Crazy Dream & Good News

This past week I’ve had several particularly vivid dreams.  I shall not go into the ones about my flying grandma and the black weasel.  Suffice it to say, they were weird.  I had one this morning that I could easily interpret based on my waking life, so that’s the one I’ll describe.

In the dream, I had been called to the police station for a test.  A skin test.  A sample of the skin from one of my feet was taken.  While waiting for the results of the test, I was required to wait in a prison cell.  It was a messy prison cell, with dirty carpeting on the floor, plus a mashed pillow, and my tennis shoes.  An hour passed, but it didn’t feel that long, and the results were in.  The test came back normal.  When I was released from the cell, one of the officers remarked that I hadn’t whined the whole time I was in there and she was amazed by this.  Apparently others who waited in the cell had whined.

One of the parallels to my life should be fairly obvious.  I have been waiting for the results of a skin test from an itch I had developed.  The good news is that I got the results today and it’s nothing serious, just a chronic irritation.  I’ve been prescribed some steroid cream to help clear it up.

The other parallel, that prison cell, is probably obvious only to me.  I’ve just reread a book called “Party of One:  The Loners’ Manifesto” by Anneli Rufus.  The book discusses loners across the ages and how loners, people who really enjoy being alone, have gotten a bum rap that isn’t fair.  All those sickos who run around offing people for no apparent reason – the ones who are called loners in the press?  They’re not loners according to Rufus.  They’re are outcasts or pseudoloners.  People who really don’t want to be alone, but something about their personality turns people off.

One of the types of loner-hood through history that Rufus describes is the life of an anchoress or anchorite.  An anchoress was a nun who got shut into a tiny cell within the walls of a church.  I mean bricked in, as in never allowed to leave, as in completely dependent upon someone on the outside providing food through a small hole and taking away waste in the chamber pot, as in never getting a bath or shower again.  The point of this cruel exercise was that the anchoress anchored the church and was supposed to protect it against evil.  How eff-ed up is that?  One anchoress described by Rufus stayed in the wall for over 50 years.  50 years!?!?!

Needless to say, the information I’ve gleaned from the book is rattling around in my head and worked its way into one of my dreams.  Eventually, I’m hoping it will work its way into a story.

Super-de-duper Zing!!!

“White Teeth with an Explosion of Fresh Mint”  !!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Exciting Flavor!”  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Sparkling White MintZing”  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Invigorates Mouth”  !!!!!!!!!!!!!

“A Fusion of Natural Spearmint & Peppermint Essential Oils will dazzle your mouth!”  !!!!!!!!!!

“Clinically proven, stain protection formula for sparkling, healthy white teeth accompanied by a unique flavor experience.”  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dear god.  How many superlatives does Colgate think I can take so early in the morning?

Pink Milk Revisited

The funniest, coolest thing happened today.  While at work, I heard someone approaching the front door, stomping on the porch.  He entered and stomped again before I saw him.  It was my co-worker, Ben, and he was carrying a plastic grocery bag.  From the bag, he pulled a quart of pink milk and set it on the counter and waited for my reaction.  I was like, “You didn’t!”  He did!  He brought the pink milk in so I could try it.  I keep calling it pink milk, but of course, it’s really strawberry-flavored.  I had a couple of glassfuls.  Let me tell you, it’s a very sweet strawberry.  The pink milk tickled me pink, especially because it was such a delightful surprise from Ben.

One of these days became today.

Yesterday & Today

Much has happened in the past couple of days, grasshoppers, so it’s time for an update.

Yesterday, just as I was ready to leave work, I got a call from Dear Hubby. He was on his way home from school, 10-15 miles from home and the car stopped working. While he was driving. Professional driver that he is, he quickly pulled off the highway, so he wouldn’t be creamed by a passing motorist. Thankfully, he had the cell phone and called me. We’ve dealt with enough car troubles in the past that neither one of us was particularly upset. We immediately went into solution mode. Our friend Soloist lives in the town he had just passed, so I told him to call her. I figured she would give him a good recommendation for a local garage. Not only did she do that, but she gave Hubby extra special treatment. She sent her son to pick him up, the car was dealt with, and he hung out at her house while I was making arrangements to pick him up.

Meanwhile, back on my end, I had a few things to do before leaving town. I’ve been using the old car, which needs new front tires and has a coolant leak. I’ve been meaning to get the car repaired so that I’d feel comfortable taking it out of town. I dashed to our local garage and made an appointment for next week. Then I ran home, apprised the kids of the situation, and called the in-laws so I could borrow their car. You see, it wasn’t a simple case of just retrieving Hubby. We were heading back to his college to hear Matthew Shepard’s mom Judy speak. As if that weren’t enough to deal with, I got a call from the library saying an item was in for me. I grabbed the tickets for the speech, kissed the kids, ran to the library (3 minutes in the library was all it took), dashed over to the in-laws to get the car, and headed to Soloist’s house.

We had intended to eat at home prior to the speech, but our plans changed right quick. Soloist invited us to a local place for buck burgers. We and she and her son had a pleasant time dining. We were surprised to find that the buck burgers were ginormous for buck burgers and none of us could finish our food.

From there, we drove to the college and made it to the auditorium just as it was supposed to start. There were so many people that Judy didn’t start for another 15 minutes. She’s a wonderful speaker and it was difficult to keep dry eyes for the entire presentation. During the Q&A, one guy got up and sang her a song. It was Judy’s turn to lose her dry eyes.

In the middle of all of this activity, I got a package in the mail. I puzzled over it before opening it because I hadn’t ordered anything and wasn’t expecting anything from Minneapolis. I looked and looked at the package, waiting for something to come to me, jog my memory. Then it hit. This was the hand-dyed yarn that Kim’s friend Devin had made for me for participating in her lamb-naming contest. (Kim authors the blog, Knit Whimsies). The yarn is beautiful. I love the colors, especially the little bit of green that shows up in the field of red. Devin also threw in a treat – Moose Munch Confection. Here’s a picture (click to see larger view):

Okay, I’ve got to wrap this up because I’ve got more going on this evening.

So, today. I had my appointment to rule out cervical cancer. The doctor took a bit of skin to test, so I won’t know for a little while. I got to work mid-way through the day, what with the craziness of not having one car available. We found out that the car that stopped working needs a new timing belt and it won’t cost nearly as much as we thought it would.

Hubby had to pick me up from work and I wanted to get a blog post in before Soloist and I meet for our weekly writing discussion. And I still have dinner to make. My fingers are flying as much as my head. TTFN!

(I’ll try to provide links later.) (Links provided 2/28/2008.)

Editing Finished

I did it.  I finished editing the Greenville series today.  The total word count for all ten stories is 56,171, which is pretty good.  For National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), the goal is 50,000 words, which counts as a short novel.  I just squeaked by.

Next I have to do the layout.  The work continues . . . .

Starter Music

I was watching VH1’s Top Twenty Video Countdown yesterday and noticed how blah and mass market most of the songs were.  Among music aficionados, this is a common complaint – that trite tripe is all that gets airplay and the good musicians suffer in obscurity.

I’m not going to name any names when it comes to giving examples of musical drivel (after all, the Madonna I enjoy might be your fingernails on a blackboard).  The point is that somebody is buying mass market music.  And a lot of it.  It wouldn’t be mass if it wasn’t selling.

As I watched VH1, the thought occurred that much of this music has great appeal to teenagers, who have quite a bit of disposable income for purchasing music.  Without knocking teenagers (I have three), perhaps this type of music is starter music for them.  It’s easy to digest, easy to play if you’re so inclined, and transmits the basics of popular music, from standard chord structures to simple lyric patterns.

When I was a teenager, I remember listening to David Bowie’s albums and not getting them.  I didn’t care for the discordance I heard, or understand what was going on in the lyrics.  The same occurred with a particular TV show.  Monty Python was incomprehensible and just plain weird.   As I’ve aged, I’ve developed an appreciation for both specifically and for more complex music in general.

We may have to grow into the type of music that doesn’t get a lot of commercial airplay.  By the time we do that, we have less disposable income, so the offbeat doesn’t make as much money as the music we listened to as teens.  And then nostalgia kicks in.  The starter music we cut our teeth on is tucked into a special place in our hearts and we’ll repurchase it in an effort to mentally relive that time.  Once again, the mass market music wins out.

One of These Days

Hubby and I were at the grocery store today. Every time I walk past the dairy case, I spy the 1/2 gallons of vibrant pink milk and am tempted. Yes, I know the color is not natural and the milk is probably sweetened and not good for me on the whole. Yes, I know pink milk is not a necessary grocery item and not in the budget. That’s why I haven’t bought any yet. But one of these days, temptation may win out.

Not Quite

There’s a new anti-drug commercial appearing on TV lately.  It’s sponsored by The National Youth Anti-Drug Media Campaign.  It shows a young man at a table in the lunchroom of his school with a box of prescription pills.  He holds different pills up to the camera and explains how one was from his postpartum depression, another from his sciatica, others are from his hysterectomy, or some -ectomy, and another from his hip replacement.

While I understand the point of the commercial – to keep teens from raiding their parents’ prescription drug stash – every time I see the commercial, I want to laugh.  Maybe it’s the smirk on the kid’s face as he explains the pills.  Maybe it’s the female complaints that end up on his list of ailments.  The problem is that the commercial is so funny to me that I’d be tempted to check out my parents’ prescriptions just to see what was there, which, of course, is not quite the message the campaign is trying to send.  Am I the only one having this reaction to the commercial?

You can see the commercial by clicking on the Anti-Drug Media Campaign link above.  When the page opens, you’ll have the option to watch two videos.  Select the video called “All My Pills.”

Towel

Along with writing, liberal politics, ambition, a fightin’ spirit, small stature, and bright-eyed enthusiastic energy, my writing pal soul-sister Soloist and I share another characteristic.

We both have a tendency to drape a drying towel over our shoulders when working in the kitchen. Isn’t that wild?

My family gets irked when I do it because they can’t find the towel hanging on the stove when they go looking for it. I put the towel over my shoulder for the sake of convenience. Why run back and forth to the stove if I don’t need to?

This is just the sort of small detail that I like to incorporate into my stories. Heck, it’s the kind of small detail that can make a story. Imagine a world in which a towel placed on the shoulder for convenience becomes such a commonality that it turns into a requirement. Kind of like putting the hand over the heart when saying the Pledge of Allegiance. What if a towel placed over the shoulder became more than a social requirement – perhaps an inviolable law? What if not wearing one was punishable by death? What if?

I Couldn’t Resist

I’ve added a new piece of writing to The Woo Woo Teacup Journal. It’s a poem that’s Dr. Seuss-esque, although not nearly as good as the great Seuss. It’s called Gloat. You can find it in the sidebar.

The Case of the Missing Spoons

We are missing spoons in this household.  Teaspoons.  The perfect size for eating cereal.  While I hadn’t counted the motley assortment of spoons in our utensil drawer, the size of the pile has definitely diminished.  My other clue is that when the remaining spoons are put into the dishwasher, they no longer take up all the space our full compliment of spoons used to.  Yes, spoons have gone missing.  How many is anyone’s guess.

Where could they be?  The living room, dining room, front entry, bathrooms and basement are spoon free, as is the upstairs hallway/office.  The children deny having any spoons in their bedrooms and there sure aren’t any in our bedroom.  Could the dishwasher be swallowing them?  Maybe the cats are the culprits, stealing spoons for their own devious shenanigans while we are gone from the house.  I’m not sure how they’re managing this without opposable thumbs, but they’re smart, so I can’t put it past them.

It’s a mystery and at this moment, the case is unsolved.

Meanwhile, in other utensil news, have you ever noticed that spoons are sexier than forks?  They’re more shapely and approachable.  Even the word ’spoon’ is sexier, what with that ’s’ and ‘oo’.   I know, I know.  The word ‘fork’ is similar to another four-letter ‘f’ word and could even stand in for that word in a pinch, but a spoon is more romantic on the whole.  And the knives?  While considering the relative sexiness of silverware, I didn’t get around to the knives.  Sorry, you’ll have to follow that line of thought yourself.

It Is What You Make It

Eldest Son had needs this morning.  First he had a short assignment on energy usage to complete for school and needed our latest gas and electricity bills.  I told him exactly where he could find them in the filing cabinet.  Then he needed to find his gloves.  They were in the bottom of the front closet, where’d I’d put them to get them out of the way.  After assisting him in fulfilling these needs, he said, “You have the answers for everything, Mom.  So, what’s the meaning of life?”  (Eldest has a fine capacity for understated cheekiness.)  I said, “That’s something I don’t know,” and then quickly amended that answer with, “It is what you make it.”   And it is.