I dreamt I was lying on the White House lawn as part of the Tourists Tan for America war fundraiser. I shared an unremarkable patch of lawn in a forgotten corner of the grounds with about thirty other people but had the coveted corner spot.
A woman I knew in college approached me. We had parted on less than ideal terms, so I had a small moment of "what do I do" panic. To my surprise she picked up as if we'd never stopped talking. Or at least, as if she never had. She danced a hula around the recumbent bodies on her frequent trips back and forth to the fountain to refill her giant water-spritzing bottle. She spritzed as she sat across from me getting reacquainted, spritzed the air and herself as she traveled, and evangelized. "You know," she yelled from a five-yard distance during one refilling expedition, never breaking the conversation, "spritzing keeps your skin years younger. It's been clinically proven."
Her mom and daughter were on their way, she told me, and we needed to save space for them. She indicated a spot between her towel and mine and then got up to refill her spritzer yet again. I was immediately uncomfortable. On this lawn, with space at a premium, she was asking me to reserve a significant chunk of the choicest real estate without a habeus. It was going to be tough and I hated conflict. As if reading my mind, Kelly Ripa and an equally TV-ready but unfamous brunette began inching into the space my newly reinstated friend had vacated.
"Take the corner," I offered, moving into the space my friend's mom theoretically would inhabit. At least then we wouldn't be separated. Kelly's eyes shone her thanks. A man at my feet shot me a look of utter shock and respect.
"Chivalrous," he said. I smiled.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
"I had the pear dream again": a US history lesson
Some people claim they dream more if they eat a whole pizza before bed.
For me it turns out steak and an episode of Kids in the Hall does the trick. It was the first season, possibly the first episode ever. I haven't seen that show since I left Canada over a decade ago.
Last night I dreamt a miniseries. Part one is a history lesson that has the same irrationally uber-realistic quality as my all-time favorite KH skit in which one of the characters sits up in bed and exclaims, "I had the peeeeaaaar dream again." End scene. A one-liner that good needs no elaboration.
I was seated outside at a long table planted at a slant in a grassy field. About twenty people eating dinner in suits and skirt-and-sweater sets. It was my wealthy east coast family and my mom, descendent of the deserting black sheep (my grandmother, not present), was on my left.
"That's Andrew," she pointed across the table slightly to the right of a severe-looking black-clad woman earlier introduced as my great-grandmother. "Andrew" looked like a grandmother himself, though one not so tall and gothic. "He" had curly white hair, a slight frame, wore a long sweater dress, and giant granny glasses over watery blue eyes. He was my great-grandmother's financial advisor. "He had your wedding dress made," said my mother.
I remembered the beautiful off the shoulder gown. It probably would have cost several thousand dollars off the rack. I had always wondered where my mother got it. "Did anyone ever try to pay him back?" I was feeling angry and guilty.
Mom waved the air with her fork dismissively, "They make frocks like that all the time; look around." My newly introduced second-and-third cousins milled around the dinner table with champagne cocktails and a rainbow of discreetly tailored jewel-toned satin dresses.
I could hear the tone in my mother's voice, though: be grateful for the connection she had to these quality people. I owed her now for pulling her family strings to contribute to my wedding day.
I got up and left the table, needing air. The suburb we were in was so wealthy that there weren't rooms or even houses to put them in; it was all open air but kept pristine and naturalistic by hundreds of discreet servants and expensive air conditioning robotics.
I walked in my dress shoes along a narrow muddy ledge a few feet below the crest of a long ridge. Below to my right ran a stream and at the end of the ridge, the stream emptied into a small pond. A historical re-enactment was taking place, or possibly a hologramic recreation; it was hard to be sure.
An important historical event had taken place in this very spot: the assassination at a stream of a US president about a hundred years ago. Being Canadian, my knowledge is a bit on the fuzzy side but I am going to wager my dream version of US history doesn't square with reality particularly.
A man shaving over the water was shot in the back. The man who shot him, in faded baggy denim, suspenders down, chest bare, stood for a moment and looked at the prone President now face down in the water. Then he too was gunned down. The new assailant stood up out of the tall grass. He wore a dusty black suit and hat. Another moment went by and from behind him, a shot. This from a man in uniform on horseback; there were long red stripes down the sides of his pants. His hat was navy blue. He was the head of a military police hunting party who had heard rumors about a threat to the president. Coming on the scene too late, he'd mistaken a secret service agent for the killer.
The shot that killed the man in black went through him into the weeds and struck a woman, squatting to deliver a baby. She was hit in the heart, killed instantly with no time to even take a breath and give a final push to bring her baby into the world. The man on horseback, oblivious to the domestic drama he'd interrupted, turned around to gallop back down the trail to report to the rest of his party.
And that's when this guy in a white sheet, shoulder length blonde hair, sandals, strode out from the bushes and across the stream, carrying the newly orphaned infant in his arms, and looking for all the world like a Madonna-Jesus hybrid in a medieval-era painting. Behind him, the sun shone on his golden hair, and the stream ran red with the blood of four bodies and childbirth.
At that moment the hunting party rounded the bend; luckily for posterity and the well-being of the man in white, it contained a journalist. He was so struck by the scene that instead of further gun shooting, the man in white was posed for a picture that immortalized him in history and turned him overnight into an american hero.
It turned out our baby-saviour was a criminal recently escaped from prison. He had been hiding in the rushes, mistakenly believing that the man in uniform on horseback was looking for him. The white sheet was stolen from a farmhouse down the road to disguise his prison clothes. There he'd first seen the pregnant woman crying by the clothesline. In exchange for keeping quiet about his existence, she'd made him take her away with him. He didn't want to do it, but he had no appetite for murder - he'd been a stage coach robber but prided himself on no casualties and a clean getaway.
At the stream crossing she'd gone into contractions too bad to allow her to walk, and then they saw a man coming from the other side with a shaving kit so they knelt to hide in the rushes. Before long they witnessed one man shot, two men shot, three, all while the woman screamed the pain of labor silently into the criminal's hand cupped tight over her mouth. He didn't even know she'd been shot too till she fell dead into his arms.
So the criminal turned out to be the only witness to a complicated triple homicide with collateral manslaughter and the reporter on horseback won some kind of journalistic prize and the President lay dead but at least the truth of his death came out, so American-style justice, which is to say a good story got told, was ultimately served.
I pondered these events as I walked back to the dinner table. I couldn't pay Andrew back, obviously. I was in several income tax brackets below this pack of relatives. But maybe I could even the score with barter. I had some marketable skills. I doubted he'd want the details of the complex metabolic pathways that drive human biology. I wondered if he wanted to learn how to salsa dance.
For me it turns out steak and an episode of Kids in the Hall does the trick. It was the first season, possibly the first episode ever. I haven't seen that show since I left Canada over a decade ago.
Last night I dreamt a miniseries. Part one is a history lesson that has the same irrationally uber-realistic quality as my all-time favorite KH skit in which one of the characters sits up in bed and exclaims, "I had the peeeeaaaar dream again." End scene. A one-liner that good needs no elaboration.
I was seated outside at a long table planted at a slant in a grassy field. About twenty people eating dinner in suits and skirt-and-sweater sets. It was my wealthy east coast family and my mom, descendent of the deserting black sheep (my grandmother, not present), was on my left.
"That's Andrew," she pointed across the table slightly to the right of a severe-looking black-clad woman earlier introduced as my great-grandmother. "Andrew" looked like a grandmother himself, though one not so tall and gothic. "He" had curly white hair, a slight frame, wore a long sweater dress, and giant granny glasses over watery blue eyes. He was my great-grandmother's financial advisor. "He had your wedding dress made," said my mother.
I remembered the beautiful off the shoulder gown. It probably would have cost several thousand dollars off the rack. I had always wondered where my mother got it. "Did anyone ever try to pay him back?" I was feeling angry and guilty.
Mom waved the air with her fork dismissively, "They make frocks like that all the time; look around." My newly introduced second-and-third cousins milled around the dinner table with champagne cocktails and a rainbow of discreetly tailored jewel-toned satin dresses.
I could hear the tone in my mother's voice, though: be grateful for the connection she had to these quality people. I owed her now for pulling her family strings to contribute to my wedding day.
I got up and left the table, needing air. The suburb we were in was so wealthy that there weren't rooms or even houses to put them in; it was all open air but kept pristine and naturalistic by hundreds of discreet servants and expensive air conditioning robotics.
I walked in my dress shoes along a narrow muddy ledge a few feet below the crest of a long ridge. Below to my right ran a stream and at the end of the ridge, the stream emptied into a small pond. A historical re-enactment was taking place, or possibly a hologramic recreation; it was hard to be sure.
An important historical event had taken place in this very spot: the assassination at a stream of a US president about a hundred years ago. Being Canadian, my knowledge is a bit on the fuzzy side but I am going to wager my dream version of US history doesn't square with reality particularly.
A man shaving over the water was shot in the back. The man who shot him, in faded baggy denim, suspenders down, chest bare, stood for a moment and looked at the prone President now face down in the water. Then he too was gunned down. The new assailant stood up out of the tall grass. He wore a dusty black suit and hat. Another moment went by and from behind him, a shot. This from a man in uniform on horseback; there were long red stripes down the sides of his pants. His hat was navy blue. He was the head of a military police hunting party who had heard rumors about a threat to the president. Coming on the scene too late, he'd mistaken a secret service agent for the killer.
The shot that killed the man in black went through him into the weeds and struck a woman, squatting to deliver a baby. She was hit in the heart, killed instantly with no time to even take a breath and give a final push to bring her baby into the world. The man on horseback, oblivious to the domestic drama he'd interrupted, turned around to gallop back down the trail to report to the rest of his party.
And that's when this guy in a white sheet, shoulder length blonde hair, sandals, strode out from the bushes and across the stream, carrying the newly orphaned infant in his arms, and looking for all the world like a Madonna-Jesus hybrid in a medieval-era painting. Behind him, the sun shone on his golden hair, and the stream ran red with the blood of four bodies and childbirth.
At that moment the hunting party rounded the bend; luckily for posterity and the well-being of the man in white, it contained a journalist. He was so struck by the scene that instead of further gun shooting, the man in white was posed for a picture that immortalized him in history and turned him overnight into an american hero.
It turned out our baby-saviour was a criminal recently escaped from prison. He had been hiding in the rushes, mistakenly believing that the man in uniform on horseback was looking for him. The white sheet was stolen from a farmhouse down the road to disguise his prison clothes. There he'd first seen the pregnant woman crying by the clothesline. In exchange for keeping quiet about his existence, she'd made him take her away with him. He didn't want to do it, but he had no appetite for murder - he'd been a stage coach robber but prided himself on no casualties and a clean getaway.
At the stream crossing she'd gone into contractions too bad to allow her to walk, and then they saw a man coming from the other side with a shaving kit so they knelt to hide in the rushes. Before long they witnessed one man shot, two men shot, three, all while the woman screamed the pain of labor silently into the criminal's hand cupped tight over her mouth. He didn't even know she'd been shot too till she fell dead into his arms.
So the criminal turned out to be the only witness to a complicated triple homicide with collateral manslaughter and the reporter on horseback won some kind of journalistic prize and the President lay dead but at least the truth of his death came out, so American-style justice, which is to say a good story got told, was ultimately served.
I pondered these events as I walked back to the dinner table. I couldn't pay Andrew back, obviously. I was in several income tax brackets below this pack of relatives. But maybe I could even the score with barter. I had some marketable skills. I doubted he'd want the details of the complex metabolic pathways that drive human biology. I wondered if he wanted to learn how to salsa dance.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Tin Foil Hat
I have been microchipped by the US government.
Before you make any assumptions about my connection to reality, the whole story is this: my wife and I went north across the border to have a chat with a BC justice of the peace, shortly after Canada made our kind of union legal. We had been living together for eight years, so it seemed high time to make things official. But we are considerate people and have no desire to bring down US culture and civilization as we know it so we opted to perform the ceremony in my country of origin, where people are too busy trying not to freeze to death to worry about how their neighbours are keeping each other warm.
On the way back to Seattle, US customs stopped me and put a microchip in my passport. "Just to make it easier to track you as you cross the border." The tone in the officer's voice suggested this was supposed to remove any anxiety I might have about being followed down dark alleys by men in black. My facial expression must not have seemed sufficiently comforted because he added, "We could only find you with the right detectors and we only have those at the border right now."
Right.
Now.
Ha ha.
Four years later, on Christmas Eve, just as I was preparing to head north again, the mailman brought me my Green Card. Santa loves me after all, was my first thought. I opened the unassuming registered letter from Nebraska, and pulled out a plastic-and-hologram card that was, indeed, sufficiently green to be satisfying.
And then, attached to a page, the way credit cards come glued to a single page, was a foil pouch.
"We recommend you use this pouch to protect your new card and prevent wireless communication with it."
Welcome to the US. Here is your tin foil hat. Please be sure to remove it at the border crossing so that the guards can scan your brain.
Before you make any assumptions about my connection to reality, the whole story is this: my wife and I went north across the border to have a chat with a BC justice of the peace, shortly after Canada made our kind of union legal. We had been living together for eight years, so it seemed high time to make things official. But we are considerate people and have no desire to bring down US culture and civilization as we know it so we opted to perform the ceremony in my country of origin, where people are too busy trying not to freeze to death to worry about how their neighbours are keeping each other warm.
On the way back to Seattle, US customs stopped me and put a microchip in my passport. "Just to make it easier to track you as you cross the border." The tone in the officer's voice suggested this was supposed to remove any anxiety I might have about being followed down dark alleys by men in black. My facial expression must not have seemed sufficiently comforted because he added, "We could only find you with the right detectors and we only have those at the border right now."
Right.
Now.
Ha ha.
Four years later, on Christmas Eve, just as I was preparing to head north again, the mailman brought me my Green Card. Santa loves me after all, was my first thought. I opened the unassuming registered letter from Nebraska, and pulled out a plastic-and-hologram card that was, indeed, sufficiently green to be satisfying.
And then, attached to a page, the way credit cards come glued to a single page, was a foil pouch.
"We recommend you use this pouch to protect your new card and prevent wireless communication with it."
Welcome to the US. Here is your tin foil hat. Please be sure to remove it at the border crossing so that the guards can scan your brain.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Nightmares
I'm back to dreaming a lot but only in little vignettes so that in the morning it seems both overwhelming and exhausting to write it all down. At least once there will be some dramatic nightmare scene. Last night had a double feature.
Scene: a two-storey rambler, warm summer day. Big trees, the slightly long left-to-grow-a-bit grass in the front yard sways in a warm breeze. There are women, about thirty, in track suits and blazers with jeans, swarming through the house. A real estate agent winds her way through them, winning best-dressed in patent leather heels, tasteful hose, pencil skirt, silk blouse, Hermes scarf, A-line coiffure; but under the careful makeup and facelift she is easily surfing the upper age limit in the house.
Everyone is writing a number on their own index card.
A woman, about 50, jeans, bright patterned blouse, dyed strawberry blond hair, parks and approaches the house. "Lindsay," the real estate agent calls, and "Lindsay" echoes and murmurs through the crowd of women. Lindsay hands the real estate agent a note, and before anyone else can reach her, she backs away, murmuring something about just having one thing to do, not wanting to stay. People nearest have tears in their eyes but they nod, accepting she would rather be alone right now.
We realize she has just gotten a divorce and is in foreclosure. Lindsay walks away, past her car, down the street. A woman in the front room has collected all the index cards and is doing math. Triumphantly she raises her head, "The total of all donations comes to $145,000; we did it! We can save the house, girls!" There is a general cheer, interrupted by the sound of a freight train wail. People look up through the window. People standing on the long grass on the lawn turn.
"That's funny," says the donation coordinator. "I don't remember there being a train track out here." The train whistler is insistent; then the squeal of brakes. The train doesn't stop instantly of course. It is too heavy. Instead the brakes cause it to very painstakingly slow down and down and down and down until it stops a quarter mile down the track.
There is general commotion at the railroad crossing where a pickup truck and sedan had been waiting on the other side for the train to pass. Every pair of eyes in the house is now trained on the spectacle a block and a half away.
You the observer know before the women in the house can allow themselves to.
They should have stopped Lindsay instead of just letting her walk away. They should have told her.
People are carrying a stretcher. In the distance the sound of sirens. There is someone on the stretcher.
The camera pans forward until you are looking right at the woman on the stretcher. She seems remarkably intact, she is talking. She shakes her head, gives a half smile. Her hand goes to the waistband of her pants. She shifts as the paramedic approaches and her hand comes away red, blood seeps now from under her hips. She shakes her head and says something more, shifts, and her torso separates slightly from her legs, blood gushes onto the carrying mat.
End scene
Scene two:
A global catastrophe has resulted in widespread starvation. The US, particularly the west coast, was hit a little later. People are just beginning to run out of food, but the animal situation is terrible. People are on the move and livestock and pets aren't practical or portable. I am traveling, always at night, trying to get to a family retreat that has reserves. I have a tiny grey kitten with me.
I pull up to a neighborhood grocery store and break in through the front glass door. I see something move in the shadows and almost die of terror. A stick figure shadow tows another small shadowy creature directly up the side of a wall; then I see there are ladder rungs attached that lead to the attic. I hear dogs barking.
I feel like I should follow - it seems like an invitation - but possibly one from a horror film. It could be a trap. I know the owner of the store in passing, a robust jovial woman named Josephine. She hardly matches the skinny silent shade that skittered upstairs. I am paralyzed with fear and then a small curly-haired dog leaps towards me. "Where's Josephine?" I whisper, more to bring down the tension than to begin an investigation.
The dog is skittish and strange, alternately lunging aggressively but soundlessly and then prancing and playful. I decide the dog needs to be walked and pooped so I attach a lead. There is another older slow dog I leave behind. We head for the shop door. Outside, inky blackness. In the doorway is the small grey kitten. It isn't far to the door but seems to take a very long time. The dog on the lead is slowing down. By the time we reach the door I have to pick her up and carry her.
I realize this dog is very tired, starving. I think of the food in my car. Should I feed her? I only have enough to last this journey for myself and the kitten - who admittedly eats fairly little. This dog would need a lot. Just tonight. And then what? I keep walking, trying to convince myself I'll find some other food for her. There is a Fred Meyer just a few blocks away (instantly the image of swarming looters and danger; I ignore it). There is a storage shed attached to the house; I will search in there.
The dog becomes limp. She closes her eyes. I keep walking. She is dying, right there in my arms and I can feel it. It is my fault. It is too late.
Scene: a two-storey rambler, warm summer day. Big trees, the slightly long left-to-grow-a-bit grass in the front yard sways in a warm breeze. There are women, about thirty, in track suits and blazers with jeans, swarming through the house. A real estate agent winds her way through them, winning best-dressed in patent leather heels, tasteful hose, pencil skirt, silk blouse, Hermes scarf, A-line coiffure; but under the careful makeup and facelift she is easily surfing the upper age limit in the house.
Everyone is writing a number on their own index card.
A woman, about 50, jeans, bright patterned blouse, dyed strawberry blond hair, parks and approaches the house. "Lindsay," the real estate agent calls, and "Lindsay" echoes and murmurs through the crowd of women. Lindsay hands the real estate agent a note, and before anyone else can reach her, she backs away, murmuring something about just having one thing to do, not wanting to stay. People nearest have tears in their eyes but they nod, accepting she would rather be alone right now.
We realize she has just gotten a divorce and is in foreclosure. Lindsay walks away, past her car, down the street. A woman in the front room has collected all the index cards and is doing math. Triumphantly she raises her head, "The total of all donations comes to $145,000; we did it! We can save the house, girls!" There is a general cheer, interrupted by the sound of a freight train wail. People look up through the window. People standing on the long grass on the lawn turn.
"That's funny," says the donation coordinator. "I don't remember there being a train track out here." The train whistler is insistent; then the squeal of brakes. The train doesn't stop instantly of course. It is too heavy. Instead the brakes cause it to very painstakingly slow down and down and down and down until it stops a quarter mile down the track.
There is general commotion at the railroad crossing where a pickup truck and sedan had been waiting on the other side for the train to pass. Every pair of eyes in the house is now trained on the spectacle a block and a half away.
You the observer know before the women in the house can allow themselves to.
They should have stopped Lindsay instead of just letting her walk away. They should have told her.
People are carrying a stretcher. In the distance the sound of sirens. There is someone on the stretcher.
The camera pans forward until you are looking right at the woman on the stretcher. She seems remarkably intact, she is talking. She shakes her head, gives a half smile. Her hand goes to the waistband of her pants. She shifts as the paramedic approaches and her hand comes away red, blood seeps now from under her hips. She shakes her head and says something more, shifts, and her torso separates slightly from her legs, blood gushes onto the carrying mat.
End scene
Scene two:
A global catastrophe has resulted in widespread starvation. The US, particularly the west coast, was hit a little later. People are just beginning to run out of food, but the animal situation is terrible. People are on the move and livestock and pets aren't practical or portable. I am traveling, always at night, trying to get to a family retreat that has reserves. I have a tiny grey kitten with me.
I pull up to a neighborhood grocery store and break in through the front glass door. I see something move in the shadows and almost die of terror. A stick figure shadow tows another small shadowy creature directly up the side of a wall; then I see there are ladder rungs attached that lead to the attic. I hear dogs barking.
I feel like I should follow - it seems like an invitation - but possibly one from a horror film. It could be a trap. I know the owner of the store in passing, a robust jovial woman named Josephine. She hardly matches the skinny silent shade that skittered upstairs. I am paralyzed with fear and then a small curly-haired dog leaps towards me. "Where's Josephine?" I whisper, more to bring down the tension than to begin an investigation.
The dog is skittish and strange, alternately lunging aggressively but soundlessly and then prancing and playful. I decide the dog needs to be walked and pooped so I attach a lead. There is another older slow dog I leave behind. We head for the shop door. Outside, inky blackness. In the doorway is the small grey kitten. It isn't far to the door but seems to take a very long time. The dog on the lead is slowing down. By the time we reach the door I have to pick her up and carry her.
I realize this dog is very tired, starving. I think of the food in my car. Should I feed her? I only have enough to last this journey for myself and the kitten - who admittedly eats fairly little. This dog would need a lot. Just tonight. And then what? I keep walking, trying to convince myself I'll find some other food for her. There is a Fred Meyer just a few blocks away (instantly the image of swarming looters and danger; I ignore it). There is a storage shed attached to the house; I will search in there.
The dog becomes limp. She closes her eyes. I keep walking. She is dying, right there in my arms and I can feel it. It is my fault. It is too late.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Haunted
So last night I dreamt that I visited my old lab and my former boss was standing in the hallway eating dates. Her funding had been cut in half so she was carrying folders of grant applications under one arm. When she saw me she smiled like she knew something I didn't and asked, "How's it going?"
We walked silently down to her office, and she periodically spit date pits into a cup, like it was tobacco juice. "So," when we finally stopped outside her door, "When are you getting back into a program?"
I knew she was asking if I was going to stop wasting my life and go back to school. I felt like I might cry or hit her but instead I just said, "Why would you even ask me that?"
"Come on," she started, "we all know you just gave up."
"Just because I didn't follow the tenure track you think I'm a failure? " I sputtered.
She opened her mouth but I cut her off. "For your information, I'm very happy in my position. I'm making a difference."
"Are you?" she asked. "Well," and she paused to spit a final pit into the cup and set it down. "I guess that's that isn't it?"
We walked silently down to her office, and she periodically spit date pits into a cup, like it was tobacco juice. "So," when we finally stopped outside her door, "When are you getting back into a program?"
I knew she was asking if I was going to stop wasting my life and go back to school. I felt like I might cry or hit her but instead I just said, "Why would you even ask me that?"
"Come on," she started, "we all know you just gave up."
"Just because I didn't follow the tenure track you think I'm a failure? " I sputtered.
She opened her mouth but I cut her off. "For your information, I'm very happy in my position. I'm making a difference."
"Are you?" she asked. "Well," and she paused to spit a final pit into the cup and set it down. "I guess that's that isn't it?"
Preparing for the Bahamas
This really happened though it could easily have been a nightmare.
The day after Thanksgiving, I was lying on the treatment table at the Silver Springs Medical Spa in North Vancouver while an esthetician ripped the hairs out of my lower body. I had not worked with this girl before and her accent was confounding me.
In the course of chit chat one sentence in particular eluded me and after asking her to repeat herself three times my natural Canadian politeness kicked in so I just nodded and smiled. My other natural instinct, namely obsessiveness, continued to work on the translation problem until I realized that one of the keywords used was "Brazilian".
I spent the next twenty minutes using my yogic breathing to combat not just the awareness of my healthy Celtic hair roots leaving my body, but avoiding any ill-advised calculation of the pain to shaft diameter ratio given how much beefier the hair north of my thighs is compared to anywhere else.
I still have no idea what she asked, but perhaps the barrier of my underwear was sufficient to communicate what my words might not - ie please leave me covered. In any case, I left with most of the arctic circle intact.
I drove home to begin the easier part of prepping for the Bahamas: packing a suitcase.
The day after Thanksgiving, I was lying on the treatment table at the Silver Springs Medical Spa in North Vancouver while an esthetician ripped the hairs out of my lower body. I had not worked with this girl before and her accent was confounding me.
In the course of chit chat one sentence in particular eluded me and after asking her to repeat herself three times my natural Canadian politeness kicked in so I just nodded and smiled. My other natural instinct, namely obsessiveness, continued to work on the translation problem until I realized that one of the keywords used was "Brazilian".
I spent the next twenty minutes using my yogic breathing to combat not just the awareness of my healthy Celtic hair roots leaving my body, but avoiding any ill-advised calculation of the pain to shaft diameter ratio given how much beefier the hair north of my thighs is compared to anywhere else.
I still have no idea what she asked, but perhaps the barrier of my underwear was sufficient to communicate what my words might not - ie please leave me covered. In any case, I left with most of the arctic circle intact.
I drove home to begin the easier part of prepping for the Bahamas: packing a suitcase.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
tropical storm in Seattle
I wake to rain pounding the windows, wind whipping the house. I half-expect to open my curtains to see palms trees thrashing the pre-dawn air, open my slider to hear the crashing surf. It feels just like the last week I spent in the Bahamas.
Everyone said it was unusually cold that week, at least ten degrees cooler than normal. Which was somewhat comforting since the only thing I kept wishing while there was that it was at least ten degrees warmer. Well that and... will those $*#%!$-ing bugs stop BITING me?
I sit in my Seattle bed and reminisce by scratching. There are more noseum bites on my arms, legs, and torso - even my feet and fingers - than there is tanned skin. If I was a calomine lotion girl, I'd just pour thirty of the melted strawberry ice cream bottles into a bathtub and crawl inside. As it is I have used up a whole tube of hydrocortisone cream and am getting set to crack a new one.
Thunder rumbles in the distance while I look at the steady glow of my one am (1254 to be precise) clock radio, and this almost finally breaks the spell. The frequent windstorms in Bahamas lacked thunder, but that didn't stop them from shaking down power lines; the power in our hotel went out so often that I never actually got a chance to set the flashing just-woken LCD of the ancient clock radio on the nightstand to the correct time. Instead I'd click the shutter on my camera, press play, and mentally adjust the timestamp by three hours.
But here I am, in the middle of the night, awake, mentally adjusting the glowing numbers on the clock as if it will anchor me, feeling my dreams fade. It's exactly like every night on my just-ended tropical vacation. I had a lovely time but it was cold, itchy, and I couldn't sleep.
Everyone said it was unusually cold that week, at least ten degrees cooler than normal. Which was somewhat comforting since the only thing I kept wishing while there was that it was at least ten degrees warmer. Well that and... will those $*#%!$-ing bugs stop BITING me?
I sit in my Seattle bed and reminisce by scratching. There are more noseum bites on my arms, legs, and torso - even my feet and fingers - than there is tanned skin. If I was a calomine lotion girl, I'd just pour thirty of the melted strawberry ice cream bottles into a bathtub and crawl inside. As it is I have used up a whole tube of hydrocortisone cream and am getting set to crack a new one.
Thunder rumbles in the distance while I look at the steady glow of my one am (1254 to be precise) clock radio, and this almost finally breaks the spell. The frequent windstorms in Bahamas lacked thunder, but that didn't stop them from shaking down power lines; the power in our hotel went out so often that I never actually got a chance to set the flashing just-woken LCD of the ancient clock radio on the nightstand to the correct time. Instead I'd click the shutter on my camera, press play, and mentally adjust the timestamp by three hours.
But here I am, in the middle of the night, awake, mentally adjusting the glowing numbers on the clock as if it will anchor me, feeling my dreams fade. It's exactly like every night on my just-ended tropical vacation. I had a lovely time but it was cold, itchy, and I couldn't sleep.
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