26 April 2009

Funny things about us

Yesterday I remembered my friend's theory that when you're in love, that line of hair grows between your belly-button on down.

Today I found the little jar of civet musk that my mother insisted on giving to me because she had to buy some and got too much to keep for herself. What, for all the home perfume making she and I have been doing? No (and no, we're not home perfume designers), because it's this rare extract from a civet cat. Had to have it, just the way she had to stop to check raccoons for a mojo (she finally found one, but not when she was with me, thank goodness). My mother used to eat dirt as a kid -- now of course it's a syndrome with a name: pica. This dirt-seeking must have horrified her genteel mother, born in the early 1900s and escaping Oklahoma as quickly as she learned what it meant to be from there.

I am sure I have bizarre beliefs too, manias that manifest themselves in ways that puzzle my pals. I make up stories when nothing's happening. But right now they all seem so commonplace to me that I can't pick them out.

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