I was in the grocery store yesterday in the frozen food section when I saw a guy who looked familiar. I couldn’t place his face, but my eye caught his just for a second before he averted his gaze toward some product.
Before I could smile with a nod of recognition, a conversation started out of his mouth. I then figured he was probably on one of those handless bluetooth phones, although I didn’t see anything sticking in his ear. So I pretended to look at some of those miniaturized frozen TV dinners that I’m never buying anymore, as I waited for him to finish his phone call so I could catch his eye again and say hello.
Dogs are amazing, sometimes. It’s as if they know things, or know not to do things. Or know even if they’re doing something bad, not to do it bad all the way and to leave some good left in their badness.
Over a month ago, I had that Corneal Specialist appointment (no new news…same old nodule thing as a decade ago). While getting checked in, they set me up for that online mychart thing where you can view (some of) your health information online. I had to then sign up when I got back home. I stuck the info in my purse and forgot about it. I found it a few days ago, and probably put it on the coffee table, thinking I’ll get to signing up for it eventually. Continue reading
I was having this mental pity-party-in-my-head yesterday as I was helping Lamar and his family paint our parent’s house. Seems like I’ve been doing a lot of painting lately, first with Melanie’s a few weeks ago, and now this. But I don’t mind the painting itself, and Mel, Trish and I did have a good time.
I can’t remember this dream too well. I was with about 3 other women, two of whom I did not know and were maybe 20 years younger than me, and the other was someone I used to know in Madison. It was night and we were all going out to bars down on Atwood.
OK…someone, please claim this dream because it isn’t mine. It’s an orphaned dream about 30 year old women barhopping on Atwood near Schenk’s Corners. Anyone?
I guess we had pushed the limits of our ethnic food comfort zone.
Stan and I both love pickled herring, which is probably weird enough for your typical American Pepsi drinking, Ding-Dong gobbling, Cheetoh crunching isolationist, whose idea of ethnic food is a microwave burrito. I was first introduced to pickled herring when I was a kid, most likely at a Smorgasbord sponsored by the Volvo dealership where my dad got his fist Volvo. Since I liked it, it was probably later bought on a trip to my grandmother’s where my mom could spend a little more freely, not being under the austerity measures of my dad. But don’t quote me on that. I really can’t remember when I was introduced to it, not that it matters.
I was in some studio at some art building. I don’t know whether it was CSU or UW. There was a room divider like the white kind they had in the big painting studio that they also put still life setups against, except this one was sort of structured like a pyramid. There were a bunch of photos plastered on it. I remember scaling it, climbing it. I also had to change into some one-piece shorts/dress that I wore about 16 years ago and it was way too small for me. I was trying to change in the studio behind another room divider, but people kept coming in the room and I didn’t want them to see me in various stages of undress. There was also a professor there, some old buy, but I don’t know who it was.
Last night Jasper started chasing Apollo through the halls. The way Apollo was acting, I thought maybe he was barfing. Sometimes the dogs chase the cats when they barf in order to, well, you know. Apollo was growling as he ran. I never heard him growl like that before. Jasper chased him up the stairs and he continued growling. It was odd behavior, so I went up the stairs to see what was going on. The door was closed upstairs, fortuantely, otherwise the chase would’ve continued up there to potentially disastrous results. Apollo was at the top of the stairs. His mouth looked odd, like it was dark. Now my eyes aren’t that good, so I couldn’t see it too well and I thought maybe it was open and he was going to barf. He tried to get away from Jasper more, and jumped into the window on the landing. At that point, he was a little more in the light and then I saw what was going on. Continue reading
I dreamt Stan and I were at Russ and Lamya’s. The house was large and multi-leveled, but didn’t look at all like their house. We were sitting on a couch and talking and then I noticed that Russ had his left arm amputated below the elbow. How horrible! I didn’t want to ask about it because I was afraid it would be rude. I was thinking they must have told us about this before, but I didn’t remember. Then Russ was looking at my arm and said, “Just because you don’t have bruises, doesn’t mean you weren’t abused.”
Stan has a few days off so he’s working on the house. I had to go to the post office, so I took the car and went to Target. I was coming home on Fair Oaks when I saw this big dark thing in the sky. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a plane and it was huge. I mean the mother of all planes. And dark. I keep thinking that maybe it’s just the angle I’m seeing it. And it’s going slow and it has its landing gear out. It looks really wide. And dark. And although it is obviously traveling towards the airport, it seems to be hovering, or going slower than planes usually go on that flight path. I slow down and watch it. Fortunately there was not traffic behind me. But it seemed like oncoming traffic was going slow too, like maybe everyone underneath it like I was, was staring at it.
This is one of those famous guest star dreams with a caveat. Usually those famous people pop into my dreams out of the blue, like WTF, why am I dreaming about so-and-so? But there’s a reason for this one. Around 4 am I woke up and turned on the radio and the Beeb was doing a spot about Jimi Hendrix. I didn’t sleep through it, so yeah, Jimi was not-so-subliminally implanted in my sub/unconscious.
As I was heading back from my Dr. appointment in Pueblo, I needed to stop and get some gas and use the bathroom. I stopped off at a Loaf ‘n Jug to take care of business. I couldn’t help noticing that the clerk behind the counter looked amazingly like my ex. I mean double-take looked like. I had to stare at her to make sure it wasn’t her.
Went to eat Chinese the other night. That’s about the extent of ethnic restaurants in my town. Mexican doesn’t count as ethnic because it’s practically the majority culture. Went with my little brother and his wife Nina. We were going to meet a friend of his there—someone he’s known for a long time in town—and his wife. Much to our surprise, there were 3 people sitting at the table when we arrived.
Oh yeah. That’s right. Someone thought Uncle Leon needed a date. No, really, I’m handling this single life quite well, but everyone seems to think I’m a sad charity case. “Leon needs a good woman.”
Amber is still after me about her lawn. Since it’s getting late in the season, I’m trying to postpone it until next year in hopes of her forgetting entirely about it, which shouldn’t be hard for her short attention span.
I don’t believe this is about the lawn. I think she is after something else from me, and I don’t know what it is. I have my suspicions, but that’s all they are, based on my own paranoia. I don’t think she gives a crap about the lawn. It’s not like she ever planted flowers there before. But of course flowers cost money and that would eat into her various habits. And I certainly don’t think it’s about being climate and region appropriate and eliminating the need for watering. I think it’s all just about Amber, and how she wants something that Ashley was offered, and trying to get it just because she can. I could be offering Ashley some used rags, and Amber would want them too.
Amber is the type of woman who tries to live off man to man to get by in this world. Not a prostitute—something more insinuating.
This is deeply disturbing that she would go after a relative. Yes, I know, I’ve said so myself, I am not related to these people. But that still doesn’t make me fair game!
I’ll try stalling. Maybe I’ll feign a sprained ankle. Or maybe I’ll tell her I’m just too busy with the pumpkins harvest. Then, after growing season, the ground will be too cold to work with.
I hope this plan works.
Last night after I heard about the death of Steve Jobs, I was too saddened to write anything about it other than the short previous entry. Whether you’re a rock star at the age of 27 or 40, or a genius inventor at the age of 56, it’s too young. Steve Jobs was like a rock star in the guise of a nerd. Or maybe that’s the other way around?