Who writes like that? Not me.
I said something this weekend that I thought would make a great title for a book, but makes a sad statement about me.
"I promise not to be myself."
We were discussing the possibility of going camping as a way to have some sort of affordable vacation. The idea of being here together all summer is enough to give me hives and tremors. I've already plotted my occasional escapes to the library, the Riteaid, CVS. I can unravel an entire afternoon with five dollars and a baggie of coupons. It may look like I'm saving money, but it's self-serving, I tell you. I'm saving a little of my sanity, too.
Anyway, we have not been camping people. We used to go with Doug's family to the northwoods of Wisconsin, but we stayed in fully-equipped cottages with bathrooms and electricity. 1999 Lisa would scoff at the idea of camping, real camping. She had snit fits about the lack of television and the summer that Sophie was an infant insisted on taking the portable television with the built in VHS player. The only flaw in that plan was that she forgot to pack any videos except The Wedding Singer and it was already in the player. What a long week for Lisa who lay across the bed with a baby attached to her nipples committing the dialog of The Wedding Singer to memory while her family went out and had fun riding go-carts and horses, paddling canoes, playing in the lake and hanging out around the campfire.
"So? Camping? In a tent?" I asked Doug last night. "We wouldn't need much. A tent, a couple of sleeping bags and air mattresses." I was reading Good Poems American Places by Garrison Keillor felt all itchy for a road trip. A change of scenery. Different trees, different skies, a different place where I do all the damn domestic stuff. Camping seemed like a reasonable approach financially, at least.
"Let me think about it."
That means he's not sold on the idea and is buying time. Fair enough. We're not camping people. We're also not dog people or church people or riding lawnmower people, but I'm willing to try not to be myself. I'm willing to try with mood altering medication and duct tape placed securely over my mean mouth with its cutting words and martyred sighs.
It's not like I'm suggesting renting a bus and creating a stir among the very excitable East Coast media crowd, for cliff's sake. I'll even leave the feline entourage at home. Those poofs are insufferable when Room Service isn't available while traveling. I mean just try explaining the KOA's lack of a Concierge Club Floor to five sour-faced, disproportionately disdainful furries.
Or maybe I'll just hide out at the library and read about medical horrors resulting from mosquito bites and be glad I'm not going home to a tent and an air mattress that leaks and sounds like someone's farting every time you move on it. Until we have to, that is. The unemployment cash cow keels over next month and my hair is starting to fall out in clumps from stress. Hello, Fellow 99ers, is this seat taken?
To make my hair thicker, fuller and shinier, I applied for a pile of jobs this weekend after I discovered a different website offering job postings. Here's hoping Santa Baby makes my wish come true and drops a big old job into my stocking that's still hanging desperate and full of catnip from the mantle. It's like Christmas waiting for the Barbie Dream House that never came. Only I'm hoping this year will be different because I've been a very good girl. Check email. Is that my phone ringing? Please oh please.
I'm trying to use positive visioning (I know, it sounds silly to me, too). I'm looking beyond the application process and envisioning myself in an interview. The words "I promise not to be myself" keep coming back to me. Unless, Google calls. Then I'm all me and more. Their website says that's what they're looking for. And to tell you the truth, any employer who encourages you to let your freak flag fly even a little, would be a perfect match for me. And vice versa. So, Google, call me, okay? Let's hook up.
I know what you're thinking. They've probably read my blog since they - The Google - essentially own it. Please. Like this blog is anything special? Do you know what search string draws people here most often? High functioning sociopath. So yeah, I'm not terribly worried about someone reading this blog and thinking that I'd make a bad employee. They're already potentially employing someone who's googled the phrase high functioning sociopath or found me while on a quest to learn Former Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi's bra size. Sometimes both.
Besides, Lisahgolden isn't my real name.*
In closing, I'm sorry you can't get this last few minutes back. I don't understand it either. Let's blame David Sedaris's Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk. Or the heat. The humidity. The sweatbees. What's the moon doing?
Lost in my mind and stuck in my head.
*Lie, a big fat lying lie just lying there.