So okay. In dream world last night I found myself in a mental hospital. Because?
My husband was fooling around and wanted me tucked away.
And there was a hurricane coming.
And I was NOT crazy.
I finally told one of the nurses, "Look. I'm not insane and I'm going home because I have to make preparations for the hurricane."
She looked at me like I was a child saying that I was not sleepy and NOT GOING TO TAKE A NAP.
"Oh, I don't think you're going home, honey," she said.
I was trying to make sure that I was acting like I wasn't crazy. Which of course (and in my dream I realized this) meant that I was acting pretty crazy and smiling way too much. Finally I just started yelling, "What is my diagnosis? I want to know what my diagnosis is!"
Another nurse, a kindly nurse, admitted that I didn't have one but that they were putting drugs in my water which explained my dizziness.
I believe I got out. But I'm not sure.
So this was a definite departure from my usual dream script. At least I wasn't trying to clean up things or cook for a hundred people. At least my dreams aren't boring. They come populated with all sorts of characters and story lines and emotions and problems.
But shitfire- why can't I just have a nice sex dream now and then?
It's a beautiful Sunday and I'm not in a mental hospital and I'm not dizzy and the sun is shining and Jessie is tucked up in my bed after a very nice pancake breakfast which we ate outside with Greta and Maurice entertaining us. Greta found all the balls that she's left here and piled them up in one place and tried to get Maurice to play with her. Maurice likes to be around Greta but she doesn't want to play. Especially not with balls.
I thought that Mr. Moon (my imprisoner) and Vergil were going to do some home-repairs around here today but so far they are shooting the bow. Thwack! They did wash the dishes.
It's Super Bowl Sunday, right? I have no idea who's playing. This takes some actual effort, you know. I don't even know who the halftime act is. I know it's neither the Rolling Stones nor Bruce Springsteen so who cares?
Probably about a billion people but I am not one of them. I don't feel superior about this. It's just the way it is.
I think I might go out and get the garden ready to plant potatoes and peas. Kneel in the dirt and get sundrunk while listening to an audio book. Sounds pretty perfect to me. I don't have enough enthusiasm to pull any more vines or invasives today. That would be actual work. And the hen house needs cleaning again. And I could pot up one of my rooted giant begonias for Jessie to take home with her. Elvis is calling me to come out, come out. Otherwise I'm just going to sit here and annoy Christian rightwingers on the Facebook which is a ridiculous and pointless thing to do.
Besides, I'm just an obviously paranoid individual who, after thirty years, thinks her husband is fooling around and wants to put her in an insane asylum.
And it's not even hurricane season.
Oh. Katy Perry is playing at halftime. Is she a singer?
Love and kisses...Ms. Moon