Tomorrow is New Year's Eve, which means I'll be donning a glamorous red gown and stepping out on the town for champagne and midnight snogging with my dashing . . .
Sorry. I can't lie well at all. My actual plans are much more fun, anyway, and won't involve make-up or corrective undergarments of any kind: The Boy and I are each having two friends over for chicken pot pie, junk food, and board games, and . . . maybe a little Ryan Seacrest at midnight. There are only going to be a few more New Year's Eves when The Boy will deign to hang out with me, and even give me a smooch when the ball drops, and there's no way I'm giving that up.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Weasley is Our King
I give you . . . the Ron Weasley scarf, finished mere hours before it was scheduled to be unwrapped:
My mother liked it, I think, but . . . I don't know whether the ratio of her appreciation to the amount of time/work went into it was what I was hoping for. I love the colors, but . . . I think it ended up being too Aztec-looking, or something. I guess it doesn't matter, though. She liked her other gifts, and my dad loved his stuff (especially The Boy's framed drawing of the car my dad is restoring), and everyone was happy.
I have to admit that I'm starting to like Christmas less and less. Christmas morning with The Boy and his dad was wonderful and happy and peaceful and fun (we spent hours eating cookies and fruit and playing MarioKart and The Price is Right on the Wii), but the rest of the time left me feeling drained. Everyone is too loud, and I'm too likely to take the easy way out and hide on the porch with the old men and the smokers.
Maybe I won't quite say Humbug, but I'm glad, glad, glad it's over, and I can enjoy some silence.
My mother liked it, I think, but . . . I don't know whether the ratio of her appreciation to the amount of time/work went into it was what I was hoping for. I love the colors, but . . . I think it ended up being too Aztec-looking, or something. I guess it doesn't matter, though. She liked her other gifts, and my dad loved his stuff (especially The Boy's framed drawing of the car my dad is restoring), and everyone was happy.
I have to admit that I'm starting to like Christmas less and less. Christmas morning with The Boy and his dad was wonderful and happy and peaceful and fun (we spent hours eating cookies and fruit and playing MarioKart and The Price is Right on the Wii), but the rest of the time left me feeling drained. Everyone is too loud, and I'm too likely to take the easy way out and hide on the porch with the old men and the smokers.
Maybe I won't quite say Humbug, but I'm glad, glad, glad it's over, and I can enjoy some silence.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Happiness
The Boy and I finally put up the tree last night (We have a fake tree because C is allergic to certain kinds of pine, and even though we're divorced I really don't want to see him end up in the ER because of the tree. AGAIN.), and I'm pleased to announce that my idea of loading it up with cinnamon-scented pine cones to repel the cats seems to be a success. And it looks so full and pretty that I'm tempted to leave off the rest of the decorations, and just have it as it is, with lights and the pine cones.
I had a moment of total happiness and contentment last night once we decided to take a break from the decorating. The Boy had been to an ice skating party after school and was tired and getting sort of saggy, so turned out all the lights but the tree, cuddled up on the couch with a blanket and the cats, and watched some of the DVD set about the Steelers' super bowl championships we borrowed from the library.
I was warm and comfortable, enjoying being cozy with my favorite person in the world, on my new couch in a room made beautiful by Christmas lights, and watching a surprisingly interesting and well-made program on TV. I was happy. And I was lucky enough to have recognized it. I may be fat and broke, and frustratingly unable to find a job as a librarian, but . . . my life is a happy one.
I had a moment of total happiness and contentment last night once we decided to take a break from the decorating. The Boy had been to an ice skating party after school and was tired and getting sort of saggy, so turned out all the lights but the tree, cuddled up on the couch with a blanket and the cats, and watched some of the DVD set about the Steelers' super bowl championships we borrowed from the library.
I was warm and comfortable, enjoying being cozy with my favorite person in the world, on my new couch in a room made beautiful by Christmas lights, and watching a surprisingly interesting and well-made program on TV. I was happy. And I was lucky enough to have recognized it. I may be fat and broke, and frustratingly unable to find a job as a librarian, but . . . my life is a happy one.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Still Knitting
This sock yarn is KILLING me.
***
I sat with The Boy and some of his friends to watch the Middle School girls play a basketball game after school yesterday, and one of the boys, J (P knows him as Mutt), remarked to me in a whisper that one of the girls on the opposing team had a mustache. She did, too. A pretty big, full, dark one. J wasn't being mean about it, necessarily; he was surprised and bemused, more than anything.
I said, "Yes, she does. And I can promise you that she feels terrible about it every time she looks in the mirror, and that her parents probably won't let her do anything about for one reason or another, and that the moment she can, she will." He said, "Why wouldn't her parents let her get rid of it?" I told him that it might be because they think she's too young, or because they think she's great the way she is, or that it could anything . . . but that she's stuck with it, at least for now.
He seemed appropriately moved by her plight. Because, really: How crappy must it be to find yourself a 7th or 8th-grade girl with a mustache? My thirteen-year-old self, the one with braces, glasses, and zits, really felt for her.
Then I wondered if I was wrong to feel badly for her. I mean, maybe it doesn't bother her at all? Maybe she's a million times more secure than I was at that age, and she already knows that it's not what you look like that matters, and could do something about the mustache but chooses not to?
Could kids be that much more mature in 2008 than they were in, say, 1984? Maybe?
***
I sat with The Boy and some of his friends to watch the Middle School girls play a basketball game after school yesterday, and one of the boys, J (P knows him as Mutt), remarked to me in a whisper that one of the girls on the opposing team had a mustache. She did, too. A pretty big, full, dark one. J wasn't being mean about it, necessarily; he was surprised and bemused, more than anything.
I said, "Yes, she does. And I can promise you that she feels terrible about it every time she looks in the mirror, and that her parents probably won't let her do anything about for one reason or another, and that the moment she can, she will." He said, "Why wouldn't her parents let her get rid of it?" I told him that it might be because they think she's too young, or because they think she's great the way she is, or that it could anything . . . but that she's stuck with it, at least for now.
He seemed appropriately moved by her plight. Because, really: How crappy must it be to find yourself a 7th or 8th-grade girl with a mustache? My thirteen-year-old self, the one with braces, glasses, and zits, really felt for her.
Then I wondered if I was wrong to feel badly for her. I mean, maybe it doesn't bother her at all? Maybe she's a million times more secure than I was at that age, and she already knows that it's not what you look like that matters, and could do something about the mustache but chooses not to?
Could kids be that much more mature in 2008 than they were in, say, 1984? Maybe?
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Noodle Arms Update
I mentioned yesterday that the kids on The Boy's basketball team have noodle arms, and I sort of stick by that (the combined scored yesterday was 32), but MY kid, well . . . My kid seems to have turned into a beast, and I am truly amazed and thrilled.
You see, I never wanted to play basketball, because the idea of having to get into peoples' personal space to try and steal the ball from them always made me very uncomfortable--especially when you consider that basketball uniforms leave a lot of moist, sweaty, stranger skin exposed. Ick. (Football is different: If there aren't pads, there are at least proper clothes, and you aren't so much invading personal space as you are just plowing people down. In my mind, it's very different, and way less creepy.)
The Boy, though, after a very meek first game, seems to have decided that aggression is okay on the court, and showed none of the pleasant good manners or reserve that he displays generally: He leaped, he grabbed, he intercepted (if you can use that terms in basketball), and he fought for the ball, and strangers' personal space and sweaty skin be damned.
Do you people know what this means? It means that he may grow up to be more sure of himself than his dad and I are. It means that he may be a lot less likely to back down from things. It means that his dad and I may get our wish, because we both believe that we'd be a lot happier if we could find healthy ways to unleash our inner beasts.
Go team!
You see, I never wanted to play basketball, because the idea of having to get into peoples' personal space to try and steal the ball from them always made me very uncomfortable--especially when you consider that basketball uniforms leave a lot of moist, sweaty, stranger skin exposed. Ick. (Football is different: If there aren't pads, there are at least proper clothes, and you aren't so much invading personal space as you are just plowing people down. In my mind, it's very different, and way less creepy.)
The Boy, though, after a very meek first game, seems to have decided that aggression is okay on the court, and showed none of the pleasant good manners or reserve that he displays generally: He leaped, he grabbed, he intercepted (if you can use that terms in basketball), and he fought for the ball, and strangers' personal space and sweaty skin be damned.
Do you people know what this means? It means that he may grow up to be more sure of himself than his dad and I are. It means that he may be a lot less likely to back down from things. It means that his dad and I may get our wish, because we both believe that we'd be a lot happier if we could find healthy ways to unleash our inner beasts.
Go team!
Monday, December 15, 2008
Can't Talk: Knitting
Christmas is in, like, fifteen minutes, and I just started a project for my mom that has derailed everything and is going to take forever. See, my mother loves Harry Potter, and Ron Weasley in particular. What was I to do, then, upon finding this Harry Potter sock yarn in the Ron Weasley pattern?
I can't make socks (not well enough to give them away as gifts--YET), so what to do with the Ron yarn? I'm making a scarf, of course. On #3 needles. And the woman at the yarn store suggested knitting a tube, so I'm using FOUR #3 needles. Which is taking for-freaking-ever. But it's going to be nice. So nice! So pretty! And she's going to love it.
In other news, The Boy (who is now officially twelve) is playing on the Middle School basketball team. No one in the history of my family (or C's) has ever played on a basketball team, so this is cool and foreign to all of us. You should see how cute he looks in his SUPER PURPLE uniform! Super dorks! With noodle arms! Do you know how low-scoring a basketball game can be when all of the boys playing have noodle arms, and therefore miss FAR more of the shots at the ten-foot-high hoop than they make? He's played in one game so far, and I don't think the total final score broke 30. There's another game today--I can't wait. FINALLY basketball that's slow enough for me to follow!
I can't make socks (not well enough to give them away as gifts--YET), so what to do with the Ron yarn? I'm making a scarf, of course. On #3 needles. And the woman at the yarn store suggested knitting a tube, so I'm using FOUR #3 needles. Which is taking for-freaking-ever. But it's going to be nice. So nice! So pretty! And she's going to love it.
In other news, The Boy (who is now officially twelve) is playing on the Middle School basketball team. No one in the history of my family (or C's) has ever played on a basketball team, so this is cool and foreign to all of us. You should see how cute he looks in his SUPER PURPLE uniform! Super dorks! With noodle arms! Do you know how low-scoring a basketball game can be when all of the boys playing have noodle arms, and therefore miss FAR more of the shots at the ten-foot-high hoop than they make? He's played in one game so far, and I don't think the total final score broke 30. There's another game today--I can't wait. FINALLY basketball that's slow enough for me to follow!
Monday, December 8, 2008
Birthday Party #1
December is the month that keeps on giving for The Boy, as his birthday is eleven days before Christmas. It doesn't always work out quite this way, but this year he's getting to celebrate his birthday three times, and the first was a sleep over for his friends last Saturday night.
His dad, C, was here, to supply the pizza and get some cake, and my friend P was here, because The Boy loves her and because I needed an adult to hang out with once C made a break for it, and The Boy's friends M, J, and A spent the night. I had expected to spend most of the evening upstairs with P, watching Buffy episodes with P while the boys played video games downstairs, but I couldn't have been more wrong.
We had pizza, cake, and presents, and then when C left P and I headed upstairs as planned. We had just just started watching Buffy when we heard singing. Loud, off-key, fairly rhythm-free singing that sounded more like drunken carousing than anything else. The boys were playing Sing Star 80s, which is a sort of karoke game I bought myself when The Boy got his PS2. I have no idea why, but THAT'S what the boys decided to start off with. Imagine four twelve-year-old boys on two teams, sharing two microphones, and competing to see who was better at singing songs none of them knew (although to be fair, they ALL knew Eye of the Tiger and The Final Countdown). The only thing sadder (and funnier) than their rendition of Madonna's Material Girl was their attempt at Billy Joel's Uptown Girl. Think of the song, and think of the extended "whoa-oh-oh-OH-ohs" included in it. And then imagine boys who aren't familiar attempting to interpret the textual representations of those "whoa-ohs" and then sing them. Talk about SLAUGHTER. But they had a grand time, despite the fact that you couldn't have paid any of these kids to have taken part in the recent Middle School Musical, and that when they were in Lower School and HAD to be involved in stage productions and musicals, they'd all sort of stand on stage, hands in pockets, looking bored or sheepish or both as they worked their way through the songs. Maybe it was the element of competition that made them enjoy Sing Star? Maybe they'd have enjoyed the school productions more if winners were declared at the end? I don't know, but they really enjoyed their own miserable singing. And the laughing at each other.
The real fun started when one of the kids brought out his little Flip video camera, and the boys decided to make a movie. P and I saw some of the action, and heard most of it, and so pieced things together before getting to view the finished products. The movie was about a sort of bank heist, and opened with J and M playing the robbers. We learned this because they and A, the camera man, came upstairs and asked if we could pause the Buffy so they could pretend to climb in that particular window and thus film the break-in. I duly opened the window (despite the fact that it was 15-degrees outside), but wouldn't remove the screen as J asked me to do. In the words of M, "NO! What if you fall out?" Right.
So P and I were shunted to the side while the break-in was filmed. M played Dog, the tougher, smarter criminal, and J was Mutt, the comic relief. I don't know if the casting was on purpose, but J is a good head taller than M, so they made the classic Smart Little Guy/Dumb Big Guy cartoon team. Filming began with Dog already inside, and Mutt coming through the window. The set up and dialog made it appear that the two were surprised to see each other, as there were greetings and questions of, "How long ya been out?" (The incomprehensibility of the scene, delivered in tough-guy slang and voices, was too much for P and I. We didn't want to be rude, but we were literally doubled over in tears of silent laughter--the kind of tears that make you have to blow your nose and clean your glasses. The boys didn't mind a bit.)
P and I regained control of ourselves and our seats, and then sat in silence while the boys filmed take after take of the scene where they descended the stairs and talked over their plan to break in (again?), attack The Boy, and then not shoot him until AFTER they had THE ANSWERS. (See where that comic relief might come in?)
Things got quiet for a while, so P and I resumed the Buffy until we heard the unexpected strains of Avril Lavigne's I Don't Like Your Girlfriend, which mystified us. We stayed where we were, though, not wanting to intrude on the filming. It turns out that The Boy was a security guard of sorts, and his scene involved waking up to the Avril Lavagne song, and then dancing until the criminals came out from behind a curtain and attacked him.
Dog gave The Boy ten seconds to give up the answers (although I'm not at all sure what the questions were), and then proceeded to count backwards from ten. Again, and again, and again, take, after take, after take. Finally, though, The unyielding Boy was shot by Mutt, and fell silent . . . BEFORE GIVING ANY ANSWERS. And Dog, in his disgust, killed the hapless Mutt and drug him outside. Upon Dog's return, though, it was revealed that The Boy wasn't actually dead. A fight ensued, during which A, playing a robot, killed Dog and then said, "Okay, time to watch Dharma and Greg. The not-really-dead Dog deadpanned, "I hate that show," and took a last shot at the robot, who fell over, spectacularly dead, and . . . Fin.
P and I tossed Buffy aside to listen to all of this from the top of the stairs, laughing hysterically. I think I even peed a little when I heard A mention Dharma and Greg, because . . . WHAT?
I never expected to be so entertained, and I know P didn't either, but it was a spectacle. They tried another movie after P left, this time a Bond film that involved me and my best British Accent supplying the telephone voice of M. I got to end my conversation by saying, "And Bond . . . try not to kill him." Classic! That movie didn't last long, however, and turned more into a lot of mugging and ninja-ing for the camera.
Everyone finally started to get tired around 1am, so I saw to it that blankets and pillows were distributed and went to bed with some Wodehouse. They finally played video games the way I expected to until they shut it all down a little after 2am.
I'm glad I'm off today, because as much as I enjoyed them, I needed the peace.
His dad, C, was here, to supply the pizza and get some cake, and my friend P was here, because The Boy loves her and because I needed an adult to hang out with once C made a break for it, and The Boy's friends M, J, and A spent the night. I had expected to spend most of the evening upstairs with P, watching Buffy episodes with P while the boys played video games downstairs, but I couldn't have been more wrong.
We had pizza, cake, and presents, and then when C left P and I headed upstairs as planned. We had just just started watching Buffy when we heard singing. Loud, off-key, fairly rhythm-free singing that sounded more like drunken carousing than anything else. The boys were playing Sing Star 80s, which is a sort of karoke game I bought myself when The Boy got his PS2. I have no idea why, but THAT'S what the boys decided to start off with. Imagine four twelve-year-old boys on two teams, sharing two microphones, and competing to see who was better at singing songs none of them knew (although to be fair, they ALL knew Eye of the Tiger and The Final Countdown). The only thing sadder (and funnier) than their rendition of Madonna's Material Girl was their attempt at Billy Joel's Uptown Girl. Think of the song, and think of the extended "whoa-oh-oh-OH-ohs" included in it. And then imagine boys who aren't familiar attempting to interpret the textual representations of those "whoa-ohs" and then sing them. Talk about SLAUGHTER. But they had a grand time, despite the fact that you couldn't have paid any of these kids to have taken part in the recent Middle School Musical, and that when they were in Lower School and HAD to be involved in stage productions and musicals, they'd all sort of stand on stage, hands in pockets, looking bored or sheepish or both as they worked their way through the songs. Maybe it was the element of competition that made them enjoy Sing Star? Maybe they'd have enjoyed the school productions more if winners were declared at the end? I don't know, but they really enjoyed their own miserable singing. And the laughing at each other.
The real fun started when one of the kids brought out his little Flip video camera, and the boys decided to make a movie. P and I saw some of the action, and heard most of it, and so pieced things together before getting to view the finished products. The movie was about a sort of bank heist, and opened with J and M playing the robbers. We learned this because they and A, the camera man, came upstairs and asked if we could pause the Buffy so they could pretend to climb in that particular window and thus film the break-in. I duly opened the window (despite the fact that it was 15-degrees outside), but wouldn't remove the screen as J asked me to do. In the words of M, "NO! What if you fall out?" Right.
So P and I were shunted to the side while the break-in was filmed. M played Dog, the tougher, smarter criminal, and J was Mutt, the comic relief. I don't know if the casting was on purpose, but J is a good head taller than M, so they made the classic Smart Little Guy/Dumb Big Guy cartoon team. Filming began with Dog already inside, and Mutt coming through the window. The set up and dialog made it appear that the two were surprised to see each other, as there were greetings and questions of, "How long ya been out?" (The incomprehensibility of the scene, delivered in tough-guy slang and voices, was too much for P and I. We didn't want to be rude, but we were literally doubled over in tears of silent laughter--the kind of tears that make you have to blow your nose and clean your glasses. The boys didn't mind a bit.)
P and I regained control of ourselves and our seats, and then sat in silence while the boys filmed take after take of the scene where they descended the stairs and talked over their plan to break in (again?), attack The Boy, and then not shoot him until AFTER they had THE ANSWERS. (See where that comic relief might come in?)
Things got quiet for a while, so P and I resumed the Buffy until we heard the unexpected strains of Avril Lavigne's I Don't Like Your Girlfriend, which mystified us. We stayed where we were, though, not wanting to intrude on the filming. It turns out that The Boy was a security guard of sorts, and his scene involved waking up to the Avril Lavagne song, and then dancing until the criminals came out from behind a curtain and attacked him.
Dog gave The Boy ten seconds to give up the answers (although I'm not at all sure what the questions were), and then proceeded to count backwards from ten. Again, and again, and again, take, after take, after take. Finally, though, The unyielding Boy was shot by Mutt, and fell silent . . . BEFORE GIVING ANY ANSWERS. And Dog, in his disgust, killed the hapless Mutt and drug him outside. Upon Dog's return, though, it was revealed that The Boy wasn't actually dead. A fight ensued, during which A, playing a robot, killed Dog and then said, "Okay, time to watch Dharma and Greg. The not-really-dead Dog deadpanned, "I hate that show," and took a last shot at the robot, who fell over, spectacularly dead, and . . . Fin.
P and I tossed Buffy aside to listen to all of this from the top of the stairs, laughing hysterically. I think I even peed a little when I heard A mention Dharma and Greg, because . . . WHAT?
I never expected to be so entertained, and I know P didn't either, but it was a spectacle. They tried another movie after P left, this time a Bond film that involved me and my best British Accent supplying the telephone voice of M. I got to end my conversation by saying, "And Bond . . . try not to kill him." Classic! That movie didn't last long, however, and turned more into a lot of mugging and ninja-ing for the camera.
Everyone finally started to get tired around 1am, so I saw to it that blankets and pillows were distributed and went to bed with some Wodehouse. They finally played video games the way I expected to until they shut it all down a little after 2am.
I'm glad I'm off today, because as much as I enjoyed them, I needed the peace.
Friday, December 5, 2008
I Seem to Have Dropped (Nearly) a Decade
I took The Boy to our local EB Games last night (those things are like Radio Shacks--there's one on every corner now), because he wanted to trade in the video games he doesn't play to make room for what he hopes will be plenty of new ones coming for his birthday (a week from Sunday) and Christmas. He also wanted to see if he'd get enough in trade to be able to get a new (used) game for free, so he and his friends would have something new to play at his birthday party sleep-over tomorrow night.
It turns out that he got more in trade than he'd anticipated: He got his new game and a Wii zapper, and still has credit left to buy anything he might not get for Christmas. But that's not the exciting thing, and it's certainly not why I'm telling you this story.
The guys who work at our EB Games are really nice, and even kind of flirty (with me, not with The Boy--they're just nice to him). So they were checking my information to update The Boy's frequent buyer card, and after confirming my address and stuff, the guy said, "And your birth date is January of 1980?" 1980?!?!? I was born in January of 1971! I don't care if the guy was blind, stupid, lying, or whatever, but he didn't bat an eye at the notion that I was 28 years old! I have no problems with the fact that I'll actually be 38 next month, and I'm always bothered by the importance our culture puts on being/looking young, but I have to admit that I was flattered.
So that was nice. Especially when my boy is about to turn twelve. (Which, the astute among you may have noticed, means that next year my son will be a teenager.) I try not to think about that, though, because my mind can't grasp the physics of how my child could be a teenager when I myself was a teenager like, fifteen minutes ago. Perhaps I've been spending time hanging out near a black hole without knowing it?
It turns out that he got more in trade than he'd anticipated: He got his new game and a Wii zapper, and still has credit left to buy anything he might not get for Christmas. But that's not the exciting thing, and it's certainly not why I'm telling you this story.
The guys who work at our EB Games are really nice, and even kind of flirty (with me, not with The Boy--they're just nice to him). So they were checking my information to update The Boy's frequent buyer card, and after confirming my address and stuff, the guy said, "And your birth date is January of 1980?" 1980?!?!? I was born in January of 1971! I don't care if the guy was blind, stupid, lying, or whatever, but he didn't bat an eye at the notion that I was 28 years old! I have no problems with the fact that I'll actually be 38 next month, and I'm always bothered by the importance our culture puts on being/looking young, but I have to admit that I was flattered.
So that was nice. Especially when my boy is about to turn twelve. (Which, the astute among you may have noticed, means that next year my son will be a teenager.) I try not to think about that, though, because my mind can't grasp the physics of how my child could be a teenager when I myself was a teenager like, fifteen minutes ago. Perhaps I've been spending time hanging out near a black hole without knowing it?
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Dream On
I have been having a veritable bonanza of crazy dreams lately, featuring such celebrity guest stars as Roy Scheider (scary dream that featured elements of The Abyss), Ronald McDonald (terrifying dream, which co-starred Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, and in which Ronald McDonald HAD NO EYES), and Lance Bass (In that dream, The Boy was jealous and pissy because he thought Lance was being too flirty with me, and I had to say, “Um, you should worry about how much attention Lance Bass pays to DAD, not me!”).
I dreamed recently of my Uncle Tom’s ex-wife’s brother’s son, who I’ve probably met twice in my life—both times before my uncle’s divorce circa 1981. I dreamed about the scary, chainsaw-wielding guy from the commercial that tells parents about the ability to block television programs so their kids can’t watch them. I dreamed that Mimi Smartypants was pregnant (and sent her an e-mail to tell her so, just in case).
I dreamed about being on a softball team and having to join the team in lugging an enormously heavy king-sized bed frame to the field, and that the coach parked blocks away despite the fact that there was a parking space RIGHT WHERE WE NEEDED TO PUT THE BED.
I don’t even know what to say for myself. I believe I have moaned/yelled loudly enough that I have scared The Boy, whose room is a good ten yards away from mine, twice.
My subconscious is clearly trying to tell me something lately, but I have no idea what.
I dreamed recently of my Uncle Tom’s ex-wife’s brother’s son, who I’ve probably met twice in my life—both times before my uncle’s divorce circa 1981. I dreamed about the scary, chainsaw-wielding guy from the commercial that tells parents about the ability to block television programs so their kids can’t watch them. I dreamed that Mimi Smartypants was pregnant (and sent her an e-mail to tell her so, just in case).
I dreamed about being on a softball team and having to join the team in lugging an enormously heavy king-sized bed frame to the field, and that the coach parked blocks away despite the fact that there was a parking space RIGHT WHERE WE NEEDED TO PUT THE BED.
I don’t even know what to say for myself. I believe I have moaned/yelled loudly enough that I have scared The Boy, whose room is a good ten yards away from mine, twice.
My subconscious is clearly trying to tell me something lately, but I have no idea what.
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