Everyone seems to be looking for my subtext recently. I don’t know what that’s about. I’m usually What You See Is What You Get girl, so it’s a weird turn of events. I am not that deep, people. Candy? Is that candy? Can I have some of your candy?
So yeah, I was chatting with a friend, a very cute but very married friend, and mentioned that I had had a dream about him in which he was rehearsing for a movie in which he would be portraying John C. Reilly. He felt this was appropriate, as he does indeed sort of look like John C. Reilly, perhaps in dim light and also a light fog. We talked about the musical Chicago and then I said that whenever I see a movie with John C. Reilly in it, I get a little crush on him, which is absolutely true. And then my cute but married friend said to my cute but married self ‘So, by following the logic, does that mean you have a little crush on me too?’ And things like this happen because this whole game-playing thing is very befuddling, and I sort of accidentally find myself in these situations and stumble around like a bull in a china cup. I responded that he was so awesome that I’m sure everyone has a crush on him, which was just, you know, lame, but better than what I almost said, which was that my crush on John C. Reilly is ephemeral and lasts pretty much until the movie is over and he is out of sight, out of mind.
And also, I think I’ve mentioned this in the past, but sometimes, I sleeptalk. This is not the same as talking in one’s sleep, because I appear to be awake, except that I’m not, and am usually very confused or confusing. Once I wanted a pillow, but kept calling it ‘the butter’. Because it was soft and lovely, so I guess that makes sense. Last night, Esteban came in and I was apparently very confused about what he was doing there. I don’t remember what I said but I do remember Esteban getting irritated with my babbling and finally said ‘Weetabix, it’s Sunday night’ which apparently resolved my concern on the matter of his appearance in our bedroom. I think that I either thought that he was still at his parents’ watching the dogs, as he did two weeks ago, or that he had already left for Europe, which is happening next week. Regardless, it was just more of the same in the verbal salad that is my own personal nocturnal emission.
This morning, I was drying my hair while he was in the shower and suddenly remembered a glimpse of the conversation the night before. I’m never really sure if I was dreaming or not, so I asked him about it. He chuffed ‘Yeah, you were blathering to me about something.’ Apparently, it made so little sense that he didn’t even bother to remember it. I laughed and said, ‘I don’t know what I was saying. I was just really confused why you were here. I apparently thought you weren’t supposed to be here.’ To which he replied, ‘Aha, Ms. Freud, did you now?’ Because he likes to think that he’s so clever. Except that this cigar is just a cigar, Herr Doktor. Or, maybe a pillow of butter.
So the Weetacon is coming up and my head has been awash with craziness. I think my pre-trip anxiety is just pre-event anxiety, as I am not actually going anywhere this time and yet, full on freaking out. On Sunday morning on our way out for pancakes, Esteban asked what I was thinking about and I spouted about three things that I needed to remember (need stickers to finish name tags, must send in bus contract and payment, and have to remember to bring ice to the sleigh ride for drinks). He reminded me that everything will turn out fine and that I worry too much about details, ok? Ok? I responded, ‘I’ll try not to. I think I forgot to rinse the toothpaste out of my mouth, though.’
Esteban started chuckling and then pulled into a gas station, where he hopped out of the car and got me a Dasani, so that I could get the Crest Minty Fresh out of my mouth. This is a sign. When I stroke out over swag bags, y’all can look back to this and nod your heads knowingly. A sign. Right there.
Never in my adult life have I left toothpaste foam in my mouth for what was apparently ten minutes and not realized it. Normally, I’m so eager to rinse and spit that if I wait too long, I’ll gag. What kind of space-time continuum was my brain in to forget to rinse. Pants? Was I wearing pants? Or had it just slipped my mind.
I had also forgotten to brush my hair. Have the aneurysm specialist on speed dial.
I’m trying to relax today. I’ve decided that there will be some things that will be forgotten, because I’ve got a freelance project that is through no fault of my own, inexorably late, and also my story is due tomorrow and also Abby’s dance recital is Wednesday, which leaves only Thursday for mass paranoia and pandemonium and almost no time for my forty-five minute episode of cold sweating and hyperventilating. And I haven’t the foggiest idea what I’m wearing this weekend, and what is more, whether I’m going to have the wherewithal to coax Esteban to trim his ZZTop starter kit beard before the weekend. Magic 8 Ball says ‘Ask Again Later.’
But that which does not kill us, makes us stronger. And to prove Nietzsche right, there was a very formidable black spider on my kitchen ceiling last night and what did I do? Call my husband, who was across town? Ignore it and hope that it would die from the social insult? Burn the house down? No. I did not. I calmly grabbed the very last single sheet of paper towel on the roll (and not the standard thirty sheets that I would normally grab for such a task) and reached up and squashed it. At which point, it disappeared, either into the wad of paper towel or perhaps into the recyclables or maybe into my hair. And instead of doing a dance to the choreography of ‘Psychosis #12’ and uttering the phrase ‘Unnnnggggh! Uuuuull!’ at frantic pitch, I calmly wadded up the ball of toweling, potentially crushing the phantom spider inside it, then pushed the wad deep into the garbage. Look at me, all adult! Ok, then I went into the bathroom, stripped, and took a shower in which I shampooed my hair three times, but still, very impressive, non? I should also mention that I went to Target this weekend and spent less than $20. Behold and be amazed.
Speaking of hair, I had an appointment with my stylist on Friday. I needed a touch up and wanted to stay more or less with the color I received from another stylist while my stylist was on maternity leave. My directions were as follows ‘All over chestnut, with highlights and lowlights up one shade and down one shade. No blonde. Save the blonde for summer.’ Then mentioned that I was going for subtle highlights, sort of like J.Lo. And her ass, too, but that’s a whole other subject.
My hair is now the color of espresso and also blonde. Subtle, non? I showed my sister, who also goes to the same stylist and she laughed and laughed, because the blonde is definitely blonde and it seems really random. And then she explained that she’s nervous about her appointment because she colored her own hair, and knows that our stylist is going to be mad. And there we were, two wholly competent women who were getting worked up about what our stylist was thinking about us. Are we not paying for this? And tipping generously? Gah.
So I don’t know what I’m going to do about my hair. I guess I’ll just live with it. No one has really commented on it, which I suspect means that it looks like crap. Or that there’s a spider up there, making shushing motions with its little legs.
