In which my eyes are crossed

I can't see straight, and I blame AMC. Although I take strong exception to some of their choices as "classic" movies--"Indecent Proposal"? Really?--all is forgiven when it's Hitchcock Week. I have watched so many movies the last week, my eyes have blurred and I've begun to blink like a prairie dog. That's not the only lingering effect, I'm afraid. I can no longer take a shower with the curtain closed; I can't sit comfortably while tiny airplanes buzz overhead; I view staircases and neighbors with axes with suspicion. I am not quite as fond of the color red; I don't think I would want to travel by train or be stuck in a lifeboat or go the horse races. I am now acutely uncomfortable with taxidermy and candy corn, and I don't think I will be able to go outside anymore. Crows like to gather in the eighty-foot oaks that fringe our property, and I'm pretty sure they're looking at me.

I am consoling myself with the thought that I've gotten to see lots of Cary Grant, structured handbags, and perfectly-skirted suits in the last week. I admire the classic cool blond Hitchcock heroine, even if I could never get my hair to do that. And I am even tempted to buy a string of very ladylike pearls and a twinset. But not now. Mother's calling.