I’ve been having weird robot dreams lately. My monkeys are apparently robots. Two nights ago, I dreamed that an online diarist fell down some stairs and as I was pouring Bactine on her wounds, I realized that she was actually a poorly constructed robot, as her leg was ripped open to reveal a support system of rubber bands and PVC piping. Then last night, I had another wacky dream with all sorts of crazy hijinx ensuing. In this one, I was a slayer of some kind, perhaps vampire slayer, but also definitely a robot slayer of some sort.
We were based out of my departed great-grandmother’s backyard (because everyone knows that robots can be kept at bay by the presence of a small white picket fence) but Thomas Jane was there as a lawyer (for the robots? Robots hire lawyers?), trying to get an injunction against my endeavor to rid the world of said evil robots. He was wearing a really nice suit and then we did a sort of slayer fight which was also choreographed like West Side Story and actually had swelling background music. At one point, I grabbed his belt buckle to pour Dasani down his pants (because what kind of slayer could efficiently slay if not properly hydrated? There would undoubtedly be cramping and also bad skin), thus ruining the silk, and then my hand brushed his incredible six-pack and I said oh-so-fetchingly ‘Ooooh, do you do crunchies?’ Because that’s how I flirt in my dreams, apparently, by treating a guy like he’s my best girlfriend. And he perked his eyebrows and flexed his arms and said ‘Why yes, several each night.’ I batted my eyelashes ‘Really! How many? Four or five?’ He kicked some dirt at the ground to indicate that he was Aw Shucks-ing and said ‘Well, more like seven or eight times.’ ‘Really! Seven crunches a night. You are a super hero!’ I replied, with Dasani still poised gracefully above his belt buckle, then ran my finger up his abs again and said, ‘Yes, very, very nice.’ And then I filled his pants with water (oooh, total ejaculation symbolism) and then we continued to fight, but it was very apparent to all witnesses (robots and my slayerettes) that the sexual energy was thick and that this was an extended metaphor wherein fighting equals sweaty grunty sex. And also, Adam Baldwin was there, as Jayne from Firefly, and it was a whole love triangle, as he had a crush due to my superior kicking ass skills, and I was all aflutter about Thomas Jane and wouldn’t give Adam Baldwin the time of day. And that right there is how I knew that I was dreaming. Thomas Jane isn’t good enough to lick the soles of my shoes, while Adam Baldwin makes me start frothing at the mouth.
I’m not sure why I’ve been having reoccurring dreams about robots. Perhaps they symbolize something else which is evil and my subconscious just spins a movie villain wheel and comes up with robots. Or maybe my dreams got misrouted and somewhere not to far away, there’s a mystified curvy girl dreaming about being attacked by roving gangs of bats and also women who are clearly not wearing bras and clearly should look into getting them.
The other night, Esteban was in the living room watching television and from the kitchen, I asked him what he wanted to do about dinner. He didn’t respond. I asked again, louder this time. Still nothing. I asked a third time.
Finally, he responded, ‘Did you just call me ‘Commodore Von Poopenstein?’
I tried to suppress my guilty laughter. ‘Um’. No?’
He has been hell to live with ever since. I’ve offered to buy him a Commodore’s hat, but it just perturbs him more. Men. So irrational sometimes!
So I learned something very important about myself yesterday. And I don’t like it one bit.
Ok, the story:
I was driving to work, really not looking forward to it because my coworker is psychotic and I’m afraid that it will start to rub off and I will likewise become psychotic and then we’ll start flinging feces at each other over the walls of our cubicles like howler robots. But for some reason, a 33.8 oz cold bottle of Dasani makes me happy. Mostly because apparently I will stick it down your pants if you piss me off. So I pulled up at a gas station, grabbed two five dollar bills out of my flippy Jackie O red wallet (which also makes me happy, every time I flip it open and especially if I do so and there is money inside waiting for me), walked into the store, grabbed two 33.8 oz bottles of Dasani from the cooler, grabbed some Altoids Cinnamon breath stripy things (because cold water and a sparkly hot fire mouth is my anti-drug), walked up to the counter and the cashier totaled my purchases and replied ‘Five Twenty Five’. Perfect, except that both pockets of my jeans were empty. I checked my hoodie pockets. Nothing. I checked my back jean pockets. Nothing.
I wandered around through the store, retracing my steps. Nothing. I ran back out to the car and grabbed a twenty dollar bill from my wallet, checking under the car and in the seat to see if my money was there. It wasn’t. It was possible that it had fallen out of my pants, because I was wearing the baggie Hottie jeans and things tend to fall out of the pockets if I’m not careful, and it was possible that someone had found the two bills and scooped them up and didn’t say anything. At least five guys had walked through the store in the three minutes I was in there. And that thought upset me more than the fact that I was out $10. One of the lovely things about living in Green Bay is that people are inherently nice and honest. The idea that someone would have slyly picked up money that someone else had obviously dropped without saying ‘Hey, did anyone drop some money?’ was just so low and dishonest that I didn’t even want to think that it was a possibility. Except now it was a probability because two $5 bills don’t just disappear.
I walked out of the store and passed the trash and then remembered that I had scooped up my Starbucks receipt and some miscellaneous trash to throw away before I walked into the store. It was the kind with a top and a swinging door.
With two fingers, I pushed the door open and spied my refuse down at the bottom. The can had obviously been recently given a new bag, so it wasn’t that full and contained only paper or cardboard. I grabbed the receipt I had thrown away off the top and uncrumpled it. Nothing. I sighed and went back to the car. But still, the idea that someone took off with the cash was bothering me.
I got back out of the car and took off the lid. Sitting right off to the side of the pile was $5.
I snagged it and knew that the other one must be in there as well. I braced myself, moved the discarded cardboard from a Pepsi twelve-pack and saw the other bill down on the bottom. I carefully extracted that as well, put the lid back on and then realized that I had just dug through garbage for $10.
Had you ever asked me that before, I would have probably told you a much higher number. Like, at least $50. Several hundred if it were moist garbage and significantly more than that if it were stinky or wet garbage. Ten dollars. My only excuse is that I really didn’t want to believe that someone would have picked it up and pocketed the money.
By the way, are you going to Journalcon? Are you? Are you? Because if not, I am going to have the best damned swag EVER! Seriously! In fact, it might be so good that it may not be fit for public distribution and have a limited run, lest there be heads exploding when the recipients contemplate how completely fucking awesome it is. Because I wouldn’t be able to handle the guilt. Oh, and I haven’t figured out what I’m going to wear, but damned if I don’t have my suite party planned. All I will say is Lemon Drops, bitches, Lemon Drops and Sin. And Pimp Hands! Dayam!
The comments section wants to know what the weirdest thing you’ve ever done for cash.
(Also I have this probably irrational fear that someone is going to post that they once stuck their hand in puke to pick up a safety pin, so if you did, please refrain from sharing. I still see spots when I think about some of the ‘This one time? In my vagina?’ stories.)
