Comment Guilt, Dreams, and Suppressed Memories

1 10 2009

I haven’t been posting much lately, although I like blogging. I’ve tried to zero in on the reasons and have come up with one overarching thing:

Comment Guilt

Perhaps it stems from my childhood, when I would ask my dad the second he walked in the door from work every single day for around five years if there was any mail for me. His reply?

“You’ve got to write ’em to get ’em.”

So–I love getting comments, but I feel like in the give-and-take of the blogging comment world I have turned into a taker. For that I apologize, and assure you that it doesn’t mean I love you any less. I am just trying to do a better job at prioritizing my time, so I end up only checking blogs once a week. (And you with private blogs, well, sorry. It comes out to be about once a month because I am apparently too lazy to type in the individual addresses and sign in and all that jazz.)

Even though I’m checking blogs only once a week, I would still like to post more than once a week. In fact, my counselor (or should I say therapist? That’s a bit more de rigueur) [is throwing in French phrases affected? Because I don’t even know French, but that is such a great phrase] told me to make goals for my emotional health. One of my goals is to post on my blog twice a week. (Well, actually, I think maybe it was wear make up twice a week and blog three times a week. I could look it up in my journal, but I’ve only got a few minutes. Those pesky time constraints, you know! They come so much in handy when I want to be lazy.)

Ergo (okay, that was affected on purpose. Latin! Ha!) I am going to be posting more, but commenting less. Doctor’s orders (but he’s not actually a doctor). 

A Dream

This morning, after ditching my walking partner to catch some extra sleep, I had one of those snooze-button dreams where you are in and out of slumber enough to remember large portions. They seem perfectly normal until you are fully (or mostly fully) awake and examine the thing in the teeth.

In this dream, I had just returned from some sort of trip. I had been sleeping in the car and as I went to go inside (it turned out to be not my house, but my dad’s office) I didn’t want to lug all my baggage up the stairs, so I grabbed my bathroom bag (which turned out to be Eden’s Hannah Montana guitar-shaped lunch tote). When I got upstairs of the place that was supposed to be my house but ended up not really being my house at all, I unloaded the bag. Inside were several white bottles in various bathroom shapes–a pump, a hand creme jar, and I forget what else. They each had a lurid blue/red camo/argyle mix on the label behind white lettering that said “Ruppy’s”.

I opened the hand creme and smelled it, instantly remembering that my next-door neighbors always used Ruppy’s. I glanced at myself in the mirror and was suddenly dancing–crazy, full-bodied dancing with leaps and (dare I say it) moves. The room I was in had grown floor-to-ceiling mirrors and a radio was blaring a great bit of music from the 90s, although I can’t exactly recall at this point what it was. I continued my routine, thinking in my head, “I have got to get a video of this to send to my family!”

I started worrying about copyright laws and the fact that it might not work to send them a video with the music. I was somewhat disappointed to think the tape (with all my incredible dancing!) would just have someone in the background counting off, “1-2-3-4, 5-6-7-8.”

My alarm went off (again–I’m seeing where the radio music came in) and I thought, “I’ve really got to get up–it’s picture day!”

Suppressed Memories

Instead of doing that, though, I lay in bed and thought about my dream and the general weirdness of dreams.

Although there is no “Ruppy’s” (more’s the pity), I did start thinking about my next-door neighbors and the peculiar soap dish they owned, the likes of which I had not seen before nor since. It was oval, or maybe just rectangular with curves instead of corners. It really wasn’t a dish at all in the traditional sense: no lip around the edge, and it was actually smaller than a bar of soap. Both sides were covered with hard plastic points, kind of like a bed of nails . . . except it was for soap. It made tiny holes all over the bar, although I don’t know if that was a regular occurence or just because we would push it in there really hard, impaling it.

As “Listen to Your Heart” played on my clock radio, I stretched in my bed, amazed that remembering a pock-marked bar of soap could instantly transport me to Anderson’s main floor bathroom, with the funny black-and-white wallpaper, stack of Readers’ Digests, and the intimate knowledge that comes from bathing in someone else’s tub and opening random drawers as though you lived there, even though you didn’t.


You see, this post had exactly no point.

(Except maybe to remind you that I love you even if I don’t comment on your blog–and, Berta  Boice, your pictures make me so homesick sometimes that I want to cry. Except that I’m glad crop dusters aren’t flying through my window at 5 am.)

I enjoyed writing it, though, so I guess that’s all.

(The problem with these posts with no point is how exactly to end them . . . ?)

Have a nice day.