I’m weird. If you’ve been to this blog before, I’m sure you’ve realized that. But there’s nothing like spending time with family to remind you just how terribly weird you are.
I got to spend Christmas with my mom and sister this year, which is a rare treat for a performer. My husband was there; my sister’s husband and his parents were there. We were all chatting, and at one point my mom said something like, “Well, I knew you were going to be weird when I made the nun your mother.”
Outside of my family, you would think that was the ravings of a mad woman, but no no, it’s true.
I grew up in an inn, and some of the many things that happened between those brown brick walls were murder mysteries. You’d arrange the group, my mother would mail everyone a character, you’d come to the house, and we’d slowly kill you all off. It was usually a good, family-friendly time.
When I was about four (so my sister was around six), a group was coming in, and the woman who should have turned out to be the killer according to my mother’s grand plan for the evening didn’t show. We had a mystery staged but no murderer. So my mother turns to my sister and me and points to a woman dressed as a pregnant nun and says, “That’s your new mommy for the night. Run over screaming for her.”
My sister didn’t want to do it, but my mom bribed her by saying she could roll the bag of boots that simulated the sound of a dead body falling down the stairs when it was time. So my sister grabbed my hand and we ran over to the pregnant nun screaming, “Mommy!”
It’s stories like that that make me go, “Huh, I really was always destined to be crazy.”
Maybe I should just go with it.