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Archive for the ‘Dreams’ Category

This: I got the dang root canal started yesterday.  Dr. W. got me good and numbed, so I only felt a very little pain just a couple of times.  And it took hours for the numb to wear off, although the pain in the tooth started while the rest of my face was still so numb that I was drooling.  Last night was unpleasant, to say the least. I made scrambled eggs and toast for dinner (my smaller tummy ate a little egg and half a piece of toast), and I will confess to splurging on a slice of carrot cake, although I won’t be doing that again. I have to go back in a week or so so that they can make sure all of the infection is completely gone, and then he’ll finish it.  I bought the pilot episode for the Stargate series, so I put that on last night to try to take my mind off the misery.  Joe looked at me, and wanted to know if I was eating too much.  I said no, and asked why he thought that.  Apparently in my lack of comfort, I was kicking back and letting it all hang out.  And when I’m letting it all hang out, I resemble Buddha. So I guess I had that going on last night in addition to the pain in my mouth.

That: I was dreaming last night that in the course of 5 or 10 minutes, I ate all of the icing, the filling, and the top layer of a layer cake. Is it because I felt guilty over the slice of carrot cake I had last night? Because trust me when I tell you there is no way I could eat more than a smallish piece of cake, much less an entire layer and a gallon of frosting. And speaking of frosting, in the dream I commented to myself that I’d have been better off buying a can of frosting and eating it. Not only that, but in the dream I remember looking at all of the cakes, and almost picking up a small cake, but then bought the full size layer cake. Cuh-razy, no?

The Other: I’m wearing a dress today. I never wear dresses to work, and for good reason–our dress code is business casual, with emphasis on the casual. But I think my jeggings are in the wash, and the jeans I wore yesterday are so baggy they are having trouble staying up, and I got a really cute new dress so I figured what the hey.  Well, I always used to wear dresses that hit mid-shin, and this one is about knee-length. It’s a faux wrap dress, with shirring across the front, that makes me look as if I have a figure. I like that. And with Catherine making it acceptable once more to wear nylons, my legs look better than if I were going bare-legged. Which I wouldn’t, because my legs are white, white, white. I mean glow-in-the-dark white. White. Ghostly white. Pale, in fact, beyond the pale. Got it? Okay.  I’m also wearing a pair of heels I bought at Payless because all of my lovely gorgeous sexy heels are at the house and I haven’t been permitted yet to remove them, and don’t know if I will. So I’m feeling rather self conscious today. Every time I get up to go to the restroom or the break room for ice, I am vividly aware of my high heels and bare (except for nylons) legs. Honestly–I couldn’t tell you the last time I wore a dress this short. Maybe I was 12 or 13? It’s been a while. So I’ve got legs. And they’re rather shapely, despite being far larger than I want them to be. 

So there you have it. This, that, and the other (which is what my mom always said when we were out running errands when I was a kid, unless she said we were going hither, thither, and yon.  My mom is a wee titch poetic.)

You may now return to your regularly scheduled day. I hope it’s a good one.

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Up until last night, apparently I was just so completely exhausted that I don’t remember dreaming at all.  I don’t mind that.

Yesterday afternoon, when Joe got back to our hotel room, he brought a file box full of things he’d found in our guest room in the closet. Obviously I missed it when I was trying to get all of the personal papers out of there.  So I went through it last night and had a shredder party. One of the things in the box was a paper I’d written about Chaucer’s Wife of Bath, and it was a fine paper, too, I might add. (Pride compels me to admit that if I were writing that paper today, it would be much better.)

So in my dreams I was back at university, and there was a fire. No one believed me when I was trying to get people out of the building, and the exterior of the building looked just fine. Nonetheless, there was a fire.  And it destroyed a lot of things.

As I recount the dream, it sounds so, I don’t know, banal? But the dreaming was terrifying. Not fun. Not fun one little bit.

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I had a disturbing dream last night. It wasn’t disturbing as it was happening, although I frequently was made aware that I had a severe headache as I was dreaming. But when I woke up and was fully conscious, it was very disturbing. I’ve had similar dreams 3 or 4 times over the past few years, and it never fails to bother me. I don’t know where it’s coming from, don’t know what it means.  I just wish it would go away.

On other fronts, the headache I mentioned is only too real. It’s the kind where your eyeballs hurt, your head hurts, your sinuses hurt, everything north of your neck hurts.  And I’m sleepy.

grumble grumble

Sorry. You didn’t come here to see me having a grouchy day. Try again tomorrow. I should be back to myself.

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One of the side effects of the new meds is funky dreams (my words, not theirs). And since I already tend to have notoriously funky dreams, you can imagine what I’ve been dreaming about the last two nights.

The first night’s dreams had such things as my sitting in the living room taking a bath in a kiddie pool and talking to my mother, chasing a serial killer who actually killed me at one point (but it didn’t matter, because I had already backed up the dream and hit the play button again), and spending an hour styling my hair (if you know me, you’re laughing at this point).

Then last night the first batch of dreams had me visiting someone from church and spending a lot of time with her grandchildren (I don’t even know her beyond saying hello at church, and I have no idea if she even has children, much less grandchildren). The kids and I went out for ice cream, and it was only the second time the blond baby boy had tasted any ice cream. I was holding him in my lap and feeding him little bites of chocolate vanilla swirl, when one of his sisters or cousins made a joke about him eating the table. He stared at her, offended, and said, “The table is not digestible.”  I wish I could say that I woke up laughing at that, but the dream kept going until my bladder woke me up (seems to be another side effect with these meds–I’m up every hour or two all night).  The second batch of dreams that I remember had all  my girlfriends in it, and the first time it ended very unpleasantly. So once again I hit rewind and started it over again, determined not to make the same choices. And there was a major ice storm (more like an ice age) that hit Fort Worth, so one of my friends and I were on an ice ferry that was going east on I-30.  The captain of the ferry wouldn’t let us off, so my friend and I, and Captain Jack, performed a very military style mooning of the captain.

The dreams do seem to be lucid, as inevitably I get to a place where I realize that I don’t like what happened and that since it’s a dream I can change it. And very, very few of my regular dreams are lucid. So that’s been interesting. And I do like waking up and laughing at the weird things that happen in the dreams.

Now if I could just figure out why Willow Rosenberg was standing in for my friend Heather, most of my questions would be answered.

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Nightmares & Reality

I had CPS dreams last night. It’s been a while, and I didn’t enjoy them one little bit. They were triggered by an e-mail I received from a friend, asking advice on behalf of some friends who were being investigated by CPS.  You know, when I first started the job there, I loved it. I loved the feeling of getting up every morning knowing that I was making a difference, making it safer for kids to grow up. But as time went by and I had to deal with burned-out supervisors (after having had excellent ones, so seeing well the contrast), spiteful former spouses who called in false reports just to make trouble for the ex (never realizing or else not caring how it affected the children), a horribly broken system, I got to where I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t do the hours (60+-hour weeks) or the caseload. I couldn’t deal with getting a bonus because of our heavy caseloads, only to be told that since investigators were getting a bonus, we were also going to be on call more often. I couldn’t deal with the parents who cared less about their children than about their addictions. I couldn’t deal with the kids who were so damaged that they could hardly function–suicidal pre-teens, children who were perping on other children because that’s the only way they knew life works–but who the legal department said we couldn’t remove, and the family services department said we couldn’t provide services because they’d already had plenty of services and nothing had changed. All I could do was go in, say yes, there is child abuse, and walk back out again. I didn’t do that, of course; I tried desperately to find some remedy, some help for these children. But in the end I could do nothing.

And now here I am sitting behind a desk, doing something I swore–when I left UTA–that I’d never do again. I’m an admin assistant. I pull credit bureau reports. I prepare reports. I do an occasional PowerPoint presentation. It’s tiring, soul-suckingly boring, and I think that there’s no way I make a difference doing this. I’m not making anyone’s life any better for my being at my job every day. Then I realize that’s not true–I have some friends that I’ve gotten to know through work, and I like to think that having me in their lives does as much for them as it does for me. I still don’t want to stay here forever, which is why I’m writing away on the book the incomparable Izzybella and I are working on together.

Now let’s leave the nightmares and move on to reality. Joe left town yesterday morning, so it’s my first solo time with both dogs. They were good when I got home yesterday afternoon. They seem to be getting along better, although perhaps that has something to do with our blocking off the entrance to the hallway so they have to stay together in the living room. But oh! last night! It was around 2:30 when I was awakened by the pitter-patter of four little paws scampering down the hall just before I was dive-bombed by a 20-pound pooch. Obviously Scout had found a way through the barricade to the hall. I tried letting him stay with me, but he was up and down and up and down and up and down, so I finally gave up and ushered him back into the living room and fixed the barricade. I hadn’t been back in bed more than 10 minutes before he was running down the hall again. After two more efforts to get him to stay in the living room, I finally gave up, and he finally fell asleep. That was 4:00. The little stinker! He gets to sleep all day while I’m here at work trying to stay awake. And then I’m going to go home and we’ll probably have a repeat performance.  I need a nice high pet-gate, one he can’t jump over. 

And for those of you who’ve asked, whether in comments or e-mails, his former name was Cole. I have nothing against that name, it’s just not him. I attach a lot of significance to names, even for characters I create. It’s not unusual for me to spend days trying to find just the right name for even a minor character in a book. This little boy is a Scout. And he is, as I mentioned yesterday, starting to answer to Scout. Like last night at 3:30 when I was sick to death of his running back and forth between the living room and bedroom. I called, “Scout! Come!” and he came and jumped in bed. He’s learning “No” and “Down.” Spraying a little water in his face when he ignores orders is really helping get the message through. I only had to do it once yesterday; otherwise, just seeing the bottle reminded him.

He is still trying to steal food right out of Molly’s mouth, but she’s not letting him get away with it. And she’s actually back to sitting on the sofa instead of hiding under the table feeling sorry for herself. While it may be too much to hope for, I am nonetheless hoping that they manage to become friendly. He seems to adore her. When they go out in the back yard, she usually pees first, and then he goes along and pees right next to where she did. And then he moves a foot or so away and kicks dirt over where he thinks he just peed (he’s always off, but the effort is appreciated.)

I promise this blog will become less Scoutcentric shortly. We’re still in the big adjustment phase. But he’s a sweetie boy, and Molly’s a cutie girl, and we’re all doing just fine.

Oh, and Mom, he doesn’t sleep on my feet yet. As you have probably gathered, I’m lucky if he sleeps by my side. Or at all. But one never knows how things will unfold.

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Yesterday was a wild and woolly weather day. Well, probably not too much wool unless you were wearing under your frickin’ raincoat, because it was pouring something fierce. Needless to say, that would, of course, also have been the day that I had to take Scout to the vet.

Molly loathes rain. She fears thunder. If there is even the slightest hint of thunder in the air, she hides under the bed and refuses to come out for kisses, Begging Strips, or steak. She does, however, love to go for rides in the car. She also is irritated by Scout.

So when I walked in yesterday, telling Scout that we were going to go for a ride, I heard the unmistakable sounds of Molly scooting out from under the bed. It didn’t do any good to tell her that Scout was going to the doctor; she still kept spinning in circles and looking up at me with excited anticipation on her face. I’m not sure what she did when I took him out and closed the door in front of her face. But I’m gessing it involved a bad word and a trip back under the bed.

Unlike Molly, Scout apparently does not love car rides. I had to pick him up and carry him to the car because he seemed to think that he would melt if he walked out in the rain. I don’t fault him for that, because Molly seems to feel the same way. And I opened the car door and put him in. And he ran back out. And I picked him up again, and somehow managed to get him inside and hold him there while I got my handbag (aka suitcase) and big butt inside and get the door shut. The poor baby was shaking violently. I wonder if he thought I was taking him away to another place. Or maybe he knew we were going to the vet. But he squirmed and wriggled all the way there, and I had to hold his collar with my right hand while I steered with my left hand. This was necessary to prevent him from climbing up my arm and onto my face, or else down my leg and under the gas pedal.

He was an angel in the waiting room, and an angel in the exam room (although he began shaking again in the exam room). He weighs 20.5 pounds, so I’d overestimated his weight. Of course, I was trying to carry the suitcase and him at the same time, so no wonder. And he’s perfectly healthy. No intestinal parasites, no fever, no congestion. He got his claws trimmed, got 2 shots and didn’t even cuss. He was much easier to keep still on the care ride home, fortunately, and I congratulated myself on getting through it comparatively well. Joe got home just after we did, and he kindly took Molly for her own private ride. I took the opportunity to give Scout his heartworm preventative, thinking that he’d snap it up just like Molly does. He looked at it, licked it, and ran to the door and cried for Joe and Molly. Lather, rinse, and repeat. He would not eat that thing no matter what! I finally got a slice of cheese, gave him a few bits, then tried to give him the pill. Nope, he spat it out. I then wrapped it up in a bit of cheese; he ate the cheese and spat out the pill. Bear in mind that these things taste like beef–Molly loves them, and would gladly eat a dozen if we’d let her. Finally I wrapped it in a triple layer of cheese and held his mouth shut while he chomped on it. I thought I heard a little “ptoooie,” but didn’t see the pill anywhere. Maybe he was just spitting out of relief that I was leaving him alone at last. 

He gets to go back to this vet on April 8th to get his booster shots; and he gets to go to the other vet on April 24th to get fixed. That sounds like I think he’s broken, and of course he’s not. 

Molly had a grooming appointment today; I was supposed to rush home at 10:30 this morning, pick her up and take her to the groomers, then rush back home and wait for the guy to come measure our doors. But Joe kindly took Molly to the groomers on his way to work. And since the door guy wasn’t coming until 11:15, I was planning to leave work at 11. But he called me at 10:35 to say that he was running early and was sitting in front of my house. So I said I’d be there in 7 minutes (it actually took 8), and left. He measured the front door, and talked about where rotting wood pieces would need to be replaced. No problem; we know that would have to be done. I then walked to the back door with him. Alas! The floor by the back door is also rotted, and they won’t put on a door until the floor’s fixed. So he didn’t even bother measuring the back door.

Getting the kitchen/dining room floor fixed is high on the list of priorities, but not higher than new doors. Unfortunately, the store from which we are purchasing the doors and hiring a contractor to install said doors disagrees. So we can get the front door put on, but the back door will have to wait until the floor’s done. When will that get done? Heaven only knows. This stuff’s not cheap to have done, and I don’t have any idea of how to do it myself. I can lay peel-and-stick vinyl, but replacing rotted-out underflooring? No clue.

Oh, and Scout’s housebreaking seems to go only so far. Because yesterday he peed on a wood box that we keep on the floor to sort mail in, and he pooped on a sheet that was on the floor in one of the bedrooms. And last night I had a nightmare that I’d brought him to work with me and he pooped everywhere, including the floor of the vice president’s office.

Poop dreams. There has to be something less gross to dream about.

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Fat

I was having a truly fascinating dream until the sound of an incoming text message woke me up. I don’t usually bore you with my dreams, but bear with me because there’s a point to this.

I dreamed that I was one of 10 competitors in a 2-part contest. It was a literary/scholarly thing. I was one of three finalists in the first part. The competition was sponsored by some university in New York, and the second project was due on October 1st. We had to either present some original research or a completed novel. I had made a trip to the university to go through some of their files as I was trying to decide what I wanted to research.

When I was approaching the card catalogue, a couple of bullies were tormenting a 10-year-old boy who had won the previous few years. I immediately told them off, and invited them to have at me instead. They sat on a couch sniggering meaningfully, but refused to say anything. So I started going through the catalogue looking for info on Lucrezia Borgia (was she a saint unjustly maligned by her father’s enemies, or was she the poisoning peril she was portrayed?) when the biggest of the bullies came up to me.  He stood there and crooned, “Fat!”

I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and said something like, “You sorry little sack of poop! If the worst thing you can find to say about me is that I’m fat, you’re even more pathetic than you look.”  And I then returned to my attempts to find Lucrezia Borgia, only to decide instead to finish my novel by October 1st.

OK. End of dream. That’s when the phone went off.  But I couldn’t stop thinking about this. Normally if someone tells me I’m fat–clearly intending to be insulting–I feel really hurt and angry, more with myself for being fat than with the person who insulted me.  But since when is being fat a crime?  I’m fat, you smoke, she’s a jerk who likes to make other people feel bad. We’ve all got our issues. Why is being fat worse than being a smoker who pollutes the air and fills his/her lungs with poison? Why is it worse to be fat than to be someone who takes pleasure in injuring other people’s feelings?

It’s not. Yeah, it’s not necessarily healthy. However, it’s not necessarily unhealthy, either. If I can live an active, normal life, why the heck does it matter if I weigh more than you think I should?   I go to work every day, and I work hard. I am slowly getting my house clean and keeping it that way. I like to walk my dog and go to movies and read and write. Why should I obsess about every bite of food that goes into my mouth? If I cheer myself up with a zinger when I’m angry or hurt, then that’s how I deal with it. It doesn’t make me a bad person. I’m not saying that’s the healthiest way to deal with something, but it’s definitely healthier than some other alternatives. And honestly, how healthy is it for me to always be beating myself up because I’m fat?

I’m neither bad nor good just because I’m fat. Fat is what I am on the outside. If someone is going to look at me and think, “Fat,” and slap that label on me without ever getting to know anything else about me, then that person has missed out on getting to know a quirky, loving person. And it’s that person’s loss, not mine.

I don’t like being fat. But I’d rather be fat than be a jerk.

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