the jerk

I've mentioned before how I don't believe dreams are particularly meaningful.  Mine never make sense and frankly, the ideas wake up to at 3:00 a.m. don't make much sense by 8:00 a.m. either.  (Although it did seem revolutionary and visionary to think of publishing my last novel as a blog post in order to skip all the hard work of finding a publisher and then I'd make it big as a writer when people began buzzing about my book after reading it for free online.  I was all ready to do it, too, at 2:24 the other morning.  By 9:00 that day I came to my senses.  My book's not pornographic, so of course it wouldn't attract the same traffic as other "books" published as a blog post.  See what I mean?  Middle of the night epiphanies are really junk.)

Moments ago killed the 7th box elder bug of the day.  Its squashed body is resting in peace beside my laptop as I type this, neatly wrapped in a scrap of paper.  I'll unceremoniously deposit it in the trash later when I get up to refill my coffee cup.  That I dreamed last night about my kitchen walls being covered in box elder bugs strikes me as purely coincidental.

I also dreamed last night that I was having a baby.  While waiting for the doctor, Mr. D ferried my two oldest boys off to a friend's to wait.  The doctor arrived and began slicing open my belly.  That's funny, I never had a c-section before.  While paying close attention to this strange detail, I expectantly watched the doctor lift the blood-and-mucus covered body and announce "It's a girl!  You have a daughter!"   Now that's just plain wrong.  My third baby was a boy.  Where the f*ck's Mr. G?  "You need to check that out again, doc," I told him while marveling at the sudden lightness in my body where the weight of a baby had been.  How weird was that--to dream about having a baby girl when my third baby was definitely, most clearly and obviously a boy baby?  Mr. D suggested it's a latent desire to have a daughter.  As if a dream means anything.

What does disturb me is this:  on about five different occasions in the past two months I've woken up in the middle of the night and not known where I was.  It has literally taken me minutes to calm down and realize I am right where I belong.  I cannot convey the sheer terror of these experiences.  Rolling over, opening my eyes and seeing nothing that looks remotely familiar.  Not even recognizing the layout of the room, which direction to head for a door in order to escape.  I've lain perfectly still each time, barely breathing while my eyes adjust to the room and I strain to figure out where I am. 

My fright compounds as I realize I am not alone and my heart races faster.  Who is lying next to me?  I clench up and think as hard as I can--how did I get here?

It's the most awful feeling to wake up and recognize nothing.  I'd expect this strangeness if I'd been traveling much, but I really haven't.  I woke up once in Disney World, which kind of freaked me out, but in retrospect made sense since I wasn't in my own bed.  But to wake up utterly lost in a room that I've slept in for nearly 10 years is really weird.  

Naturally I'm wondering why this is happening to me.  Early-onset dementia?  Sleeping really hard and jerking awake for no reason--maybe my REM cycles are out of whack.  Change in diet?  The last time it happened, I eventually got up and walked around the house.  I returned to bed knowing where I was, but not believing I belonged there. 

It's got to be something jerking me out of a deep sleep to make me so discombobulated.  A sudden movement or sound perhaps. 

Spill it, reader.  Tell me I'm not alone--this has happened to other people, right?

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put down the paintbrush

I've got so many questions today. 

Where does paint go?  I mean, I bought a GALLON of paint (in "Baby Buttercup" for those of you who care) for the hallway and the first layer got SUCKED into the wall like I was painting a dry sponge.  We had the walls painted when we built this house...is there some sort of drywall absorption that I don't know about?  Does paint flake off over time and get swept away?  Does paint evaporate?  Did we have bad painters who skimped on the work first time around?

That gallon almost didn't make it through both coats.  I was down to scraping the bottom of the can.

Why do I think painting a room will be no big deal and then it ends up being a TOTAL big deal?  I've spent a day on this and I'm still not done cleaning up and "resetting" the room.  I've got pictures to hang up, a floor to clean and nasty bits of painters tape to scrape off.  And my shoulders hurt.  (Yeah, I totally typed that while using my whiny inner voice--should I have used italics?)  Hu-urt.   That's better.

Where were Opie's kids last night?  And his mother?  That seemed like an uncharacteristic lapse in the flawless continuity I've come to expect from Kurt Sutter.  Ashley Tisdale's guest role makes me applaud her agent.  Brilliant crossover role from Disney, isn't it?  Drama teen queen/fashionista on Disney TV to prostitute on Sons of Anarchy. I do so like Jimmy Smits as Nero.

My manuscript project got rejected.  I've come to expect that, sadly.  And I'm sitting on a really good novel, but I can't get anyone, not even my literary agent, take a look at it.  All this rejection makes it even less appealing to sit down and grind out revisions on my current manuscript.  Writing is desolate stuff, I tell you.

But I'm having another good hair day, I've got leftovers in the fridge so I can skip making dinner tonight and it's kind of nice outside, despite the fog.

Spill it, reader.  What questions do you have? 

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mystified

Generally I'm happy to give it--whenever people call for surveys and polls I'll offer up my two cents' worth. Sometimes I like to mess with them (come on, who doesn't?), but generally I mess with them simply because I'm a mother of faith with a Master's degree and pretty liberal politics. Environment, poverty and health care rank high on my agenda; banning gay marriage, gun rights and crime aren't big problems--at least not the way politicians think they should be. I want women to have reproductive rights, I think immigrants should have equal access to jobs and education, I like President Obama, the government should spend less money, I think Sarah Palin's a shrew. These opinions skew against my race, religious beliefs, income and education level--I can practically hear the wheels turning when the pollster goes on to ask the next question.

So imagine my delight when I got called by the Gallup Poll people a couple days ago. The Gallup Poll--the pollsters of all pollsters, the cream of the crop.

Things started out normally enough--they asked what issues concerned me most (see: environment, health care, poverty, clean energy) and then Gallup asked me to rank "other important issues" on a scale of 1 (not at all important) to 5 (very important): gay marriage, abortion, crime, economy, blah-blah-blah.

Gallup moved on to gleaning my attitude about various people in the news, President Obama, Nancy Pelosi, John Boehner, Glenn Beck (really? Why him? Why not Jon Stewart? Oprah? He's nobody and I told Gallup as much, not that it registered because they only want my opinion within their perimeters--kind of like when I ask Mr. D if I look okay in a certain outfit and I only want him to say "yes").

Then Gallup began to ask me about religion. I thought I knew where this was going--they were trying to find a link between politics and church-goers. I replied that I attend church at least once a week, faith is important to me, I believe in God (or a higher being). (I tried to clarify that faith is very important to me, religion notsomuch, but again that probably didn't register. Pollsters do not appreciate nuance.)

And then?

Then it got weird.

Gallup wanted to know if I believed in angels. Hell. The devil. Ghosts. Spirits. UFO's. Life on other planets.

Really? UFO's? ESP? I kept waiting for them to ask if I believed in fairies, but they didn't.

And then I didn't even get to say what religious affiliation I was because it wasn't even an option--the closest I could get was "Protestant."

After exhausting the God/spirit/voodoo category, Gallup asked me to rank my feelings about the NBA. The NHL. MBA. NFL. What was my favorite professional team?

Spill it, reader. What in the world do you suppose Gallup was trying to find out? The link between Democrats who believe in UFO's and love hockey? I am stumped--and kind of rethinking my opinion about Gallup after this experience.

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pumpkin surprise

Every Halloween since I was four (I imagine) I've carved a jack o' lantern. I'm kneeling on the basement or kitchen floor atop a couple of layers of old newspapers with a metal spoon and a big orange gourd. The guts get piled to the side, the bottom of the pumpkin is scraped and scraped.

Those early years my father carved my jack o'lantern face for me to my specifications. When I got to college, I deftly stabbed through the squash's flesh myself. As my offspring increased in number, I carved more jack o'lanterns. Happy faces, silly faces, scary faces, mad faces, and frightened faces. I carved ears, noses, eyes, teeth, hair and even a beauty mark.

And every year I discover that the instant my hands go inside that pumpkin to disassemble it's guts, my hands break out into a raw, red, itchy rash. Every single year.

I can eat pumkin without any adverse affect. I can touch the smooth skin of a pumpkin without trouble. But my skin is allergic to pumpkin guts--have you ever heard of such a thing?

And every year I wash and wash and wash my hands after the carving is over to restore my skin to it's natural condition. The price we pay for holiday pleasures.

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spongeworthy

Being small-framed has its advantages, except when it comes to buying certain undergarments. Too big around for a training bra, too small for a conventional B cup (even though that's what the Perfect Fit People tell me I should be wearing), too modest for a sheer cup, too shy for Wonderbra-style stuffing. What's a girl to do? My battles to find the Perfect Fit are legendary. I've tried A, AA, B, A/B. Over the years I've tried Victoria's Secret, Playtex, Gap Body and Warner. I've waged war against slipping straps, bunching cups, gaping cups, chafing under the arms and the bra that inexplicably rode up my torso every time I twisted my body. Implants might make bra shopping less of a chore--but it'd be cheaper and less painful to have bras custom-made--if there is such a thing.

A year ago I found a t-back bra at Target and by golly for less than $20 it FIT! The cups didn't gape or buckle and they were lined just right. I loved my discovery and it pleased me so to slip it on. It had a front clasp, the straps never slid (advantages of the t-back straps) and the soft cotton fabric didn't chafe. With support I could count on, I felt confident and alluring!

And then? My bra disappeared. Seriously. We do not lose things in this house. The clutter is minimal, stuff is organized. Yet I cannot find this damn bra. I shook out drawers, laundry, towels and turtlenecks in search of the Perfect Fit. No dice.

How can my underwear simply disappear? It defies logic. Two months have passed and my bra has not turned up. But I've learned my lesson--I was foolish to buy only one. Every woman knows when you find something that fits just right--jeans, shoes, bras, swimsuits--you buy the rack so you're set for life. And you buy the rack just in case they stop making it! If you see a woman pushing a shopping cart full of t-back bras through Target later today, that'd be me, stocking up for the rest of my life.

What have you stocked up on just in case? Or worse, what should you have stocked up on?

***
I've mentioned what a joy it is to have Mr. B as my son--he's trouble (I caught him sniffing gasoline when he was 3 years old), he's expensive (his plumbing issues have cost us $1000), but he brought home this comment on his report card yesterday with all high marks and it made me burst with pride:

Mr. B has shown improvement in several areas and has a strong grasp of basic skills. I look forward to his enthusiastic attitude and stories each day.

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who knew?

Last night Mr. D and I eagerly tore into season two of Doc Martin, anxious to see our curmudgeonly London surgeon's new adventures in Portwenn, England. Mr. D had ordered seasons two and three from Amazon.com.UK per my request for Christmas (good man) and we inserted the first DVD into the player.

A message to this effect came up on our TV set:
This disc will not play in this region.

Huh? I studied the back of the case. I reinserted the disc. I compared the fine print on the case to the fine print on Kung Fu Panda (yes! A new record--my obsession for this legendary film is becoming legendary--the stuff of legend indeed). No mention of region on Kung Fu Panda.

Mr. D couldn't figure it out either--we always thought a disc was a disc was a disc. Apparently not. Are DVD players made differently across the Atlantic? The DVDs are.

But don't panic--my brilliant husband told me to fire up the laptop. He put in the disc and after the notice came up again that the disc could only play in region 2, he clicked a couple of times and reformatted the Windows Media Player on my laptop. THEN my genius husband hooked up my laptop to a screen projector that he carts around in his car for when he does demos of software for his job. We lay in bed watching Doc Martin on our bedroom wall--it was positively lovely.

But we'd still like to know the story about regions and DVDs--any of your Brits out there willing to tell this Yank why this is? Season three has the same fine print, so we'll be watching it on my laptop as well ...

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Strange Discoveries

* The missing power-charger-cord for my new videocamera that I thought we left behind in our Walt Disney World resort--FOUND! In Mr. D's duffel bag. I knew we would not have left it behind after going through the rooms 5 times double-checking to make sure we had packed all our possessions. Of course Mr. D grabbed it and stowed it. And now I can videotape my children in all their Christmas festivities. Whew.

* A cat dingleberry on Mr. D's side of the bed while looking in said duffel bag. Ew.

* Boy Scout "iron on patches" don't iron on. And they take a needle made of steel to sew on.

* For months Mr. D has been telling me that the Fed should lower interest rates for middle-income homeowners so they can refinance and free up cash which would then stimulate the economy because these are people who would increase their consumer spending (as opposed to stimulus checks to low income people whose spending would either remain steady or go towards already-incurred debt). Did you follow that? Anyway, this morning NPR had an expert explaining why the government is finally doing just that. Mr. D: Economic Genius? Predictor of Mortgage Rates? Smarter than the average Fed analyst? Quite possibly...

* A pile of my jewelry "hidden" in the play room alongside a stash of plastic weapons. Methinks Team Testosterone has been pillaging.

What strange things have you found lately, reader?

Reminder: FIVE chances to win on Friday. Don't miss out.

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Strange Gifts

I've never understood why my parents bought me a gorgeous leather baseball glove for my tenth birthday and never signed me up to play Little League. I still have that glove and use it to play catch with my sons, but I cannot fathom giving them a present like that without the follow through of an opportunity to use it. The following Christmas I knew for certain a package held a soccer ball for me. I opened up a strawberry-shaped carrying case for Strawberry Shortcake dolls. My disappointment must have been obvious, but neither parent thought to ask what I'd hoped to open that morning. To this day I cannot understand my grandmother's train of thought when gave me an electric razor and a giant plastic dolly for Christmas the year I was twelve. (My cousin, a year younger, got accessories for downhill skiing.) For that matter, the hot pink velor lounge suit with a cowl neck given to me by my other grandmother for my thirteenth birthday still seems like a gift more appropriate for a senior citizen playing shuffle board on the Love Boat.

Mr. D presented me with a terra cotta flower press on my birthday a few years ago. He seemed to believe that as a gardener, I'd have a sudden urge to kill my blooming flowers and what? Decoupage' a table top with them? Out of an entire catalog of garden supplies, that was the best he could come up with? In 1996, my mother-in-law gave each of her children and their spouses $100 gift cards for Christmas. My sisters-in-law opened gift cards to Barnes & Noble, Younkers and Dillard's. She gave me an amaryllis bulb. No gift card. Not an oversight either, upon investigation. I'd somehow given her the impression that I hated gift cards so she didn't get me one.

It's possible that I'm very hard to read, difficult to buy things for. What stings is how I've never overlooked these slights--and I don't bear grudges by nature. But these memories of strange gifts, inappropriate gifts, gifts so far off the mark of what I'd have loved to receive--I carry them with me. They are markers of how people who should love me the most, know me the best, are unable to see me clearly. And I wonder, how can that be?

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The Strange Powers of Professor X

The year was 1992. I attended college in one town and worked/lived in another. Back in 1992 we'd fill out a 3X5 index card at the beginning of each course--name, address, phone number. I always used my parents' phone number because it had less chance of changing mid-term on me. (We also stood in long lines with slips of paper to register in person for our classes--remember that? It would take ALL DAY. Kids these days have no idea.)

Among the courses in my schedule that spring was "Ethics In Biotechnology: Prometheus Unbound." My professor was very thin, pale as paste, looked like he celebrated his hundreth birthday thirty years ago and as if wearing his black academic robes to class wasn't enough, he also carried a staff. Not a cane, kids, a staff. This man was an expert in everything gothic and creepy--and his courses reflected this. "Gothic Fiction" was his other infamous offering. In his office he even had a stuffed raven. Spoooooo-ky.

The class focused on Mary Shelley's brilliant Frankenstein (which, if you have not read it? Stop reading my piddly-ass blog and grab yourself a copy NOW! To this day, no other woman achieved what she did as either a writer or a thinker. You--yeah, I'm pointing to you. Get your hands off the DVD. Kenneth Branagh and Robert Di Nero are no substitute for the real deal. Get the book.) Where were we?

Ah yes, spring, 1992. I toiled away at understanding how man's overreaching can result in unexpected ethic and moral consequences. Class debates whirled around stem cell research, infertility treatments and plastic surgery. The professor commanded the discussion with his strong yet creaky old man voice, his loose sleeves flowing like bat wings while he paced in front of the room.

I drove back to my apartment one Thursday afternoon--I rented the upstairs of an old farmhouse at the time. I parked my booty on the couch and began toiling at my homework. I had a conference scheduled with Professor X the following morning about my paper for his class so I had to get a substantial draft written. My phone rang.

Kids, in 1992 nobody but the very rich and famous had cell phones. Back then, everyone was still connected by a twirly cord to the wall. Some richer people had cordless phones, but their range was only to the back yard. This is important to remember.

I picked it up and it was Stella, my co-worker from the bar. "Kristy's sick and she was supposed to come in at four to work tonight. Can you come in and wait tables?"

The bar was out of the question, but the dining room closed by ten. And a slow Thursday could put me back home by nine--plenty of time to finish my paper and get a decent night's sleep before my early morning conference. "Sure. I'll see you in a bit."

Closing my books, I grabbed my sweatshirt and headed down the rickety wooden steps built off the north side of the farmhouse and hopped on my mountain bike. My ride to work was brief and I took over the dining room from Stella, grateful for the chance to earn a little unexpected cash. Kristy looked up dolefully from where she sat on a stool, her belly now huge with expected child. "Go home!" I exhorted her. "You look awful."

Kristy waddled off, Stella gave me the tickets for the two tables seated in the dining room and I took over. Waiting tables was easy money, plus on Thursdays there was a high school kid to do the dishes. Score!

Around seven I was called back to the kitchen for a phone call.

A phone call? Who'd be calling me here? I hadn't told anyone I was called in to work last minute. Hell, I didn't even have an answering machine to leave forwarding information to anyone calling me! These thoughts swirled through my head while I walked the length of the building to grab the receiver from the dishwasher. I leaned against the greasy wall feeling the spicy heat eminating from the pizza ovens and lifted the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Green Girl, this is Professor X. I've been called to do a television interview tomorrow about Friday the Thirteenth since I'm somewhat of an expert on these things. We'll need to reschedule our conference for a different morning."

At the end of the conversation I hung up the phone in shock. How did he know I was here? How did he even know I worked here (40 minutes away from campus) and besides! I'd been called in last minute.

When I returned home after my shift, I called my parents to see if perhaps Professor X had called them first and they somehow led him to me. That would make sense, theirs was the contact number I'd given him. No. They had not.

The question remains: How did Professor X track me down?

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