I think I have a brain fog.
Like in Joe Versus The Volcano. Only I have no really attractive luggage and Meg Ryan doesn’t show up in various forms of bad hair.
This morning, I woke up with a start, having just had two variations of my Reoccurring Nightmare. I’ve had that damned thing for at least fifteen years. It sucks.
At least it’s varied somewhat. It used to be the same thing: I was in a house. Usually not the house I was living in at the time. Sometimes it was my grandmother’s house, sometimes my great grandmother’s house, sometimes it was one of the houses we lived in when I was growing up. A few times, it’s been either my old apartment or my house, but not real often. So I’m in this house and someone, for some reason, is trying to get in to kill me. Or rape me. Or audit me. Or give me a bad Mary Kay makeover. It doesn’t matter. They’re outside and I’m inside and they’re trying to GET inside to get me. Sometimes it’s the mob. Sometimes, it’s one of my mother’s exboyfriends. Once it was the 28-year-old I dated when I was 16. And once it was Bozo the Clown. I think that one was the scariest one. He was accompanied by Grimace from McDonald’s.
shudder
Don’t laugh at my trauma, ‘k? It’s not funny.
And often, there are elongated stressful sequences where I’m trying to shut the door, trying to latch it and they’re coming or shoving their arms through the doors at me. That classic scene from Night of the Living Dead right back again. And I’m shoving the door closed or running around trying to shut all of the windows and lock them.
So, two versions of the same dream. First one had to do with some kind of apocaplyptic thing… there were these giant bugs, like in Stephen King’s short story “The Mist” and they were trying to get us. So we were trying to barracade ourselves into this area, but I think I got locked outside the door and I was trying to convince the people inside to let me in. Then they did, but the bugs tried to come in with and we were trying to get the doors closed.
Then I was at a cabin near a lake. And there was swimming. And possibly Jude Law was there, wearing the 50’s swimming trunks he did in The Talented Mr. Ripley. And I was sitting up on the land, watching them swim and suddenly I saw this patch of brown fur surface in the water, like floating brown shag carpeting. Just as I was saying “What’s that in the water?”, up pops an Alaskan Kodiak Grizzly Bear… only sixteen feet tall and six feet wide. And with the taste for a little Weetabix, shaken not stirred. So then I was running into the cabin, trying to… say it with me… shut the door while it was reaching its arm inside to get me. And Jude Law was absolutely no good whatsoever in a crisis. But I suppose that really shouldn’t surprise anyone. You don’t keep men like Jude Law around for their acumen and strength. That’s what Brendan Fraser and Russell Crowe are for.
So… the brain fog is what I’m thinking.
I woke up this morning before the alarm, scared awake by the roaring bear trying to get me, and didn’t want to go back to sleep. But then, maybe it was Saturday? Then Errr Errr Errr Errr of our incredibly annoying alarm clock.
I cannot think of one sound I hate more on this entire earth than the sound of our alarm clock. Esteban never even hears the thing anymore because I pop up out of bed so fast to turn the damned thing off. That and he sleeps like the recently deceased.
I went outside to find that I had lost the pin out of my windshield wiper, leaving me with a bare nub on one side. And it was misting. I tried to rig the blade without the pin, but it didn’t work. I wiped the windshield down with paper towel and started to drive to work, but it was like trying to drive through a stained glass church window within blocks. I stopped at a gas station and squeegeed the window, then popped on the highway, which dried the schmeng rather than having it ripple and distort everything.
Then I had to call Esteban and beg him to fix my windshield wipers.
Because I’m a girl.
Yeah. I know. I disgust myself too.
But he did. With expensive manly blades. And for that I will owe him some wifely task, like possibly precision folding his underwear or maybe just oral gratification.
Oral Sex: when you care enough to…
…nah… I’m not going there.
And you know what pisses me off? I want everything to be clean. I want my world to be lightly scented… possibly like Estee Lauder Pleasures, but I’d settle for that green Downy fabric softener. Instead, my cat is peeing on my living room rug and my bedroom has this ass cloud hanging around since last night.
Not to mention the fact that I dragged Esteban to look at the local car dealer tonight. He took one look at the Saab stickers and laughed heartily, then pointed me in the direction of the Oldsmobiles and Impalas. Barf. Well, at least I have a year for him to marinate on the idea.
Also, I petted the kitties tonight for several hours and then rubbed my eyes. For several hours. Man. Once you get going, even though you know it just makes your eyes itch worse, you just can’t stop rubbing them. Now they’re all swollen and red. Maybe someone rubbed my ass a lot… because that’s rather puffy as well.
And I missed Buffy on Tuesday and can’t find a rip anywhere. If anyone knows where I can get my hands on a download of that, please let me know. I’ll be forever grateful.
