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.