Friday, December 01, 2006

I just have to write about this, it's too funny, in an eerie sort of way.

Remember Heather Harper from a recent blog entry? Based on some comments we left each other on Anne Frasier's blog1, I pretended that she was a recently-discovered child of mine. We were just pretending, though. Really.



I say this because Heather stopped by the other day and commented on a posting here. I was happy (and flattered) that she read it and would bother to leave a comment. (I note in passing that she is just about as terse as J. Maybe they're related.) To cut to the chase, I recalled going to Heather's web site a while back and being somewhat surprised that she is really an interesting and attractive woman who also happens to be a writer. At least I think she's attractive; maybe the lovely blond hair in her photo isn't real.

The scary thing is that as I was musing upon her being a comely woman, and I wonder where that phrase came from, I realized I was feeling guilty about it, as if she was in fact my kid! It was pretty creepy, really. After reading a blurry comment of hers on AF's site where she mentioned that she had had too much wine, what I wanted to say to Heather was, “Honey, forget the wine, come to Saint Paul and we'll have us an old-fashioned Texas Braincell Massacre, complete with cowboy hats, python boots and a couple cases of Pearl.” Instead, I ended up responding to the comment by saying “Heather, honey, stop drinking wine and put a shirt on. That's how I met your mother.” Ouch. (Although if was funny in context, I thought.)

But I have enough angst in my life without dealing with weird pseudo-incestuous feelings about someone I've never even met. I suppose part of this might be because of the picture that appears along with her comments. The photo must be from an earlier era when all Heathers looked like that. Regardless, I just can't seem to shake the whole paternal feeling with her. This, my friends, is not a good development. I don't know enough attractive women that I can afford to strike even one off the list, especially for something we both made up.

I guess the moral of the story is that it seems I have morals after all, if misplaced. But please, don't any of the rest of you joke with me about me being your father. Unless of course I am. And you know who you are. I just hope I know who you are.

-- Hulles

1Anne recently had some very nice things to say about my humble efforts in this blog. Thanks lots, Anne. Modesty forced me to make this a footnote instead of the 32-point bold heading I really wanted.


6 comments:

Mosilager said...

Hi Hulles, I enjoy your writing too... have linked to you

Hulles said...

Thanks lots, mosilager, I appreciate it. Thank God you're not another of my by-blows writing a comment to tell me I'm your father.

I'm not, right?

Mosilager said...

I'm reasonably certain you are not... you were nowhere near the south of India in 1977 right?

Mosilager said...

of course unless there's a 7 figure inheritance involved, then by all means, you're my daddy.

Hulles said...

I don't precisely remember much of the mid- to late-seventies, but I checked my passport stamps and nope, I wasn't near the south of India in 1977. It's just as well. I'm not cut out to be biodad. Yet.

And as far as the inheritance, if I had that kind of money I'd have outsourced my blogging to India and wouldn't have to do the shit myself. (I hope you think that's as funny as I do.)

Mosilager said...

Ha ha ha yeah... you just tell them the idea and they write the post - hey maybe I should start that company and hire some english graduates from India. Actually your posts sound like what George Carlin might have written when he was just starting out in the comedy business, is he an influence?