Apr. 21: Related-ish to 4/20

In the midst of feeling super-shitty about life and pissed at the world in general, it’s nice to happen upon things that bring a smile. Recently I’ve found a lot of them on Instagram.

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This Baby Max Easter photo:

It’s been awhile since I’ve gnawed on those cheeks. Great-Auntie Jen is going through withdrawals. Must fix.

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Margaret posted a pic of her beautiful, obedient pups:

How cute? So cute!

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Kim F’n’s goofy dog loves the sunroof:

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OK, this is just THE BEST: Ed has been taking/sending his nephew’s Flat Stanley around the world (Portland, lately):

Now, what I love most about this is not just that he’s taking pics of Flat Stanley all over the world (which is pretty great), but that he’s gone an extra step and made accessories for him. He turned him into a hipster for recent Portland pics, and gave him a helmet for a bike trip. And what I love about that is the picture in my head of Ed buying a box of crayons (24? 64 with a built-in sharpener? I must know!) to make Stanley his new clothes/gear, designing them so they look right AND fit perfectly, and laminating them. It just makes me so, so happy.

It almost makes me feel bad about the time I accused Ed of hating all the nice things in life.

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This made me chuckle and shake my head: 

My dreams are always insane, but last night’s was particularly vivid. This will sound like I embellished to make it extra-weird, but I assure you that every part of the following account was actually in my dream.

I was having post-cancer treatment tests, and results were all good, so I moved in with my dad (???). I got my hands on some marijuana but I didn’t want him to smell me smoking it, so I ate it. I ate it right out of the unrolled paper, because yuuum, I guess. While touring the campus of the nearest public high school—in hopes of being enrolled—I ran into a friend from college who was working there as a recruiter… because public high schools recruit students like me, 45-year-olds who have zero athletic skills and eat weed like sunflower seeds. Oh, and he was wearing a cape. Totes normal. My dad was embarrassed that I was talking to this caped guy, and I was all WHATEVER MAYBE YOU’RE THE WEIRD ONE, but that can’t be because Dad was cape-less. While arguing, I got a phone call from Ed, who said I had to leave immediately for the hospital to see someone about one of my tests. I guess I was too high to question the fact that Ed, who is technically not a physician, was giving me this info. While in the waiting room—which was also an airport terminal, duh—Boyz II Men walked by. They were white, and because I was friends with them since way-back, they stopped to chat. Yup. Peeps were soooo jealous. I finally got called in for my meeting, and was surprised to see B.J. Novak behind the desk. He started by asking me what happens when a computer screen is inactive for a while. I said, “Ummmm… the computer goes to sleep?” and he said, “Yes, and that’s what you’re going to do.” Ooooookay… We went back and forth with him being super-mysterioso, and finally he said the reason I was called there was so he could tell me I was at my insurance max and they had to let me die. It seemed strange, since I was fine right then, but he said a rule was a rule and WHAT. A. JERK. right???

Who needs to actually smoke (eat) pot when my dreams are already like this??? Here’s a possible explanation for why dreams like this happen as often as they do. The fact that marijuana was one of the stars on 4/20 wouldn’t be such a puzzler if I actually partook… EVER.

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Something similar to the above kind of crazy is a short story I read last night, Jackie Old: a tale of the future told in the past, by Armistead Maupin. It was written in 1980 but is set in 1999 in San Francisco, which has been leveled by a 1906-like earthquake. Mick Jagger’s daughter is the mayor and married to JFK, Jr. Across the country, Jim Bakker is U.S. president (yikes), and his newly-formed Praise the Lord political party is determined to rid San Francisco of evil once and for all. Jackie Kennedy, who has become a bit of an eccentric recluse like her cousin featured in the train wreck that is Grey Gardens, discovers a new way to get back in the public eye when she decides to save San Francisco from the PTL-ers. 

Particularly amusing were the futuristic assumptions Maupin made, such as hologram news broadcasts and Truman Capote being a PTL-er—while JFK, Jr. has to use a payphone to call his wife at City Hall. Ha! My favorite part of all, though, was Jackie’s first encounter with the drag queens. So clever, that Armistead Maupin.

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I hope your week doesn’t suck.

Dec. 9: Scary stuff

I’ve said before that one of the reasons I enjoy crime shows like Law & Order, SVU, CSI, The Closer/Major Crimes, etc., is because they’re so completely different from the things that happen in my life (thank Buddha). On “my” shows, the crime has usually already been committed when the title sequence begins, and they go right to the whodunnit part—that’s the fascinating stuff. True, the shows are formulaic—you can count on that first or second person of interest showing up at the end in handcuffs—but I still love ‘em.

Every once in a while they’ll show the crime being committed. Sometimes they show all the stuff leading up to it, like a person watching someone without them knowing, or someone being chased, or a bad guy waiting to pounce on a victim. I don’t like when they do that. That stuff scares the shit outta me. That stuff goes into my brain and pops up every time I’m by myself in the dark. That stuff haunts me.

The first time I remember seeing something that stuck with me that way was after watching the second of the three Brady Bunch episodes in Hawaii. Remember how the tiki makes all that bad stuff happen to them? When we know the tarantula is in the room—and the boys don’t—and we see it heading toward Peter—and he doesn’t—and it starts to crawl on Peter—and he’s sleeping away, dreaming nice Brady dreams? I had nightmares about that for months. And by months, I mean that I watched that 35+ years ago and I still have nightmares about it.

And the delightful Little House on the Prairie, the show where the scariest thing that ever happened was when Pa couldn’t make it home with Laura’s penny candy because his horse only had three shoes? There was an episode in the later years of that show in which a new and boobalicious girl was stalked and raped. I KNOW! (here’s a pretty good and very analyze-y account of this unexpected plot.) I watched that one when I was 12 years old while babysitting at a neighbor’s; the kids had gone to bed and I was waiting for their parents to get home, so I turned the channel to Little House. That show was always a nice way to pass the time… it always had been, anyway.

The episode started like most; that mean ol’ Mrs. Oleson was getting kids in trouble. The stalker/rapist watched the girl walk across the meadow from low in the grass, and we were given his point of view. When they showed glimpses of his face, he was wearing a clown mask. A CLOWN MASK. And so began my fear of clowns.

As the horror of the episode went on, I was terrified but couldn’t turn off the TV, as though knowing the ending would make it better somehow. By the time it was over, I was shaking, and when I got home and went to bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about the clown, about how the girl didn’t know she was being watched. I didn’t sleep at all that night. I was afraid to tell my mom about how scared I was because I thought she’d be mad at me (I was an idiot), so I kept quiet. I didn’t even tell anyone about it at school the next day; in fact, it took me weeks to talk about it. Those weeks were spent getting little sleep, having nightmares when I did finally sleep, and being in constant fear when I was alone.

I don’t remember who I finally talked to about the episode, but eventually I was able to NOT think about that stalking clown. I still had occasional nightmares, but my bank of horrors by then contained the tarantula AND the clown, so it was a crapshoot which would play the main character in my dreams each night. They had to fight for screen time with Cruella DeVille, too, who was still in my nightmare bank from years earlier, as well as the abominable snowman from the Rudolph Christmas special.

Years later, I had nightmares while reading The Firm. When we knew that everything Mitch did was being seen and heard by his employer, but he didn’t know, it felt so sinister and creepy. Around that time, a movie also invaded my dreams: The Hand That Rocks the Cradle—same thing; the ominous stuff just terrified me. I hated the things are not what they seem-ness. I didn’t make a habit of reading books like The Firm (which never set out to be scary) or seeing psychological thrillers like The Hand That Rocks the Cradle, but just the little bit I was exposed to gave me horrifying, incredibly realistic dreams that, after finally and desperately waking me, made me stay awake until morning.

Once I was married and rarely alone at night, my nightmares pretty much disappeared. My subconscious knows that the guy next to me would, if necessary, pull that dull machete out from under his side of the bed and throw it at whoever’s trying to git me. My dreams are still way too vivid, but I feel safer now. I think that’s why the crime shows don’t usually work their way into my dreams. I can watch them without worrying I’ll pay for it later by waking up in a cold sweat.

Last night was an exception, kinda. My dream began at a high school reunion. While walking around downtown, we went into a building and, for some reason, had to go into a stranger’s apartment when he wasn’t there. (Isn’t that what YOU do during your high school reunions? Or are you not crime-fighters?) We heard noises and discovered a trap door in the floor, so we pulled up the carpet and opened the door to find a woman that the guy had been holding captive for years. Straight outta L&O: SVU, right? Super scary and sinister. Until the first thing the woman said when we pulled her out was “Oh man, I gotta poop.”

Great. Now my 12-year-old’s sense of humor is taking center stage in my dream life.

I guess it’s better than a clown.

Sep. 9: Planning an escape

Welcome to Day #9 of the September Blog Challenge. Today’s topic:

If you could take three months off from your current life and do anything in the world, what would you do?

My first thought was “leisurely travel”—like, maybe go to Europe but not be on the go the entire time. But then I started thinking about the logistics of it all, and I came up with a list of what a really-and-for-true break from my current life would have to have.

1. No alarm clock.
2. Peacefulness. Not just quiet, but calm. This might necessitate palm trees.
3. Massages and pedicures. I love that pamper-y stuff, and I love getting it often.
4. No one asking me what’s for dinner, or what I want for dinner, or where we should go for dinner. I just want dinner in front of me without having to do any work whatsoever. That goes for every meal, actually.
5. Good wifi. I can’t detach myself from society. Don’t make me.
6. Unlimited $$ (duh).
7. No dog hair. Seriously, if I’m not sweeping it up, I’m brushing it off the furniture, our clothes, the inside of the car. How is Lucy not naked? Oh, and I also want Lucy with me on this vacation, just none of her hair.
8. Lots of books to read.
9. No crowds. I like sightseeing and traveling to see the sights, but it’s so much less fun when people are packed in every inch of space along the way. If it means I have to stay in one place for three months, I think I’d be okay with that.
10. A pool, preferably one I don’t have to share with strangers.
11. A panoramic view of something beautiful—mountains, valley, city, sea, I don’t care, but I better be able to see it.
12. My husband most the time and my kids part of the time.
13. Visits from my girlfriends.

I’ll tell ya one thing; I hate the idea that wanting/needing a vacation somehow suggests a dissatisfaction with one’s life. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to explore the world, or wanting a break from work and/or daily home responsibilities, or wanting to go someplace that feels relaxing. Ridiculous.

What about you? How would you spend three months off from your life?

If you’re a blogger and want to do our blog challenge with us, let me know and I’ll send you our list! Otherwise, tune in here (and on Sherilee’s happy little blog and Lisa’s and Jenn’s and Sunshine’s too!) every day in September.

Aug. 22: Another post

I’m running on two hours’ sleep (ten for the week so far), with a meeting at 10am and another at 7pm. It’s either gonna be a long day or I’m going to the 7pm meeting with some really bad pillowhead (but alert!).

Here’s some misc stuff:

• My dreams—few though they’ve been, given the number of hours I’ve slept this week—have recently been all about the Manullang Geisha House. I’m reading Memoirs of a Geisha and it has completely invaded my unconscious and I’m not OK with this. I mean, I have nothing against geisha, but for the last four mornings I’ve awakened angry at Victor for starting this little family biz. Why would he do that? We don’t have enough going on already???
• Today is Mike Devitt’s birthday, according to Facebook. Happy birthday, Mike! Here’s a balloon.

• I’m kinda pissed because yesterday there was a shooting at the Clackamas Fred Meyer and my friend Stephanie was in there with her family at the time. She was neither the shooter nor the victim; in fact, her family got out unharmed, but STILL. Scariest thing EVER. People are assholes. Not Stephanie. I love Stephanie. And I’m glad she’s alive. Grocery shopping shouldn’t be this dangerous.
• Grimm is back! I think it might annoy me this season. Cliffhangers at the end of every episode? I usually hate shows like that. Also, for you locals—what hospital was that in Monday’s episode? My guess was Good Sam; Vic’s was something else but he was wrong.
• Have I told you lately how much I love football? I haven’t? Hm.
• Chuckles:

 

 

Let’s all take naps today. Seriously. We’re gonna need ‘em. Especially Mike, who is super-old now.

May 23: Our new home

Last night I dreamed that we built a house on Portland’s waterfront. It had a spectacular view of Mt. Hood on one side, the city on the other. There was a pool. There was a huge master bedroom. Perhaps best of all, there were no kids’ bedrooms. I know you’re jealous.

Lest you think my dream of buying a no-kids-allowed house colors us as the worst parents ever, I assure you that the blueprints showed kids’ rooms, but once the house was done, we discovered the builders had put huge holes in the floors of those rooms, meant to be a new-fangled type of skylight. It was kind of awesome (turns out we were the worst parents ever); the kids hated them but we were all HEY, WE HAVE A POOL SO SHUT UP AND ALSO, I HOPE YOU DON’T SLEEPWALK.

The house was $100. I don’t know how we got such a good deal. So maybe we had to give up the kids… whatevs. More pool for us!

Oh, and the Rose Festival Fun Center surrounded us on four sides, but that was only for one month a year so we decided to just deal with it. Less easy to deal with was the other new-fangled design element: no exterior doors. We hadn’t even moved in when our house had become a transient camp. At least during Rose Festival, when it was a carny camp, there was a party feel to it. Geez.

Who knew carnies are more fun than hobos?

My subconscious did, that’s who.

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Do you ever wake up from a vivid, insane dream and wonder WHERE that came from? Me three. Here’s my guess for this one:

• There’s a house being built near us, and every day I drive past it I think a different side is the front than the day before. It’s impossible to figure out—maybe once they get doors on it’ll be more obvious, but it’s funnier to assume that the builder is just really, really indecisive.
• We’ve passed the Fun Center repeatedly in the past week. I love Rose Festival, but I prefer to pretend the Fun Center does not exist. So why am I defensive when Victor starts in with his trash-talk? I have no idea. I like to think Rose Festival has a bit higher safety standards than parking lot carnivals, but who knows if ride inspectors have a clue what they’re doing ANYWHERE? And that is why I am not going to ride “Vertigo” this year. Or any year.
• You locals know that the Rose Festival Fun Center (now apparently called “CityFair”) is a hell-on-earth mudfest. Last night we drove past it and the kids asked why we never go there. I wanted to say, “Because the ride operators depend way too much on the effectiveness of that giant jar of Vaseline at the base of each ride” and I wanted to add, “plus they use so much in their hair, they could run out at any minute.” Instead, I said, “Maybe we’ll go this year. But not if it’s raining. Or if it has recently rained. Or if it might rain. Or if it rained once. Or if it ever rained.” Vic nodded along enthusiastically (probably not because he agreed but because he’s afraid of carnies). Cue the heavy we-never-get-to-do-anything-fun sighs from the back seat.

(See? Best parents ever!)

Jul. 16: IDCEAYWTPFriday

It’s Friday, and that means you get a post called I Don’t Care Enough About You to Write in Transitioning Paragraphs Friday.

• All day yesterday I kept thinking it was Friday. It felt like a Friday to me, and I had to keep reminding myself it was Thursday. And even then, when I went to bed last night I thought, “Hm, I’m surprised Sherilee didn’t post her Friday Night Grateful Moment tonight.” Of course, there’s nothing wrong with there being TWO Fridays in one week, so that’s what I’m doing today: enjoying my second Friday.
• (I know, I make no sense at all.)
• I had the weirdest dream last night. It involved my grandma, Debi and Deanna, an ex from college (he was running the college cafeteria in my dream!), my mom doing some weird medical treatment that required her to wear prairie skirts so the IV bags wouldn’t show, and me. The odd thing was that it seemed REALLY real; nothing was so far beyond normal that it was unbelievable. Dreams like that are always a bit disturbing to me, and this was no exception… well, one exception: Jim Nabors was Grandma’s doctor. That wasn’t disturbing, it was just funny. To me. I don’t think having Gomer Pyle as one’s physician would be anything BUT disturbing.
• A new iPhone/Droid app that I really love is Springpad. It lets you keep all kinds of different lists, notes, etc. and, ideally, will replace all those loose notes you keep. You can make reminders by taking a photo or scanning a barcode—that’s one of my favorite features—and create notes about restaurants, various products, books, movies, music, etc. that you want to try. It automatically syncs with your online account, so you have access (and a backup) to your lists wherever you are.
  
  Here’s an example of how it can be used: Yesterday Sherilee posted a yummy recipe on her blog, so I copied it into a note, grabbed the accompanying photo, and now when I decide to make it, I have a shopping list all ready to go.
  
  Even better? Springpad’s phone app and its online version are free. Even if you don’t use the phone app, you can use the online version and you should. So says I.
• Our Internet service is back on at home. I don’t know how long the modem was unplugged, but with the recent office move, I shouldn’t be surprised that things didn’t go back exactly the way they should have. I still can’t get the kids’ desktop to connect. I don’t know what the deal is, and right now I really don’t even care. I’m just relieved to be able to use a non-iPhone Internet connection.
• By the way, Starbucks’ wi-fi is waaay convenient.
• I watched Season 1 of Flight of the Conchords this week. Loveliest Lori got me interested when it first started airing on HBO, and Debi let me listen to a soundtrack when we hung out last month. I knew I needed to fill in all the gaps by watching the whole series. Thank goodness there are only two seasons—I spent a LOT of time with the DVDs this week. The show is hilarious—very quirky and fun.
• Funny how everyone’s making such a big deal about this Mel Gibson thing. We all knew he was a jackass, didn’t we? Why is this news?
• You know what’s awesome about Almond Joy bars? They’re totally health food! Coconut, with all its fruitiness and fiber and vitamins, and an almond, bursting forth with protein and whatever else makes nuts good to eat. See? Health food. So says Dr. Jen, the overweight nutritionist.
• I was getting warnings that my hard drive was full, and I needed to do some cleanup. Last week I used Duplicate Cleaner to free up nearly six gigs of hard drive space. The program finds any duplicate files and then lists them all; you can then select which ones to delete, or set criteria that will select them automatically. I was able to compare my hard drive contents to my external drive (which I primarily use for backup) and it took a long, long time, but it did the job. Overall it was a tremendous time-saver and space-restorer for me. Git it.
• Talking Carl, one of the iPhone’s top selling apps, is all just super silly fun. Our favorite thing is to make Carl burp, because he opens his mouth HUGE and then just a squeak comes out. Anyway, this video made me LOL.
  
  
  
  
  
• We’re doing the American Cancer Society’s Relay for Life this weekend. It goes from 10 am Saturday to 10 am Sunday and is supposed to be quite the party all night long. I got the schedule today and found that Victor and I weren’t assigned to any time slots, so maybe we’re not really participating after all. I need to make some phone calls, huh? Not that I’m so eager about staying up all night…
• Last night we watched Deadliest Catch from Tuesday. It was the episode when Captain Phil dies. They’ve been leading up to it for the last few weeks, but the way it finally happened at the end of the episode was truly heartbreaking to me. Phil’s oldest son called to tell the younger one that their dad had died. That’s exactly how it went when our dad died—Kathy called me. She doesn’t remember much of the phone conversation, but I remember every word, where I was standing, what time it was, what I did right after we hung up… It was a moment I’ll never forget. As horrible as it all was, there was something very special about having my big sister give me the news, rather than Dad’s wife or someone that cared even less about Dad.
  
  Anyway, this video is the sweetest moment between Phil and Josh, his oldest son. It’s kind of a killer, but as tender as they come. I don’t know for sure when it was filmed, but they showed it as though it was the day before Phil died.
• If you have a new bathroom rug and you wash it with your towels, you should expect to find the rug fluff on your body for many hours after you’ve dried off using your clean towels, even during a meeting later that day with an important client. Don’t ask me how I know this, and on a totally unrelated note, do you have a lint roller I can borrow?
• In case you didn’t notice, I’m feeling kinda bossy today. It’s just that I’m so full of it! And by “it,” of course, I mean GOOD IDEAS. It would be disgraceful of you to suggest otherwise.

Jack and I are going to see Despicable Me today. Smell ya later, losers. Um, I mean, people who aren’t going with us.

Dec. 10: What dreams may come

My mother-in-law gave me a check recently to buy myself something a sick person would want. I decided the most practical thing right now would be jammies. But wouldn’t a mani-pedi be nice and pamper-y right now, when I’m feeling less than self-confident? Or a new bathrobe? Or even better, a Slanket or Snuggie? I mean, they have built-in arms! Decisions, decisions. Maybe I should sleep on it.

We are in Brussels, trying to find the nail shop where the Queen of England works. Not everyone knows she has a little side job as a manicurist. (Hey, at least she’s not a piss boy.) She’s supposedly really good, and I want the best because HELLO! I’m in Europe. Turns out the nail shop is near Manneken Pis, the little peeing boy fountain, and you really have to know where you’re going because the entrance is just behind the pedestal from which he pees. 

I walk in the door of the nail shop, with Victor tagging along behind. The crowds looking at the statue are suddenly curious as to where the door leads, and Victor’s trying to close it quickly. Elizabeth jumps up from her pedicure stool and screeches at us: “Don’t let people see you come in here! You’re supposed to wait until everyone’s gone!” Silly queen. She knows there’s always a crowd around Manneken Pis. Maybe she should have chosen a lower profile shop for her second job.

After the initial screaming, though, Elizabeth is very friendly. She does my mani-pedi—her reputation is spot-on; she works utter magic with the air brush!—and doesn’t even make fun of my legs being kinda stubbly. We sit around for a bit, just chatting, until she looks at her watch and says she has to leave right away or she’ll be late for a state dinner. I give her a generous tip, and the three of us leave together.

It’s dusk, and the crowds who’d come to stare at Manneken Pis are gone. Who knew?

We walk over to Grand Place, where there’s a town car waiting for the queen. She jumps in, gives us her little queen wave, and zooms off to the airport. I can’t believe she doesn’t offer us a ride.

This is a perfect example, faded slightly by a few hours of sleep, of the drug-induced dreams I have: totally bizarre, very detailed, and full of half-truths. At least this one didn’t involve being chased by a vampiress Kathie Lee Gifford. I hate that dream.

Jun. 9: Dream analysis

My blog is quickly turning into a never-ending bitch session. I apologize, really. Nobody wants it to NOT be that more than I do. Believe it or not, I actually don’t share all the pain and anguish I endure in my daily life—not because I don’t want to tell y’all about it, but because I’m embarrassed how much of it is a result of my extreme clumsiness. So it ends up, at times like these, that I seem to be bitch-bitch-bitching even when I don’t want to be. The thing is, I’m really not unhappy. I mean, having that headache really sucked, but I’m mostly over it now and that’s really, really, super-duper good. Really. And not having a headache makes me happy. Really.

What does not really make me happy is that I’m having to sleep sitting straight up on the couch again because my back is not yet finished telling me how much it hates me. Much like my grandmother, just when the pain seems to have disappeared and I’m feeling good again, it writes me a letter on the back of a letter I sent her that’s full of accusations of what a bad granddaughter I am.

Or maybe a better analogy than that one.

The weird thing is that I’ve kind of gotten used to sleeping on the couch in that weird position and it’s not as bad as it used to be. In fact, I even napped like that this afternoon. I’ve got an ottoman, a down comforter, many pillows, a heating pad, and at least one cuddly pup with me. I shouldn’t be as thrilled as I am about the bonus of NOT having a snoring beast next to me, but here’s a not-so-secret: I sorta like it. However, I miss my bed. I like my bed. My bed is a good bed.

My back doesn’t hurt very much when I’m moving around; it’s just when I lay down that it screams bloody murder. If I haven’t tried to lay down for a while, I easily forget that I need to take it easy and start, say, reorganizing the garage… lifting large, heavy boxes over my head… moving lawn machinery that weighs more than I do… I’m never going to get better if I keep forgetting I need to get better.

I started writing about my nap but thought I should first explain why I was sleeping sitting straight up on the couch, and then realized that I’ve been complaining an awful lot lately and that sent me off on the above tangent. But what I actually wanted to say is this: during my nap today I had a dream that I was blogging. Yes. I had taken my laptop to Disneyland and was sitting in a restaurant lobby, blogging. I have thoroughly analyzed this dream and decided it means at least one of the following things:

• I blog too much so I dream about it
• I don’t blog enough so I dream about it
• I need to go to Disneyland
• If I was a true friend, I’d refer you to some blogs that have actual substance, or at least pictures of yummy mushrooms. ‘Cuz you really should spend your time better than you do when you’re here.

I’m tired and I’m going to couch.

May 3: Dreams be dreams

Last night I had a dream in which I couldn’t remember the name of my nephew’s band. I had just met a record agent and wanted to tell him all about this fine group of young men, but all I could remember was that their band name started with a B.

(Their band name does not start with a B. It doesn’t even have a B in it.)

My sister showed up so I asked her what their name was, and after merciless teasing about my poor memory, she started telling me all these weird names that I knew weren’t real, like “Blackhawk Down” and “Big Mac” and “Bon Jovi,” and was basically no help at all. Stephen (the nephew in the band) called just then, so I asked if I could talk to him.

Kathy said, “Hold on, Auntie Menopause wants to ask you something.”

I replied, “Thanks, Hormone Replacement Therapy,” and took the phone from her.

(Because, y’know, Kathy and I are sweet to each other in dreams just like we are in real life.)

Stephen made me try to guess their name, so I gave him all the fake ones his mom had told me and then threw in a few of my own. Apparently his band mates were listening in on Auntie Menopause and decided they were going to change their band name right then and there because who could resist “Botched Hormone Replacement Therapy”?

See? I knew it started with a B.

(“The Rouge (or BHRT, if you prefer) has posted a new song on their web site. I think Tangerine’s still my favorite, but Six Shooter is awesome too,” said the totally unbiased Auntie Pre-Pre-Pre-Menopause. “Also, that is some fiiiine drummering.”)

Apr. 27: Oink

My throat started feeling scratchy last night and this morning I woke up with a full-on sore throat, swollen glands, etc. Of course, my first thought is that I probably  have that swine flu because that’s exactly the kind of thing that happens to me. Besides, my body’s probably looking for another excuse to go to the emergency room; the new one just opened at our (“our”!) hospital and I have not yet had the privilege of being a patient there. My brain has no interest in going to the emergency room, but my body knows that’s where they keep the good drugs.

Symptoms - such as fever, body ache, extreme fatigue, sore throat, and dry cough - begin showing in adults one to four days after being infected. (from livescience.com)

See? All the symptoms are there. OK, so I don’t have a fever. Or body aches. But I’m always tired! And my throat hurts! I’m not coughing, but I did almost choke yesterday when someone said something funny while I was eating a strawberry. So I’m pretty sure I’ve got swine flu. Also, you know how trendy I can be...

Last night I watched a bunch of TiVo’d episodes of The New Adventures of Old Christine—one of the funniest shows on television, by the way—and in one there was a lice breakout at Richie’s school. So naturally, I had a dream about lice last night. They weren’t just regular ol’ lice, though; they were super lice (swine flu lice?) that could be seen from far away and sat on our heads like coonskin caps but were alive and mean. And before you start blaming this dream wackiness on alcohol, I haven’t had any for weeks, unless Cristina spiked Mack’s party punch yesterday and that would be kinda inappropriate at an eight-year-old’s First Communion reception.

Anyhoo.

So, I’ve got swine flu and now I’m going to work—at the hospital!—to spread it work on a database. If I die of this pandemic before I can blog again, it’s been lovely to know you all.

Apr. 5: Our couple name could be “Jin” or “Jem”

I had a dream last night about me and Jim Halpert. He dumped that psycho Pam and told me he loved me, so Michael Scott immediately called a staff meeting to announce the bittersweet news. My whole dream was like an actual episode of The Office. Just think, if these were interesting dreams, I could be a scriptwriter and just dream up all the episodes. Instead I’m a loony who dreams about fictional characters falling in love with me, and not even in an intriguing way. Let’s face it, no one would watch the episodes I’d write.

I woke up with a fat lip this morning and am talking weirder than normal. Seriously, one side of my lip is totally swollen and I look like I got punched. Now, I’m not saying I couldn’t possibly have deserved to be punched, but I wish I knew who did it and why. Vic swears it wasn’t him.

I blame all that yardwork I did yesterday. I’m telling you, it’s not healthy to exert oneself, people!

Jan. 31: Way TMI, etc.

Yay, Jen! I haven’t puked since about 8:00 p.m. yesterday. I thank the good drugs.

I still feel terrible though. My back still hurts. My headache is as bad as ever. I feel very weak. I’m able to eat but don’t have much of an appetite so I really have to force myself and that’s no fun at all. For some reason, applesauce on peanut butter toast is just about the only thing I’ve managed to eat. And bananas. I love bananas.

I’ve peed, like, TWICE in the last 24 hours, even after all those IV fluids. This just shows how dehydrated I must have been (and probably still am). I’m guzzling Gatorade and lots of ice water. It makes me cold and kinda angry.

The carnival at the school seemed to go off just fine without me. I went, but bailed pretty quickly as soon as I found out there were plenty of people to cover the prize room where I had been assigned. After a quick chat with Dawn, I headed home. I fell asleep almost immediately and didn’t wake up until the kids came home very noisily.

Weird stuff goes on in my brain when I’m on potent drugs. This afternoon I dreamed they had way too many Charleston Chews to sell at the school carnival. Then I had a new house and was married to Jay, one of my co-workers at Catapult (I know, Ed—you’re relieved it wasn’t you for once). Victor lived with us and did not seem to enjoy the situation even a little bit, especially when I was trying to get Jay to make out with me. And then I was spraying glass etching stuff on stencils all over the walls and kept saying it was really going to make my mom mad. I also have a vague memory of dreaming that Erin’s dad was putting out records—yes, the VINYL stuff—and we were all trying to be supportive but they were awful. Also, they were VINYL.

Sherilee, I watched the last half of a Top Chef episode rerun when I woke up. It was the one with the farm food. Interesting. It’s hard for me to read your reviews each week and not get sucked in. Now I might have to curse you because I might just be hooked on yet another show. I really hate reality TV and its unnecessary drama, but at least the people on that show have some talent.

Yikes. Suddenly I’m worried I might have imagined that Top Chef episode. Please tell me it was real, Sher. They sent home that headband/too-much-spray-tan girl, right? Gah.

As I’ve mentioned a thousand times, I hate football. I usually make an exception for the Super Bowl for the commercials, especially if Justin Timberlake is in one. Please tell me who I should root for, Lori or someone else I like in spite of their football feevah.

I finally finished reading The Cider House Rules yesterday. That took for-freakin’-ever! It was an interesting story, though, and one more check for my 100 Books to Read list. I haven’t decided what I’ll tackle next. Right now my dreams are way more mysterious and strange than the plot of any book I can imagine.

Dr. Kelli said this pain medication should be in my system “a while.” Frustrating, since it’s not doing anything good for me anymore. Until I start getting some strength and sanity back, you can expect these meandering types of posts. So sorry. Sorta.

June 6: Dreams, Dad, Drugs

Gah, I had the strangest dream last night.

• Strange thing #1: I was friends with all the Sex and the City women. We were at the same college, though apparently just hanging out on campus and not attending. And one day I just sorta realized, “Hey, these women are famous all over the world and here they are on our little college campus, doing the same things we do and being our friends!”
  
• Strange thing #2: All of them except Sarah Jessica Parker—who was not Carrie, but SJP—were killed in a car accident in Japan or someplace like that (this might stem from Chris’ fakey movie spoilers—thanks, jackass!). Miranda’s funeral was held soon afterward. Charlotte’s funeral was later and we were getting ready to go. Sarah Jessica was very upset and we were all comforting her but I think mostly we just wanted to pretend this celebrity needed us normal people.
  
• Strange thing #3: The third woman was not Samantha but some other woman, and she showed up at Charlotte’s funeral. Then we all went to hers together. Yes, we all went to hers together. And I tried to put pantyhose on over my pantyhose. And Vic was mad because he couldn’t find our The Little Mermaid DVD and he thought we should play it during at least one of the funerals.
  
• Strange thing #4: My dad was alive again. We’d had his funeral in 2005 but his death had been faked by the spy organization he was working for. Kath and I always suspected this...
  
• Strange thing #5: My mom made us have another funeral for our dad and made him attend. It was held on a hill in rural Clackamas County and we all sat on logs like it was summer camp. Dad sat and took notes throughout the whole thing, probably of errors made in the eulogy. I chose “Time of Your Life” to be played at the service.

I woke up with the words to “Time of Your Life” going through my head. I looked up the lyrics and some of them seem somewhat appropriate for a funeral, but if you really examine them, it really is more of a break-up song—which is what Green Day kept trying to explain to people when the song got overplayed as a “good memories” song. Anyway, here they are:

Another turning point;
a fork stuck in the road.
Time grabs you by the wrist;
directs you where to go.
So make the best of this test
and don't ask why.
It's not a question
but a lesson learned in time.

It's something unpredictable
but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

So take the photographs
and still frames in your mind.
Hang it on a shelf
In good health and good time.
Tattoos of memories
and dead skin on trial.
For what it's worth,
it was worth all the while.

It's something unpredictable
but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.

Tomorrow it will be three years since my dad died. And what’s been going through my mind over the past few weeks as I’ve anticipated this anniversary is that I wonder if Dad had regrets. I like to think he enjoyed his time here, that he loved us and was happy with his life, for the most part. I do wonder if—if he ever would have admitted them—he wished he’d done things differently. And if he had known he was going to die when he did, how he would have spent his last days. Quite frankly, I think he would have spent them alone and crying. He never had a very good hold on his emotions and he hated being seen in a vulnerable state. He probably wouldn’t have known what to do with the last of his time here and would have felt totally overwhelmed by it. I guess for his sake, I’m glad he went unexpectedly so he didn’t have time to think about those things.

I’m also glad he didn’t grow ancient and bedridden because oh, how he would have hated that. But if I could have it the way I want? I would want him here because I have missed him every single day for three years. He’s never far from my thoughts. I still think “I need to call Dad” when I find things that would make him laugh. I still hear his overused jokes and phrases that were so “him.” In all the ways he drove me crazy and in all the ways I adored him, I wish it could be so very, very different.

I’m planning on writing something about him here tomorrow, hopefully in a more positive way. But as you think about what you’ll be doing tomorrow, I would be honored if you would do at least one of the ten things on this list to remember Curt Saltmarsh. Thanks. We all thank you.

As for the strange dreams, I’ve been on potent painkillers the past few days because of this headache. I think they’re to blame. I’m going to blame them anyway. Because if it’s not the drugs, then it’s just me; it’s just my wacky little brain coming up with this stuff all on its own. And that is more frightening than the dreams themselves.