I had the most disturbing dream in the world yesterday morning. It involved New Orleans, the corpse of Lou Costello and ear candles. And somehow it all made sense. Except that Lou Costello didn’t die in New Orleans. Even so, I totally felt like I was in some fucked up episode of Six Feet Under, except without the lickable abs of one Mister Peter Krause.
And then (and THEN!) I cruise over to read Monty’s latest and who does he mention? Lou freaking Costello.
Who is on first, my friend. Who is on first indeed.
(insert creepy ‘I’m being followed down a spooky staircase by Frankenstein’s monster’ music here)
Lou Costello was only 5’3′. Did you know that? Doesn’t that seem, I don’t know, insanely short? Maybe it’s because I’m 5’9′ but it seems positively wee.
Maybe that’s why in the dream, Lou Costello’s soul (which was really that of a Civil War-era slave slash voodoo priestess (hence the NOLA connection) named Marguerite) jumped into my body. Because of all the extra room to stretch. Lou Costello’s soul wanted space to put in a sun room. Maybe a nice gazebo for tea.
Esteban has his 14 hour trip to Virginia today. He had to leave at 4 am this morning. He wanted me to drive him to the airport, but I pointed out that if he drove himself, his truck wouldn’t even be there overnight, and thus, he can drive himself. Also, the idea of getting up at 3:30 am makes me vomit.
If I haven’t mentioned in the past, I’m a firm believer in universal karma. Karma bites my ass every time I am anything less than a perfect little girl scout. Thus, this morning, as I got up and tarried around trying to figure out what to wear (for some reason, the ability to turn on the bedroom light while I got dressed made me completely indecisive and change my clothing four times) and wonder why every single one of my Dayam!Bras chose this very morning to have one of the underwires pop through and try to skewer my boobsicles, I wasn’t really thinking about my karma. No. I was congratulating myself on scoring an additional three hours of uninterrupted snore-free, blanketed, non-jostly sleep (which, by the way, was Costello-free). And then, after I finished getting dressed, I put on my shoes and then went to warm up the car.
But where are my car keys?
And then there was no need to even ponder the question, because I already knew with a sick certainty that my car keys were in my right coat pocket which was in the coat which was currently sitting in the back seat of my locked M in the driveway. And the only other set of keys was at a nice cruising altitude of 35,000 feet somewhere over Kentucky. The spare keys which would have been sitting on Esteban’s dresser had I just gotten my lazy ass out of bed and driven him to the airport.
Nothing like a little ‘wah wah waaaah’ soundtrack to make your morning complete.
But what to do? What to do? What would someone else do? Someone who isn’t clueless, someone who has lived alone even four or five months of their adult life? What would they do? Call in sick? Tell your boss that your car keys have been outsourced?
I plunked down at my computer and looked up locksmiths in my area. There was one less than a mile away. I called. He said he’d be right over and it would cost me $25. So I called work, told them I’d be a little late, and then sat down and consoled myself with MTV and many many thick slices of toasted sourdough schmeared with chopped cherry jam.
Problem solved. Lesson learned. Karma, you win.
This round, anyway.
