Found this in my inbox this morning from a local newsgroup that I guess forages for info from other cities: Bloody Hell! If I saw something like that in the road, I'd come to a screeching halt for fear of ruining the undercarriage of my car! Um...last time I encountered one, a speed bump was kinda *rounded* and *smooth* on top, and not as steep. Looks like this would cause accidents, not prevent them. And what about the cry wolf effect? Pretty soon residents of that area will come to think all images like that are illusions, until three pointy dangerous triangles actually fall off the Pyramid Delivery Truck...

Labels: This Boring Life

I was in an old building like a library, walking down an open staircase. I was holding onto the rail on the right hand side so i wouldn't slip. A woman (dark haired, dark eyed, white and bitchy looking) was coming up on my side of the stairs. She would not move over, even though she probably should've (she was on the "wrong" side of the road, so to speak, unless we were in England). I continued to descend the stairs and practically ran right through her. She gave me a crusty look. I said I was sorry. There were a pair of shoes on the stairway which were black with thick high heels. Somehow I knew these were the bitch's, and I kicked them down the stairs. Then, because I did this, (and I don't understand this part), I was granted access to be a part of a discussion talking about who to cast (like in a movie or on tv) as the presidential nominees. There was a lot of blah blah back and forth and I somehow realized that was WPR playing in the background IRL. There was some guy who resembled John Travolta who kept lobbying for his preference of John McCain being portrayed as an idea or concept instead of by an actual actor. (WTF?) I was trying to tell them that I wanted John McCain to be played by the cartoon character Mr. Magoo. But I never got my say.

I don't remember us discussing Barack Obama.

Labels: Dreams

I saw this butterfly while I was outside taking photos of cactus flowers. When I came close to it with the camera it flew into a wheel well on our van to hide. I took some photos of it there, but was unable to get an image with its wings open.

There's a lot of controversy about the New Yorker cover featuring an illustration of Michelle and Barack Obama as militant Black Panther and Muslim, respectively. Now it is obviously intended to be satire, but it borders a very fine line between what is satire and what could be *perceived* to be a slur.

Labels: Politically Incorrect

The previous post made me think of some other clothing I had as a child.

In first and second grade in Massachusetts we had both our individual photograph portraits taken as well as a group ensemble class photo outside on the steps of the old school. These were done on different days. My mom, who liked to sew and thought she was saving Mr. Scrooge money by handmaking clothing, sewed me a fairly awful dress when I was six. It was made out of bluish grey cotton and was extremely plain looking. I couldn't complain because I feared I would be murdered, due to past experiences of complaining and being lectured to and yelled at. Pretty much, I had no say and no objections to anything as child--at least I didn't VOICE the objections much--for fear of being murdered.

I wore this homely dress to my first class portrait in first grade. I can't remember what dress I should have been wearing to the second grade class portrait. See, something happened with the photographer's film. It got exposed, or ruined somehow. So no one ever saw those photos. Instead, we had to have our pictures taken a second time. And somehow, no one knew--at least *I* didn't know--when that second time was going to be.

Because I lived under a Scroogian dictatorship at home, I didn't have a lot of clothes to choose from. Shatters your preconceived notions of an only child, huh? Dresses I wore one year had the hem taken out for the following year. And when there was no hem left, there could be an extra row of fabric to sew on. That plain blue-grey dress that my mom made had that happen to it. An extra row of fabric with some brick-a-brack was sewn on. I hated brick-a-brack. It's so cheap and peasant. Who on earth ever thought that was attractive? So one day in second grade I was wearing that altered ugly dress that I had worn for my first-grade group photo, and SURPRISE! The photographer was there to take our second grade class photo! I had on the same bloody dress I wore to the first grade class photo!

Who on earth in this country--in the 1960s, mind you, not during the Great Depression--has two class photos wearing the same clothes two years in a row? It's not that my parents were so evil that I only had one dress to my name, or that they knowingly made me wear the same dress on group photo day. It was just that I had so few clothes that the odds were so favorable of being caught wearing the same dress on two different days.

But it wasn't all bad. My parents bought me, off the rack, not special ordered with lots of money invested, just off the rack, a new dress for First Communion (thank GOODNESS my mother didn't attempt to sew it). Here is some of the foreshadowing of my Atheism. All of the other Catholic girls I went to the dreaded Sunday School with wore white dresses to their First Communion. These dresses of theirs were intended for one purpose only, and that was THE dress they wore one day only, the day they would become the virgin child-bride of Christ. Maybe an older sister or cousin wore it to her Communion, and maybe she would hand it down to a younger sister, but those dresses saw no light of day other than on the Holy Child Wedding Day. And the tradition would continue down through the ages of virginal white child brides of Jesus. But not me. My dress was pink. There was no tradition there. My mom didn't go to church when she was young--how I envied that and wished I could've enjoyed that privilege. There was no one to inherit a white Communion dress from, and no one to hand it down to. My Pink Communion Dress saw secular days as well, birthday parties and other times when I felt like dressing up. My Pink dress said screw tradition, screw virginal child brides, screw white. It was what marked me in a crowd of colorlessness and shocked the other Catholic parents with their matching white child brides. It said, "she walks among you, but she is not one of you." It said, "in a crowd of blank canvases on which to paint your Dogma, here's an artist who is already painted, painted with a Pink Scarlet Letter, painted with her own Stigmata...you can't touch this, you can't touch it, so don't even try 'cause she tries to spin around and snatch her Guardian Angel to kill it. She doesn't want her Guardian Angel, she'll have none of that White, she's Pretty in Pink."

I don't think my parents realized what a radical thing they were doing. It wasn't a specially ordered dress for that "special day" nor was it a hand-me-down dress that was steeped in a tradition of other Communions from older sisters before. It was just an off the rack dress. It was secular. That dress had no faith and no tradition. And best of all, it was PINK. They innocently thought a pastel pink dress was a nice change from all the white. Although their naivete about other things has driven me up a wall--how could they be so clueless about so much--this was a fortunate sort of cluelessness. Although none of my peers made fun of me because I wasn't wearing white, deep down I knew my dress was different. And I liked it.

Labels: This Boring Life

When two things happen at the same time, you have to take notice.

When I was a kid growing up in Massachusetts for a couple years, my parents would sometimes get some ice cream that came three flavors to a container. No, it wasn't the usual Chocolate, Vanilla and Strawberry. It was Coffee, Vanilla and Orange. Not only did this flavor combo stick in my mind forever, but the colors did too. There was pale brown coffee which was not at all like the medium pinkish brown of chocolate. There was the off-white of the vanilla, which seemed to have more flavor than the vanilla of the more popular trio. And then there was the orange, a pale orange like a dreamsickle. I'm not sure if this was orange sherbet or if it was orange flavored ice cream. I guess it really doesn't matter.

Now as an only child of two only children, I had no source to get hand-me-downs. But since this was Massachusetts, the area my Dad grew up, he had an aunt (my Great Aunt Helen). One time we went to visit her in Rhode Island and she had some visitors who I assume were related to me very distantly. Either Aunt Helen or someone else gave my parents a few dresses that used to belong to a girl. They seemed rather old in style because these relatives probably wore them quite a while ago, but one I liked because it had the same exact colors of that Coffee, Vanilla and Orange ice cream. It had a vanilla top, coffee bottom, and orange trim and sash.

One time I was wearing that exact dress when my parents took me to a store. I had long blond hair, and a store clerk told me I looked like Alice in Wonderland. I was too young to read the book myself, but I did have the book and was familiar with John Tenniel's illustrations. Yes, I did look like Alice.

Although I outgrew the dress by the time we moved to New York, I think we were still able to find the ice cream. But by the time we moved to Colorado, it had disappeared off the shelf. Was it a regional specialty like Moxie? Or was it something from that era that disappeared at the dawning of the age of Aquarius?

I was playing around with essential oils today and realized I have those exact components...Coffee, Vanilla and Orange. So I created a blend...very gourmand. Yum. When I get to the point of offering scents commercially, that will definitely be one of the first.

Labels: Scents, This Boring Life

IRL I woke up in the middle of the night at an hour I usually don't wake up at. I was breathing erratically and crying from a bad dream. I don't know if that's what woke me up, or it was the storm. I got up anyway because the storm was loud and I wouldn't be able to sleep anyway. And I recorded this dream.

It was one of those horrible feelings like I was still in school, not even college, but school...like junior high especially the way the people treated me. I was looking at a map because Stan and I were driving up to LaCrosse for dinner. It was winter, and it was a similar feeling like driving up to Appleton to be part of an art opening (which happened IRL years ago). The route on the map looked like it went up north to Appleton, not northwest to LaCrosse. Why would we drive to LaCrosse...or Appleton just to eat dinner? Weird. It was also like those dreams where we drive NW of Fort Collins and it's snowing...that reoccurring dream. Anyway, I'm not sure if we arrived at our destination or not, but we're in a restaurant and we come across a friend (who IRL has been the cause of a grief for me in the past few week...although I don't think *he* knows that). In the dream *he* was acting extremely stuck up to me. He was in the restaurant with a hetro couple...like they were the new Ann and Stan, except younger and more fun and not as serious as the real A&S are now. And with shorter brunette hair. I could not engage *him* in conversation. *He* would not talk to me. There was something about a scarf in the dream, but I can't remember what. Stan was able to talk to *him* a little. I asked Stan what was wrong with *him* and he said that *he* wanted to not be bothered by me, like I was soooo bothersome. *He* was sitting at a big booth with this couple and there was plenty of room for Stan and I to join *him,* but *he* didn't want us there (it was soooo 6th grade), so Stan and I got a booth by ourselves. I was really upset because *he* was being so non-communicative, but really upset because it was something about ME and I didn't know what I had done! I told Stan that if I were in his shoes, I would be defending me in front of *him*, but Stan was pretty indifferent about it, which made me feel even worse because he was supposed to be chivalrous and defend and support his woman. It's not that Stan was on *his* side, it's just that Stan didn't care.

This whole dream is really symbolic for stuff happening IRL. Substitute the het couple for a boyfriend perhaps, substitute the junior high attitude for prescription drug addiction and a deteriorating mental condition, substitute adolescent immaturity for premature senility. Who knows, I woke up just bursting in tears.

I don't know why I'm so upset, but it pisses me off. *He* says *he's* afraid we're drifting apart, but we're not the ones who are drifting, *he* is. We're always here, where is *he*? We're not the ones not answering our phone. We're the ones who take initiative, we're the ones who called on *his* birthday, not *him* on mine. Is it the drugs? Is it the child who never became a man but who is instead becoming an old man? Why do I torture myself over this? It's late, I should be asleep. It's still storming. I'm watching the weather channel. I don't know how Stan can sleep through this. I wish I was more like Stan.

Labels: Dreams, This Boring Life

Background: Stan and I watched the Arzt got blown up real good episode of LOST the other night. This morning on WPR while I was sleeping they were talking about firecrackers/works safety and maybe they should be banned. OK, enough background, here's my early morning dream:

Stan and I went into a store to buy some dynamite. The salesman was an old codger, maybe in his 60s, quiet silent type, short shorn greyish white hair, fairly tall, wrinkly...didn't look like anyone I could compare to, but maybe some old geezer working in ma and pa gift shops out west. We only bought one stick. He took it out of a box and dipped a paper towel in a pan of water, then wrapped the paper towel around the stick. Then Stan put it in his backpack. We then put it in our trunk (we don't have a trunk!) Then I was thinking, "Why did we do this? What are we going to do with this now?" I was afraid to touch it, I was afraid of Stan touching it. Stan told me we would put it in some garage...this was a garage of a relative of his...some older detached garage. I was hoping it wouldn't explode before we got to the garage. I was freaked out the whole dream...good thing it was a short one.

Labels: Dreams, LOST

Will the current constant stream of Guest Stars just dying to get into one of Ann's dream ever subside? Now I've even got directors after me.

Guest Starring Francis Ford Coppolla and Martin Scorcese

I dreamt that we were in a new house or condo or something that Stan's mother bought. It had high ceilings, but the rooms were small, which actually accentuated the smallness of the rooms. She was commenting on that too, saying that she liked the other place better. (then why move?) There wasn't a "guest area" like in her current duplex, so if we visited, we wouldn't be able to stay there. I told her that, and then Stan smiles and motions me aside to talk to me in another room. As we're leaving the earshot of his mother, the phone rings and he answers it. It's for me, he says, and it's Francis Ford Coppolla. IRL I would have been immediately taken aback, but upon quick contemplation realize it was a joke. No, not in dreamland. What do I do? I ask Stan if he can take a message, as I'm wracking my brain wondering if I wrote something in my blog to offend him. Stan shakes his head and shoves the phone at me. As I start to talk to him, I can also see him (where?), and it looks more like Martin Scorcese. The odd thing is that he has this weird blue dye in his teeth which makes his mouth look really odd. This Martin Copolla is talking about some new series he's directing on one of the premium cable channels, which is making me feel uneasy because we don't subscribe to the premiums, so I wouldn't be able to comment on any previous episodes he might have produced. He says that their writers are at a standstill with ideas for the show (like a another strike, perhaps?) and he was wondering if I had any ideas about a show with an elderly woman who's getting too old to manage an entire house by herself but too young to go to a care facility. I thought this extremely ironic, and I tell him that we were just having a situation today with my mother-in-law. I start to tell him an idea using Stan's mom as inspiration, but then I woke up. Bummer. It would've been interesting to see where that phone call headed.

Somehow, this is like the dream that eats itself.

Labels: Dreams

With special Guest Stars: John McCain, Anthony Bourdain and Steve Buscemi (wow! that's a lot for one dream!)

You can't make this stuff up. Dreaming it up is another story, however.

Sleeper Revisited: I was in a strange one-story spread out house that was in need of some repair. There were other people there, no one I knew IRL except in the dream. For some reason, John McCain was in another room, and I think he was someone's old relative...some uncle or something. He was doing some work underneath a dug-out area of the house, and then it collapsed on him, severing his nose from his face. I assumed it killed him because people were talking about removing the body, what to do about the body, what to do about the nose. (Well, why don't you clone it? Wait, maybe not...) I was worried that because he was dead, the nose would start to smell. !PUN!

Nutty Bits and Naughty Bits: Then I was standing outside on a wooden deck that had lots of shelves and cupboards with unusual condiments and spices. It was sort of like an outdoor kitchen, yet it had so much stuff it was also like a store. I wondered whose stuff it was, then Anthony Bourdain walks into the room. I feel rather attracted to him and we start to talk, I'm trying to flirt with him. There's a hot tub on the deck and we're watching as a squirrel is leaping around on it. The squirrel then transforms into a human, who happens to be...you got it...Steve Buscemi. Here comes the disturbing part. Since the squirrel transformed into a human it didn't have time to change into human clothes so it is still wearing its squirrel fur and squirrel skin. It's sort of bare on its underbelly and as it's leaping around, I catch a glimpse of Squirrel Steve's genitals...and there really aren't any to speak of (OK, remember his character "Mr. Shush" in "Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead" and think about genitals...pasty nothingness, right? That was the squirrel). Anthony and I are laughing at this site and commenting like "Did you see anything there?" "No, he had no genitals!" Poor squirrel had no nuts.

Nipples: Then there was a short part with me changing my clothes in a women's restroom and walking around with pants but no top on. And finally, I was with Stan and he had no shirt on. But instead of a slight breast bulge as all men have, Stan's breast area was concave! His nipples were also really pale...like no coloration. I was wondering if something was wrong with him.

This dream makes the one with Sayid in the Bermuda Shorts Business Suit look mundane and sane.

Labels: Dreams