Too Much of a Good Thing

I love spending time alone. I crave it. I get cranky if I don’t get it.

But being stuck here at home (and I promise that in the not so distant future I will elaborate on why this is the situation) is pushing the limits. Even my limits. It can make you wiggy. Yes, you heard me, wiggy.

Social contact keeps us sane. You have to modify your behavior when you’re with others, keep on top of things. Think of all the little activities you do when nobody’s watching: the weird food eaten, the little things you hum, the strange private rituals and superstitions. And when you find yourself with oceans of solitude, well, the peculiar little gnome inside can get a little bold. I’ll get back to him in a sec.

The other thing about self imposed home detention is that your world can shrink a bit. The walls close in and you gain a new appreciation for “The Yellow Wallpaper.” Little domestic annoyances become signs of the apocalypse. A stopped up drain becomes an epic tragic opera. Fixing dinner transforms into an onerous, Sisyphean burden. Do you remember in the film “Safe” when Julianna Moore’s character discovers that the decorators have gotten the color wrong. And she stands there in her living room saying “No. This isn’t right. It’s just not right.” And she’s devastated and panicked? I have those days I know that panic.

On the upside, I feel like I’m part of a long literary tradition. Thematically linked to enforced domestication. “Taming of the Shrew,” “Hedda Gabbler,” Erma Bombeck. Oh, and that one from the ‘70’s about valium addiction: “I’m Dancing as Fast as I Can.” Not that I have succumbed to drugs (Although there are days when that Nyquil bottle looks pretty inviting.)

That little gnome I spoke of – let’s call him Schlagghammer – he loves to encourage me to free associate, knowing that it’s a sure path to madness. And he loves looking backward, raking over the coals of the past. The first time I experienced periods of solitude was when I would stay home sick from school. I loooooved staying home sick. Growing up in a family of five kids, being home by myself all day was a luxury. And I savored it. The house was a completely different building when it was filled with silence. I could hear my thoughts. I was untroubled by interruption. My true self could emerge. And then I could turn on the television.

You know what fascinated me most was “The Price is Right.” Furniture sets, washer/dryers, his & her watches (well, his & her anything really), and of course A New Car! Oh, those fabulous show cases! (And how exciting it was when someone won both of them by coming in within less than $100 and not going over!) Those assholes in Contestants’ Row who bid “one dollar!” Or, one dollar more than the last bid.

But let us not forget: The man himself, Mr. Bob Barker. I used to think he had the best job in the world. But now I wonder if maybe he didn’t have a late in life crisis. Like he’d wake up at 3 a.m. muttering “All I did with my life was hand out crap. Carp never brought anyone real happiness.”

Now days I never watch TV during the day. TV during the day makes me sad. Daytime Television is a mediocre comic in the corner of a busy bar trying to get people’s attention, tapping the mic, asking no one in particular, “is this thing on?”

But I am curious about shows I used to enjoy as a kid. Take Mr. Rodgers. Loved that show. Not the boring part with the sweaters and the fish tank and that odd delivery man. I loved it when the little trolley showed up to take us away from the mundane drudgery of the real world to the bright, shiny (but still black & white on our TV) Neighborhood of Make Believe. (Someday soon I’ll tell you all about how life wouldn’t be worth living without talking animals.) But I fear a return to the NOMB would be colored by my current socialist leanings. I mean come on, it’s ruled by a king. A freaking king for gods sakes!!

Yeah, benevolent. They all start out benevolent.

I think the revolution’s chief instigator would be Lady Elaine Fairchilde. She’d stand on top of her Museum-Go-Round delivering speeches about the inevitable march of history! She’d give up the title “lady” and insist on being called Citizen Elaine Fairchilde. Both X the Owl and Daniel Striped Tiger are dumb enough to fall for her utopian promises.

The castle would be stormed. Kind Friday XIII would be hung from the tree. X’s Tree. (I’m skipping over the farce of Friday’s trial. The parade of false witnesses, trust me, no one can lie like a puppet.) Queen Sarah Saturday would have her head shaved and be forced to work in the factory. There’s a factory, right? A pencil factory run by a little rodenty guy…Corky? Am I remembering correctly? Anyway, don’t ask about Prince Tuesday. Too sad, too soon.

At first everything’s great. X and Henrietta Pussycat don’t have to hide their forbidden love. In the spirit of equality (meow meow – quality) inter species marriage is legalized. It gets ugly quick. The Platypus family watches as their bagpipes are tossed onto a bonfire. And then they are boarded onto the little red trolley and off they go to the Gulag of Make Believe.

Arrgh! See what I mean about free association?! Damn you Schlagghammer!

OK, deep breathes. A little perspective. Those are the things I cling to. My current situation won’t last forever. Nothing does.