dream post for Rose
I had nightmares all last night. First, a crazy person I know had swelled to eight feet in height and was trying to get at me through the chain-bolted door. The instruction manual said that, to make her go away, I had to throw my cat into another yard. I grabbed my cat and ran it out the patio door, threw it over the fence. She scaled the fence and stared at me through the chain links. “Why are you doing this?” she said. I sighed, because I knew it wasn’t worth explaining, because cats don’t understand superstitions.
Later, the psycho came in and made a magical talking worm start telling me about its depression. Boring!
Last night, I lived in my boss’s house, which is nightmare enough. I couldn’t stop working until a visiting client requested that I play golf. Okay. I got ready. First, I had to check on my boss’s wife’s baby. Then, oh my god, there were giant lizards in the courtyard. Red and gold. I ran to tell my boss and he did nothing. Then, the lizards were growing, became big and ornate like Chinese dragons. Hungry ones. Mean. There were children all around them, laughing and teasing obliviously. The boss’s wife’s baby was heavy on my hip, needed to be put down for a nap. Why was I the only one concerned? Why wasn’t anyone helping?
I think this medication I’m on (cabergoline) is making me have crazy dreams, because I have them every night, all night long.
recent common dream themes
1. I have to live with my boss, or at my workplace. (This means work takes up a lot of my time.)
2. I have two houses, one in the suburbs that I can afford, and a new one in the city that’s beautiful but small and possibly unsafe. I wonder why I accidentally bought the city house, and if I can afford it. (This is related to my desires/fear regarding my day job v my writing career.)
3. I have to deal with kittens or cats. (Used to think this meant responsibilities, but now I think it means creative projects.)
4. I find out my house secretly has a lot of awesome rooms with antique furniture, and I’m excited, but then I find out my ex-husband lives with us and I have to put up with him if I want to explore the rooms. (Same meaning as Number 2, I’m sure.)
And that’s all. That’s all. No sex, no romance, no flying, no chase scenes. Just the same old worries about my work. And monsters. And babies, and kittens. Jesus Christ. That’s why I’m a morning person: I wake up early to escape all that work and get myself some rest.
why I hate Tarot.com
I’m starting to suspect that Rick Levine, who writes the daily horoscopes for Google via Tarot.com, has a Capricorn acquaintance who he hates. A lot. Because I’m Capricorn, and my horoscope is always negative as hell. Even when it’s good, it’s bad. Old Rick finds a way to ruin it for me. Like: “Capricorn, today you will win the lottery and have sex with anyone you want, with no respite. But don’t get too excited yet. Venus is in the Seventh House, which means you should probably look in the mirror and ask why someone who’s as much of an asshole as you deserves anything good at all.”
You know? I need to find another horoscope, that sounds as true but that’s more diplomatic.
classic guilty pleasures
I discovered a new guilty pleasure. Well, I rediscovered a recurring one: Riding in my car alone, singing aloud to ’70s rock songs. This is especially pleasurable now that I have a boyfriend who’s a little younger than me, who therefore can’t tolerate any music without synthesizers.
The other day, on my 1.25 hour commute home, I ran into a good string of singable classic dinosaurs. Led Zeppelin’s “Going to California,” which has nice octave-jumping lows and highs for me. Then Styx’s “Renegade,” which is cheesy as hell, but so awesome to wail along with. Then, one of my faves, Foreigner’s “Feels Like the First Time.”
After that, the DJ says, “And that was Foreigner, number 7 on Rolling Stone’s Guilty Pleasures Band List.”
And I’m like, “WTF??”
So this morning I tell my boyfriend about that, and I passionately declare that anyone who calls Foreigner a guilty pleasure is just a little bitch who’s too afraid of the opinions of others. And my boyfriend says, “I bet Styx is on that list.” And I say, “I like Styx,” and he says, “I know.”
And he says, “I bet Journey’s on it, for sure.” And I think about that and admit, “That would be a guilty pleasure.”
And I brush my teeth, and I think some more, and then it hits me. “I hope Rush isn’t on the list. I mean, I know it has to be. But I really love Rush.”
My boyfriend nods. He knows. He’s heard me sing “By-Tor & the Snow Dog.” He didn’t want to see that far into my soul, but he had to live through it, for love.
So, this morning, I call up the list. And, guess who’s number one.
Damn you, Rolling Stone. Damn you with all the speed of the red barchetta that Geddy Lee’s uncle gave him.
