or, "What the past few days have been like."
Occasionally I have an anxiety dream. It usually involves having to take a final in a class I didn't know I was enrolled in and now cannot drop. Don't know the subject, or the teacher, or even the building the test is in. I spend most of the dream running around campus trying to find this exam. If I find the room before I wake up, it's usually as some faceless voice is saying, "Pencils down." Test's over, I missed it. Then I wake up, and have to calm myself down by remembering I'm not in school any more.
Last night the dream had a new wrinkle. My report card came in the mail (I don't know whether I was a high school student or a college one). I got all A's except for one B+. My mother was ranting and raving about the B+, wanting to know how I could let this happen, this could ruin my future, yadda, yadda, yadda.
Here's the kicker--my mother? Was my old supervisor from a year and a half ago.
I told my fellow refugee from Hell this story and she said, "You are really letting that holiday party invitation get to you, aren't you?"
We'd just been invited the day before to the annual holiday "celebration" at the old office, and neither of us wanted to go. We're going, though, partly because there are some people there we'd like to see, and partly to keep good diplomatic relations between them and our people.
Then last night I had another doozy. All I remember from it is a bit about having to go to a morgue to ID my sister's body. And then I woke up sobbing. I had to talk myself out of calling her at three a.m. today to see if she was all right.
What the [bleep] is up, brain? Halloween was months ago, why are you scaring me now?
Then there's the fun bit on the bus this morning. It was raining quite heavily when I left the house. Everyone on the bus and all their belongings were dripping wet. I was talking to a friend and (now) neighbor as I went to get off at my stop (ahead of her, thank goodness) took one step and went jeet, BOOM! down the steps. Three of 'em. Hit my tushie on each one as I passed. I got to the bottom and, clinging to both hand railings, announced unnecessarily over my shoulder to the rest of the bus:
"The steps are slick!"
I drew the attention of people from 50 yards away, it was that impressive a fall. Bus driver asked me twice if I was okay, and then pulled up along side me as I was about to enter my building and asked if I was sure I was all right. I said, "Well, my bottom hurts, but I did just smack it three times. I'm fine."
And I am, for the most part. I'm going to have a beaut of a bruise when it finally shows. Right now it hurts a little if I shift in a particular direction, so I try not to do that.
When I got to work (after relating my story to my team, laughing so hard at myself that I was starting to tear up. I bet it looked hilarious!), I found Santa had stopped by. One teammate had given me shortbread, another gave me a bag of Jordan almonds and a big bottle of bubble bath/shower gel/shampoo. It's from a company called Philosophy, where my sister gets her perfume. Scent is Snickerdoodle. Food. Dessert, even. But I took a good whiff of it, and all I smelled was cinnamon. Not bad. It's a scent I think I can live with.
So tonight, after I got home and got myself some dinner, I decided to go soak my achy bottom in a bubble bath. I don't do baths very often. I think I can count on one hand the number of times I've taken a bath since my mother announced I was old enough to start using the shower. I don't think I'll be doing it again soon.
Try this: Take a small stock pot, fill it almost to the top with hot, soapy water. Then, from a height of about three feet, drop in a bowling ball. The resulting mess will give you some indication of what the bathroom floor looked like when I sat down in my too-full tub. And I wasn't in there very long before I noticed some of me was getting cold, and the water was getting lukewarm. So I emptied some out, refilled, and proceeded to slosh around, getting even more water on the floor in the process. Turns out I couldn't really soak my achy bum because it hurt when I leaned back. Or moved forward. Or stood up.
So now here I am in my jammies, lying prone in front of the laptop on the floor of the upstairs hall (I'd brought it upstairs to play some nice soothing classical music while I soaked. Really, really glad I didn't put it anywhere in the bathroom, but instead left it outside on the carpeted floor, well away from Lake Snickerdoodle), smelling of cookie dough, with an achy behind, and afraid to go to sleep for fear that my brain's gonna toss me another hand grenade tonight.
So. How are you?
P.S. Ditter's fine by the way. She says dreaming about a death usually means there's a birth round the corner. She's been trying to make me Auntie Vee for a little while now, so, fingers crossed.