Stacy's Mom, the Crazy Bitch in a Short Skirt/Long Jacket

Apparently, I'm "off probation." You'd think, after 2.5 years, a 3-month probationary period was a little...em...superfluous. And how the hell did I end up the one on probation? I'm not the one with idempotency issues...

Main Entry:night terror
Function:noun
Date:1896
: a sudden awakening in dazed terror that occurs in children during slow-wave sleep, is often preceded by a sudden shrill cry uttered in sleep, and is not remembered when the child awakes —usually used in plural.

I saw my dream angel last night. A dream angel is, of course, the angel that guards your sleep to ensure you have pleasant dreams. It is the dream angel's responsibility to sprinkle your sleep with thoughts of peace and contentment while simultaneously holding back things that go bump in the night.

In a perfect world, this ambient guardian is not seen, more's the pity because they are beautiful, diaphanous creatures rather like the wings of a dragonfly. They desire to maintain a wide perimeter in which the sleeper is free to wander in a dream-like state without constraint. Sometimes, though, the battle with Old Hag is fierce and the perimeter closes in and the sleeper tosses and turns a bit more than is appropriate for beauty rest. And on rare occasion, when the dream is still pleasant but the perimeter seriously compressed, the dreamer catches a glimpse of her dream angel.

Last night was such a night. I dreamt a monkey was sitting on an old wooden desk typing on a pica typewriter. He had the most beautiful fingers and they were rapidly striking keys while the monkey muttered "You've GOT to be kidding me! Not high def? Are you fucking kidding me??"

There was a lamp casting a golden glow upon the desk and the lamp was plugged into an outlet that was not actually part of any existing wall that I could see. And just beyond the outlet was the dream angel.

There was also a pile of fluffy black and white feathers and every so often the monkey would put a finger to the corner of his eye like he was fighting sleep, shake his head in (mild) irritation, then get up from the desk and go jump on the pile of feathers. Then he would go sit back down on the desk and go back to typing and muttering with a feather or two stuck to his...fur.

The Grim Reaper was also there, but there wasn't any sense of angst over the presence of this harbinger of doom. In fact, Mr. Reaper and the monkey were having quite a pleasant little argument - the monkey was saying, "What do you mean, it's time? It isn't time. I haven't written the code for that feature yet!" And Grim was saying, "Dude, do you not see the scythe? You think a line of code is gonna stop the clock?" And the monkey was looking at Death with a smile on his face and saying, "Well, not to seem like an arrogant prick, but...yes! If the code's not right, I guarantee, GUARANTEE, time WILL stop and there isn't a fuckin' thing you or anybody else can do about it." And Death grumbled a little under his spectoral breath, "Stupid canadian." And the monkey responded, "What's that?" And Death replied, "You've got a...feather...stuck to your chin."

And all the while, the dream angel was sprinkling dreamdust with one hand and shooting a compound bow at some thing with the other.

Then Death tells the monkey to 'hurry up and write the fucking code.' And the monkey replies a bit snarky, "Don't rush me, I'm a monkey." So Death moves a little off to the side, leans against the not-wall and impatiently examines his very long nails.

The thing disarms the angel and the angel, without missing a beat, lowers her slender arm and brings it back up with a semi-automatic AK47 and starts blasting away, and the monkey takes notice and says, "Now that's what I'm talkin' about!" And Death snaps his fingers and says, "Yo! Monkey-boy! Focus!" And the monkey looks at Death, takes off his glasses, gets off the table and goes to get a glass of water. He puts the glass to his lips, lowers it without sipping, looks off into space, raises the glass, holds it, takes the tiniest sip ever, walks back to the table, and holds the glass out to Death and says, "Here, hold this." And Death, with a look of incredulity and a shake of his head, does.

The dream angel is getting a little irritated now, the night terror is turning out to be a bit of a bully and she's having some trouble subduing him. She's still sprinkling dreamdust, but she's swirling all around in a very Laura Croft-like fashion and running up the not-wall and not-roof and throwing fighting stars that have sayings on them, sayings like YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL TODAY and YOU ARE AN AMAZING PERSON and (my favorite) WHAT CRIMPLE? And the thing is starting to make barely audible fierce growly noises, and Death is still holding the glass but is clearly losing patience, and the monkey looks up for about four seconds and the lamplight gets fiercely bright and the monkey starts rapidly typing, his gorgeous fingers rapping confidently and energetically and Death steps away from the wall and the angel keeps throwing stars but is now watching Monkey with a smile on her beautiful face and there is suddenly an ENTER key on the pica typewriter and the monkey poises his index finger just above it, then with all the confidence of a monkey who knows he's just solved the problem, he hits ENTER, takes the glass from Death and goes to sleep in the pile of black and white feathers.

And the angel throws one last star, pulls the plug from the not-wall outlet and whispers ever-so-softly to the pile of feathers, "Time to wake up, fluff!"

A picture worth a thousand words

My Zune has me completely flummoxed. This, of course, surprises no one. Not one of my acquaintances or friends or family will be in the least surprised to hear of this, for it is well known that I AM A DOLT when it comes to complex and/or intricate works. I am a simple-minded individual, mostly by design. If I am complex, I hide it well, even fooling myself at times.

An extraordinary thing happened today. It is Sunday, and it has been an extremely loooooooooong week. At the best of times, I can acknowledge my failings as a mother and balance them against my successes. This was not one of those times. If you are not a parent, don't rush to be one - the pain can, at times, be...well, nearly (and perhaps even) unbearable. Soul crushing, quite honestly...

In any case, it's been a long week and a hidey-hole seemed like a good idea. But one can only hide under the covers for so long before they get turtle-head (that strange lightheadedness that comes from breathing twice and thrice used oxygen) and also the cat wanted food. So I got dressed and went to the store.

And then, because I was halfway there, I determined to follow through with my plan to do one thing to challenge my social anxieties this weekend, and decided to EAT OUT ALONE.

There is a little place next to Rite Aid, a teriyaki place where the owners/cooks/servers are all nice to the extreme. So armed with my current choice of reading, I set about dining out seulement.

Wouldn't you know it, the teriyaki place was closed on Sundays. Bah. So I got in my car with the cat food and other sundries and turned the car to head for home. How I ended up at Matador's, I'm not entirely sure. I just know I was talking to Amy and she was giving me sage advice and there I was in the parking lot of a restaurant that I certainly could never, would never eat in alone.

I wondered, though, if they might have a salad, so I wandered in (there were all of 3 other people in there) and sat down at a high counter that had a tabletop firepit upon it (which I had just mentioned to l'ange I'd like to just sit next to a fire somewhere and read) and opened my book and began to read.

Now, it took the waitress quite some time to realize there were four patrons, not three, but I was jiggy with that as I wasn't in any hurry to move once I sat down. Eventually she came and took my order for a diet coke and a salad and I returned to reading my book with my face turned towards the warmth of the flickering flame.

I sat thusly for some 45 or so minutes, nibbling and sipping and reading, when two men came in and, surveying the whole of the nearly empty establishment determined to sit on the direct opposite side of the firepit, which separated us, them and me, by oh, four feet.

"Simmer down," I told my anxious soul, "they are likely gay and hoping to enjoy a romantic dinner by firelight.

They were not gay. They were camera buffs. And they were there to talk shop and shoot pics. And, seeing as how they were sitting next to a lovely flickering firepit, they quite naturally determined that nothing is as artistic as a picture of flickering flames.

And so they turned their 35mm cameras at the firepit and at the girl sitting shyly in shadow on the other side, reading a book.

I couldn't believe it. I shifted uncomfortably (this you can well imagine). I turned a little away (I know you can see this in your mind). I held the highest hopes that they would hear the cry of the bar full of exotic tequilas lined up picture perfect and doubly reflected in the mirror. I eventually turned my back completely to them and away from any reasonable light with which to read my book, and finally, when it became obvious that they were well into their subject and not intending to turn from it any time soon, I reviewed my options - give them a "meaningful" look, ask them to please not take pictures in my direction, move to another table, pay quietly and leave...

I had, after all, accomplished my goal of walking into a bar alone and sitting alone and eating alone. I could mark the day, the weekend a success, yes, indeed.

Instead, I turned. And I set my open book back on the rim of the firepit where the light was just perfect, and I took a sip of my diet coke, and I went back to reading in the face of their wide-angle lens times two.

They continued to snap pictures and I continued to read and eventually they left with their cameras, and eventually I left with something far greater than I came in with.

I know there are those who are wondering when I will perfect the painting that is me. Today I am happy having perfected a single stroke.