My husband is not psychic. NOT!

I can't explain how strange it is to have my husband walk in the door from work and say, "Does the word "(insert the password to your blog here)" mean anything to you? Okay, you're saying right now, big deal, maybe I use my cat's name as a password and he just figured it out. Ummm, how about NO. How about it's a really obscure word that he didn't even know the origin of.

I can't explain how strange it is to have a dream about an ex, and to have my husband turn to me days later and say, "You had a dream about ___, didn't you?"

I can't explain how strange it is to have my husband next to me, watching television, and suddenly hear him say three seemingly disconnected words. I ask him what that means, and he shrugs. Ten minutes later, there's a newscast on the tube, and the spokesperson uses those exact same three words in conjunction with the story.

I can't explain how strange it is to live with a man who constantly does things like this, and when I call him psychic, he yells, "I AM NOT PSYCHIC!"

Yeah, okay..... whatever.

Hey honey, it's almost time for that great show, "Medium". Bet you already knew that, huh?

Got The Runs? Me Neither.

Saturday, February 19, 2005

Have you ever noticed the way people in movies are always running somewhere? And usually in shoes that you would never, ever run in. In romantic comedies, there’s always the scene where the guy is running for the train, which he will miss, which will cause a whole string of horribly romantic, comedic events, which make the movie. But how many people do you know in real life that have ever, even once, actually broke into a flat out RUN to catch a train? I’m sure that somewhere, once in a while, it happens. Just not to me or anyone I know.

Then there’s the chasing/finding someone scene, in which a female character takes off running down a city street in high heels to catch up with the boy she’s just turned away, then belatedly decided to keep… and if she doesn’t break an ankle first, she’s going to take it all back and make the mushy, tear-jerking declaration that ends the movie. Come on. In real life, what woman is going to risk her new Pradas to tell some floppy-haired geek that she reeeeeeeally reeeeeeally does love him after all? In real life, she’d grab a seat at an outdoor café, open her purse, and grab her cell phone. She’d call him and tell him to meet her at the café, and she’d have his latte waiting for him when he arrived. Bingo.

There must be something sadistic in all of us, for the running scenes to be such an important part of our moviegoing experience. Most normal people hate to run – but we sure enjoy seeing other people do it, especially wearing inappropriate clothing for the sprint. Gives us some smug satisfaction to watch people in awkward situations, out of breath, frustrated, uncomfortable, out of shape, and trying to get someone or something that they most often could have gotten by either being on time, or being honest with someone in the first place.

A MidWinter Morning's Dream

Friday, February 11, 2005

Had the oddest dream this morning – after waking up at 6:30 when my husband got up to go to work.

I was on a farm of some sort, and there was this old blue pickup truck that pulled up in the yard. There was a young blond guy with long, thick, wheat-colored hair halfway down his back. He had a young, vague hippie looking chick with him who seemed either to be his girlfriend or his lapdog or his sister, couldn’t tell. As soon as I saw him, I was half in love with him.

Later in the dream, we were riding around in this really old car with a woman and a young girl – and someone else, can’t remember. It was a station wagon, and he was in the very back part, lying on his back. The rest of us were in the various seats of the car. We stopped somewhere and let someone off at this commune house where there were cots all over the front porch with kids flopped out sleeping on them. One of them had a funny sign sitting on his stomach, but right now I can’t recall what it said – it was two words, I know that much.

Once we’d let off a passenger, the blond boy got out and I asked him to sit up front, directly in front of me – so I could touch his hair. He was very intense and looked right through me, smiling the whole time, like he knew how it was between us.

Then it got dream-weird for a while, and the dashboard of the car was REALLY huge, stuck out in front an impossible length, and the woman driving had a whole cooked chicken sitting unwrapped up there, and a bunch of other food, lettuce and junk, all obscuring the windshield. She was also a horrible driver, and I was reaching up trying to move all that shit out of the way so she could see to drive. We were in a town, and there was a guy with a classic car at the curb – the suicide door was open, and this crazy bitch driving the car I was in was inching forward, about to hit the open door of the other car. I kept telling her it was there, but she couldn’t see it. At the last second before we would have hit the door, the guy in the classic car starts to pull away from the curb, moving forward, but the woman driving our car swerved to the right at the last second and caught the tail end of his car, snapping his bumper out of shape. He was already in moving traffic, so he went up and turned around to come back. The blond boy and I got out of the car, and at that point became disassociated with that part of things.

Next thing I know, we were in a hotel room, talking. He had been gone for some time during the day, and had just joined me there. He was telling me, still smiling, that he had been thinking of banging my brains out all day, and he started kissing me and I buried my hands in his hair. We were in bed, and his body was hard and muscular, completely smooth, like marble. He was ready for me, and he was big. His cock contrasted strikingly – red and rigid against the white skin of his body. I kissed him again, and I started to laugh, but ruefully. I told him I was married. I said, “I wear the rings, see? I can’t go through with this, but I really, really like you.” He sat up, and I could see a prison number tattooed on his collarbone, don’t think it was there at the beginning of the dream. He threw back his hair and laughed, shaking his head like “isn’t this just my luck” and headed for the shower. I noticed there were two little hippie type kids in the room, both girls – they had been hanging out in the kitchen during our bedroom interlude, apparently.

The blond boy came out of the bathroom with a baggie full of vitamin pills and some weird hippie/vegan/soy powder in a bag, and we walked barefoot to the kitchen while he made some sort of health milkshake out of it all. I asked him about the prison number tattoo, and he said that some things were better forgotten. Then I got a flash of a picture in my mind of him in uniform, and I asked him if he was in the military. He said yes, in Viet Nam. He didn’t look older than 22 or 23 in my dream, but I had to believe him. It occurred to me that maybe he was not like the rest of us, someone from somewhere other than earth, someone who didn’t age, didn’t live by the same rules as anyone else. He kept patting the heads of the little girls, and I kept trying to find out their names and whose they were, but he never answered me.

At some point, I realized that all my stuff was still at college (!?!) and the final semester had ended, finals were all over, but I still had to pack all my shit up in my pickup truck and get it home… as a matter of fact, I’d only had three days to get it done, and I’d just spent two of them mooning around with this ethereal blond boy who was much older than he seemed.

The alarm clock ringing was almost a relief.