not enough getting on with things?” My eyes moved toward her but my body remained motionless too dazed to be embarrassed, and, with the concern and temperament of a toad, my eyes peeled away form her and back toward the screen, not even daring to respond. She sighed and left the room slowly, unable to stir me.

She was trying to help.

Was she trying to tell me that my love of Bob was wrong? Because if Bob was wrong, then I didn’t want to know what right was.

*

I had been in the bed for a week. Pajamas filthy, hair matted, and Bob on a bender of inexhaustible re-runs. I did not know what time it was. I did not know the day. All I knew was that it was dark. In every sense. And that I was alone.

But Bob was there, and the blue flame from the small television flickered, more comforting than a fire.

I opened my eyes to discover Bob helping little Siggy to dive...

My beloved Bob approaches the dock to discover Siggy, dressed fully in black and all alone, sitting on an upright wooden post, red bicycle discarded beside him, despondently playing a hand-held video game. Siggy’s father Dr. Marvin has insisted Siggy learn to dive despite Siggy’s paralyzing fear, and earlier on, dropped Siggy in the water without warning. Bob is elated, having just returned from his first experience of sailing, and is still draped in his orange life-vest which he has left casually untied atop his bright blue shirt that reads “Don’t Hassle Me, I’m Local.”

Bob gazes upon Siggy and approaches slowly.

Bob: Notice anything different about me? 
Siggy: [he contemplates Bob for a moment] No. 
Bob: Do you sail? 
Siggy: No. 
Bob: Well I just picked it up. Heh! [He chuckles] Wonder what I’m gonna pick up next? 
Siggy: Try diving. [He retorts sarcastically, returning to his video game] 
Bob: Alright, diiiiiving… 
Siggy: I know a great teacher. [He sighs. Considers for a moment, before venting a confession to Bob] I mean, my dad just dropped me in the water. Without warning me first. I mean, I nearly drowned! My whole life passed before my eyes. 
Bob: You're lucky you're only twelve. 
Siggy: It was still grim.

I knew exactly what he meant. 

Siggy [cont]: I mean what is it with him and diving? What’s the big deal? 
Bob: Well…[Bob walks out further onto the dock and, seeing the depth of the water declares] WHOA… [tying his life-vest on tightly before continuing] ...He probably just wants to beat it, that’s all. You know, he probably just wants you to dive, because you’re afraid of diving. 

Siggy rolls his eyes as only a twelve-year-old can, but knows Bob is right.

Bob [cont]: Did I tell you? I sailed on my first try! [Bob extends his arms like a proud child] …I just let the boat do the work that was my secret. But with diving, what’s the thing? What’s the trick? Siggy: I dunno… it’s supposed to be easy… Bob moves his feet around, revving them into the ground like a nervous foul. 
Bob: well… can you give me a handle on it? 

Siggy puts down his video game and comes over to Bob at the end of the dock.


...I don’t want to go into more detail.
I don’t want to get into the hows and the whats of the next few moments, because I want you to see the scene for yourself.

All I will say is this: Siggy dives.
And he dives because Bob helps him.

Does Bob realize he is helping? I don’t know. Every time I see this scene I change my mind again—no, I think, Bob is innocent, he doesn’t know he is the most profound man alive, an all-knowing guru of almost spiritual depth. The next time round I think yes, Bob knows what he is doing, he may not be able to help himself, but he can help this little boy…
I don’t know.
I like that I don’t know.

What I do know is this: Siggy faces his greatest fear. And he does because Bob helps him.

I burst into tears. Which was odd, because I had not yet cried. Not once. And there I was weeping into the strange un-used cushions of an unfamiliar bed in my father’s old office, across the hall from the room in which he had died what felt like both moments and ages ago, and all I wanted was for Bob to reach through the screen and help me.

What About Bob and The Dying (a memoir)

I am sleeping downstairs tonight. I am in a pair of light and dark blue checkered pajamas with a moth-eaten teal wool sweater I acquired from the share box at Interlochen last spring. JNF is asleep next to me, the very fact of which is off because if my Dad were not upstairs dying he would not be happy that his teenage daughter was lying in bed next to her teenage boyfriend. But there is nothing funny going on. JNF is asleep and I am wide awake and thinking about what must be going on upstairs. The Dying. 

*

What About Bob? is my undisputed favorite film of all time. In a top ten list of favorite films, Bob would take up the top three slots. I could watch it on repeat, I could probably quote the entire thing from beginning to end (with intonations and pauses, inflections, music cues and everything) if you challenged me to. In fact I dare you: challenge me to. Go on. [1]


First things first: 

[**Old World Hollywood cinematic entrance music!!**]

What About Bob? is a 1991 film directed by Frank Oz about a doctor-patient relationship pushed way beyond the office.

Bob Wiley (played brilliantly by Bill Murray), a neurotic New York psychiatric patient struggling with a whirlwind of paralyzing phobias who takes to Dr. Leo Marvin's (the equally astonishing Richard Dreyfuss) latest bestselling book "Baby Steps" like no therapy before it; and in one session alone bonds with, depends upon, and in the most charming way conceivable, subsequently follows his successful and (beyond) egotistical, callous, self-absorbed, S.O.B. psychiatrist Dr. Leo Marvin north to New Hampshire on a month's vacation.

But Dr. Marvin, is not only seeking a few weeks of rest and relaxation, he is preparing for a highly anticipated interview on Good Morning America and viewing Bob's stalking as highly inappropriate, he demands Bob return to New York. (In fact, Dr. Marvin’s unprecedented success with a patient is all the more ironic, because it would massage his massive ego if it weren't such an intolerable disruption to his vacation.) But Bob can't take a hint, and decides to indulge in his very own "vacation from his problems” in the area!  Bob is here to stay!

Meanwhile, Marvin's wife Fay (Julie Hagerty), death-obsessed son Sigmund (Charlie Korsmo), and teenage-daughter Anna (Kathryn Erbe) all take to Bob's openness, loopy charm, and sense of “fun,” none of which Dr. Marvin himself possesses and he views as an infuriating threat. Marvin's temperature rises as Bob insinuates his way into the hearts of the Marvin family— flattering Fay, counseling the previously ignored Anna and most profoundly, helping Sigmund overcome his greatest fears.


Next. Let’s get a few things clear:

    - I did not, I repeat did NOT play it so many times on VHS that it began to skip.
    - I have never claimed that “Bob” [2] is the “I Ching.” Not ever.
    - I have not quoted “Bob” to total strangers on public transportation.
    - I do not love it so much that sometimes I put it on just as “wallpaper” while I clean the house or do my taxes.
    - And above all, I did not get so frustrated by my inability to have access to Bob’s amusement and wisdom at all times that I resorted to holding a professional (purpose bought) microphone up to the television speaker in order to record the entire film on a 120 minute cassette-tape so that I might listen to it on my Walkman…or in the car… or at summer camp…

Saying any of that were true might mean that I was an obsessive crazy fool.
So… yeah…OKAY,
[*she waves her hands in the air, rolls her eyes, exhales and makes the ‘come clean’ face*]
The truth is this: I am an obsessive crazy fool!
A fool for What About Bob? and I don’t even really know why!


When listing ones favorite films I have always considered it important to designate and divide into separate categories: The Favorite Films That Are Legitimate Works of Art and Really Challenge You List— Citizen Kane and Schindler’s List type movies that are in-arguably brilliant but require focus and discipline and serious-mindedness even if the film is amusing. And The Special Favorite Films You Could Watch Again and Again Because They Make You Feel Amazing List—which includes things resembling The Great Muppet Caper and Turner and Hooch. Sometimes there is a cross-over (Amalie?), but pah! Why get into nitty-grittys? The point is I think everybody has a film or two like this: the kind of “favorite movie” where, the second it is over, you loved it so much you could press-rewind-and-watch-the-whole-damn-thing-again kind of love.

I know people who irrationally love Big.
I know other families spend entire mealtimes quoting and guffawing over National Lampoon’s European Adventure.
Or a handful of people who can’t get enough of The Jerk.


Well, for our family, it was What About Bob? and it all started with my dad. I remember the first time we ever watched it in the last home we ever had in Los Angeles. He practically sprinted out to purchase that VHS; and we watched it twice— back to back.

Dad loved this movie for reasons I may never fully know, and desperately wish I did. Perhaps it had something to do with the odd take on psychotherapy. Perhaps it had to do with Bob’s innocence or Bill Murray’s irreverent but child-like sense of humor (that actually reminded me so much of his). Perhaps it was because the film, at it’s core, has a really touching central message without taking itself too seriously. Perhaps it was just amusing, I truly don’t know, but what I am realizing as I type this is that the film became important to me because it was important to him. We would watch it together, laugh, quote, laugh some more, and as I grew it took on it’s very own significance.

When I woke up in the morning he would often greet me with:
    “Good morning Gil… I said good morning Gil.”

Or the casual greeting of:
    “Ahoy!”

Or if someone asked how he felt about something he might respond with:
    “There are two types of people in this world: those who like Neil Diamond and those who don’t.”

Or if someone were mean to me at school he would quote Bob’s wisdom:
    “You know, I treat people, as if they were telephones, If I meet somebody I think doesn't like me I say to myself, I say; ‘Bob, this one is temporarily out of order.’ You know, don't break the connection, just hang up and try again!”

Therein lies a great deal of the draw: Bob Wiley, it would seem, is oddly enlightened, and What About Bob? oddly profound. With every viewing I discovered another level of profundity in a manner in which only Bill Murray seems to be able to deliver on the knife’s edge of comic insanity (Groundhog Day and The Life Aquatic being perfect examples). And every time I watched Bob and found a new nugget of hilarious, but deeply perceptive human observation; I not only felt smarter, or wiser, but I felt closer to my Dad.


So, incongruous though it may seen, it is fitting that it all began there...

About two-thirds of the way into the film, we find Bob sleeping over at The Marvins’ Lake Winnapesawke home due to a torrential rainstorm. He shares a room with Siggy, Dr. Marvin’s 11-year-old son that Bob has, earlier in the day, helped to overcome his morbid fear of diving. They lie there in their PJs, in angled twin beds, staring at the ceiling into the darkness. Siggy looks terrified as his voice utters quietly, 

Siggy: Bob?
Bob: Yeah?
Siggy: Are you afraid of death?

Bob is caught off guard. He is suddenly frightened too— his eyes grown wide and searching, like a child trying to keep their cool.

Bob: Yeah.

Bob answers, as in a “Yeah, so?!” kind of way particular to children one-upping each other. It's cute.

Siggy: Me too. And there’s no way out of it. You’re going to die. I’m going to die. It’s going to happen.

Siggy blinks, clearly the fear is very, very real.

Siggy [cont]: …And who cares if it’s tomorrow or eighty years? ...much sooner in your case...Do you know how fast time goes? I was six, like, yesterday.
Bob: Me too.
Siggy: I’m going to die. You are going to die... what else is there to be afraid of...?

I think.
I think about The Dying.

And in this moment, as I lay downstairs in ratty checkered 'share box' pajamas beside the love of my youth, that very scene from that very stupid, over-quoted, over-played, trivial and pathetically beloved movie, is all I can think of.
My Dad is going to die.
There is no way out of it.
And who cares if it really is tomorrow or in eighty years?
It is going to happen.
And if he dies I am very certain I might die too.
Siggy is right:
    what else is there to be afraid of?



[1] I will do it…
[2] which is the term I give the entire film, not merely the character of Bob Wiley himself

25 Things

Apparently this is the biggest case of narcissism in Internet history. 5 million notes have appeared on facebook in the past week. 5 MILLION facts.

* * *

1. I am addicted to badcrimedrama. The worse it is, the better.

2. This addiction to badcrimedrama has, in many ways, made me particularly suspicious and careful. Definitely paranoid. I sometimes think about things like "my finger prints are all OVER that..." or, "why would anyone throw their napkin in the bin when it is in plain sight? That NEEDS to be incinerated...." It's probably not healthy.

3. I have flat feet.

4. What About Bob? is my undisputed favourite film of all time. In a top ten list of favourite films, Bob would take up the top three slots. I could watch it on repeat, I could probably quote the entire thing from beginning to end (with intonations and pauses, inflections, music cues and everything). The last time I watched it? Yesterday in my dressing room between shows. Oh! And when I was young, I put a microphone up to the television and recorded it on audiotape so I could listen to it at summer camp and in the car. THAT my friends, is love. Every single time I watch (or, uh, hear) this film I get something new from it. Bob is not only humourous, Bob is strangely moving and enlightened. And well! I could probably write an entire post about Bob and indeed, just might...

5. I love owls. (Also, a friend of mine has a child who thought my name was "Owl" instead of "Al" and it stuck.)

6. I love Halloween. And Autumn. Both of these things combine two of my favourite things: a sort of dark and sinister aesthetic, and the melancholy nature of the fall season. I have a dark side I guess, and it revels in that time of year.

7. My favourite food in all the world is watermelon. But it HAS to be good. There is just no point in eating it if it is mushy or sour or mealy. But good watermelon? I could eat it all day every day. For every meal. Forever.

8. I'm fascinated by redheads. And redheaded culture. I like that redheaded-ness is a genetic mutation. I love how weird it is that redheads need more anesthesia than everyone else. My first proper boyfriend was a redhead ("with hair the color of a ripe orange peel"). I know three left handed redheads (one of whom was that first boyfriend). Redheaded-ness is not only a hair colour, it is a STATE OF MIND...

9. I have a very mysterious connection to the letter "J." Excluding a few key people, the majority of the major players in my life along the way have had J names, or had some connection to the letter J themselves. Examples...
Childhood best friend: Jessica.
Childhood boyfriend: James.
First proper boyfriend: Jeremey.
Brother: Jordan.
Love of my youth: Justin.
Kindred Spirit: Josh
Other major friends: another Jeremy, another Justin and another Jessica.
The one that got away: Jim.
I had a pre-teen crush on another Josh, taken over (in various ways) from a Jill a Jyoti and a Justine. I've been taught very important things by two Jeans, two Judys and a Julia, sung for Jeff, and of course, played Julie Jordan opposite Jeremiah James.

When pointing this phenomenon out to childhood friend Justin Boday, he nodded his head suspiciouly and then pointed to my parents quizzically. What about your Parents Mike and Cathy? Their names don't start with J, his expression read. I thought for a moment and replied: "Jom" and "Jad." Aaaand it stuck.

There are over 20 other Js which shall remain nameless, but they are OUT THERE (and I am certain they know who they are)...

10. I am really.... REALLY good at pinball. Don't challenge me to duel....REALLY GOOD...

11. I know that in admitting this next piece of trivia I will, without question, move down a few pegs in people's estimation: I know it is absolute garbage, but I secretly love Ghost Whisperer and cry at every.single.episode. It is bad. It is bad bad television and I love it. I. love. it. Iloveit. And I am NOT ASHAMED. Yes I am. I am ashamed. But now it is out there and that is that. Am I embarrassed that when we first tech-ed the final scene of Carousel that my reply was "Oh my god that light is so magical and JUST like the one in Ghost Whisperer!" ? --Yes. Yes I am. Am I discomfited that sometimes when (prepare yourself) "G-dub" is on, I turn off my PHONE? Absolutely. Do I care? Not really.

12. I famously get song lyrics mixed up. And allow the confusion to perpetuate within me for decades at a time. Famous (totally sincere) misunderstandings:

Hard Day's Night
"...and I've been working like a log...."

"I Say a Little Prayer For You"
"forever and ever you'll stay in my heart and I will hug you..."

and my favourite lyrical mix-up of all time:

I Will Survive:
"I just walked in to find you here with the fat whore upon your face...."

13. I love red. Anything red. It has always been my colour. I love to wear it, to look at it, if I could, I would bathe in it.

14. I don't think I have ever loved a city more than I loved, and continue to love, Venice.

"Perhaps I am afraid of losing Venice all at once, if I speak of it. Or perhaps, speaking of other cities, I have already lost it, little by little." -- Italo Calvino

15. One time, my friend Kit took me to Bastille Day at the French Embassy in London. Perks included, among other things, a security check at the front gate, shaking hands with the ambassador (his hand was incredibly soft), an Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triumph both made of baguette, and accidentally walking in on the Ambassador's wife in the toilet. Somehow, a hearty "pardon" just didn't cut it. Fantastic.

16. Sometimes, when I don't feel like getting hassled, I pretend to be English just so I can get on with my day without talking about Friends or politics. Sue me.

17. I am really good at making salads. And naming them. If I were to put out a personal ad, I would list salad making as one of my virtues because I am really very talented. Savoury, sweet, pasta, bean, Greek, Italian, Michigan, you NAME it, I can make it and you will love it. I promise. I once made a salad in Sheffield for our New Year celebrations with pomegranate seeds and called it "Persephone's Delight." Good, huh? Or what about "The Traverse City Surprise"?-- my Michigan theme salad made with apple and pear slices, (what I call) "yuppie greens" and dried Michigan cherries?

18. There was a period of my life when I thought I was going to be a meteorologist. I really love everything to do with weather, especially clouds.

19. I mix up words ALL the time. It is an Al-ism. Not important grammatical things like their there and they're, but words with a slightly more complex make-up, insinuating that the psychological blundering is something that lingers deep within my psyche. (I welcome and encourage theories.) One would think that a fairly intelligent girl such as myself would never mix up the words "antidote" and "anecdote," would one? But I do, and many others. And perhaps, if I am honest, I sooooometimes lean in to this little character flaw, and push it a bit, making mistakes I am already aware of, to spread amusement and joy to those around me!

20. My dad invented light beer. Seriously. It's true. Ask my mom. You can call her. I always do when people don't believe me. (And no, we're not filthy stinking rich. Dad sold the patent long before light beer became huge. But it is okay, he was too busy saving people's lives to bother with brewery and such...)

21. I once strolled through Borough Market during The Great Depression of '06, saw a giant rat eating a bit of what I hope was sausage, and thought to myself, “My life is over.” It wasn’t. (Obviously).

22. I love a good footnote.*

23. I am obsessed with All. Things. Russian.

24. For reasons unknown, I pretty much exclusively wear solid colours and simple patterns (if patterns are present at all). By simple I mean, clean, not-at-all-busy polka dots or stripes... and that is pretty much it. Any adventures I take in to the world of pattern are always precarious, and if I really think about it, I believe only one dress I own contains a pattern I would classify as "busy." I have no idea where this comes from. I wonder if branching out is necessary... or if I should just accept that I like what I like..?

25. My parents and I never discussed the fact that Santa Claus was not real. Mom and I still talk about Santa as if he is coming to dinner like Elijah. (Or, say, an actual house guest). It is just a sort of blasee thing, you know, Santa will be coming, naturally. We sort of knowingly talked around the subject during my teens, but still have never really discussed it. I like that. We are a magical family.

* who doesn't?