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September 25, 2006
Dreamy!
I had a weird dream Friday night.
Before I tell you about this dream, I had intended to preface it by saying that I hate it when people talk about their dreams in detail. If you can't tell me your dream in sixty seconds or write it in fewer than 200 words, I don't want to hear it. Believe me, I'm doing you a favor by not listening for several reasons: 1)If your can't tell your dream in sixty seconds or fewer than 200 words, there's a good chance I'm not going to understand it, and 2) If I don't understand it, I won't take any responsibility for my poor listening skills and will instead think you're a self-obsessed bore, and I don't want to think that about you.
Perfect examples of good ways to talk about your dreams have recently been exhibited by Kristina and her matching shit dreams, Jodi and her masturbating Uncle Joey dream, and Jen and her sexual terrorism dream. See? Perfect. Short, precise, and weird enough to merit retelling.
From previous experience I know that it's much more interesting if, for example, Kristina tells me, "I had another Jeff Tweedy sex dream last night," it's funny and titilating and odd and entertaining. Much moreso than if she were to say, "I was in a warehouse but it wasn't really a warehouse because it was really a club. And you were there, but you weren't you. You were really a pomeranian. And there was a big wizard standing on a hill controlling everything. He was wearing purple and looked like Dumbledore but he wasn't really Dumbledore ... blah blah blah blah for fifteen minutes of our lives that we'll never get back ... Jeff Tweedy and I made out in front of everyone, but the wizard wasn't controlling it and then all my teeth fell out. What's that about?" Because really, the only part of that that has any meaning or entertainment value is the part about making out with Jeff Tweedy. As for what it's about? It's your brain's way of telling you to spend some time outside of your head with the other humans.
For the record, Kristina always tells her dreams in the proper manner. And they're never about doing dirty, dirty things with Jeff Tweedy. Ever.
My dream from Friday night is neither short, precise, nor weird enough to merit retelling. In fact, now that two days have passed since I had the dream, I'm not even sure why I'm bringing it up because it's pretty stupid. But I've taunted you with it, so here it is:
I dreamt I went to Vegas to see a concert in a casino with some friends. For whatever reason I bailed from the show and wandered around the casino. It was named Starsville Casino, and it was based on the high concept of a 1950s ranch house. Slots in the living room, martinis in the den, casserole in the fine dining establishments, and Mom vaccuming the reading room, where I spent the evening with my nose in a book. I thought it was the coolest thing ever.
The sad thing is, I spent a good chunk of my waking hours on Saturday convinced that this is a fantastic idea for a casino and Steve Wynn should send me a check and a contract. Now, I know better. And I apologize for telling you about it.
Anyway.
There's little to discuss, really. I've been watching as a horrific fight transpires between my neighbors. They're screaming loud enough that I can hear them from cattycorner across the street with the windows closed at the back of my house. That's loud. I can't imagine what their 2-year-old and 4-month-old are hearing. The glass in their storm door is broken. I don't know if that's the cause of the fight or a casuality of it. At one point the 2-year-old was in the middle of it.
I hate this neighborhood.
But this shit happens everywhere. B. and I have had some fights that, if we'd had them on the front porch for the neighbors to witness, they'd be feeling the way I am right now.
All I know is, that 2-year-old spends a great deal of time standing at the front door, looking like he wants to escape. He might actually be able to now that the glass is gone.
On a whim yesterday we visited the town where we're planning to move. We even went to an open house for a place that's all wrong for us. Nice, but not what we're looking for. It seems like the visit has gotten B. all excited about moving, but it's had the opposite effect on me. I don't know if it was the grayness in the air yesterday, or driving past the county jail where that woman who, allegedly, killed her friend, cut the fetus from her, and killed her other three kids is being held. As we drove past, a city worker was removing barricades from the street. "We must have just missed something," B. said.
"Yeah," I said. "The media circus."
For whatever reason, I'm feeling pessimistic about the move. I'm convinced we're going to have a hard time unloading our current house. Seeing my neighbors brawl on the front yard within minutes of reading about the glut of houses on the market doesn't fill me with hope. Nevermind that I'm not impressed by the houses and neighborhoods in our price bracket.
Mainly I think I'm bothered because this isn't the move I wanted to make. I wanted to make this move once B.'s masters degree from that really pricey local university is paid for, along with the year of unemployment that followed the pricey masters degree. I wanted to make this move in such a manner that we'd be able to buy the house where we'll stay forever. I wanted to be able to leave anything old and worn, like our disintegrating couch, behind and replace it with the furniture we'll keep forever. I'm ready to start my life with the house and furniture that'll eventually say, "Damn. You're just not ever going to let go of your thirties, are you?" The house that, when we're in our 70s, will look frozen in time.
Okay, so maybe that's not really what I want, but you get the picture. I hate that we're making this move filled with compromises, and I'm not convinced we're not going to trade one barrel of bad apples for another barrel of bad apples strapped to the back of the hassel and expense of moving.
I know, I'm dealing in abstracts. Dreams, what-ifs, ponderings. None of it does anyone any good. I need to stay rooted in the concrete.
Okay, so what do I know for sure? I know that The Cuz rocks, and she's installed WordPress for me. I'm fed the hell up with the recent influx of comment spam I've been receiving. I'm sure you, my kind readers, aren't interested in German porn featuring The Simpsons, and I'd rather not provide free advertising for such. Moveable Type's spam filtering sucks, so I'm making the switch. Give me a few days to tinker with WordPress, and hopefully I won't break anything, bringing you a lovely new version of this here blog.
Posted by Robin at September 25, 2006 01:45 PM
Comments
Wanna move to Edwardsville? Betcha you can find a cool neighbor there.
Posted by: Dixie at September 25, 2006 03:33 PM
Do you know that in Minnesota they say kitty-corner? The fuck is that?
Move to Minnesota. You can rent a 2 bedroom crack house, which is surely what you're looking for.
Posted by: Wendy at September 25, 2006 03:37 PM
B.'s got all his damn moving rules. No locations that lack commuter trains, which puts E'ville out of the running, and no place further north than where we are, which knocks Minneapolis out.
Posted by: Robin at September 25, 2006 03:46 PM
C'mon, your almost-new hometown has its highpoints. Case in point: Just last week, the city gave us New! Trash! Cans!
So not all of B-ville is about jailing alleged baby killers. Some of my neighbors are much more concerned with the state of their trash.
Which makes me all the more concerned about my neighbors.
Posted by: Mary at September 25, 2006 04:01 PM
Moving sucks. Just ask me.
I hope it goes well for you, and I know EXACTLY what you are saying here.
Posted by: Lynsalyns at September 25, 2006 05:38 PM
I grew up in PA using the term catty-corner.
And the house next door is still for sale/seller is desperate....a 2 min. walk to the Grand bus line....excellent neighbors with a cute friendly dog...2 groups of neighborhood kids to barter with about lawn mowing....and Ted Drewes within walking distance!
Posted by: allison at September 25, 2006 05:40 PM
That was a weird dream.
I could totally make out with with UT or early-Wilco-era Tweedy, but lately he's been lookin a little too homeless-vagrant for my taste.
My condolences on impending movage; all major life changes that involve that much agita and grunt work suck le balls du donkey.
Posted by: michelle/weaker vessel at September 26, 2006 12:30 PM
OK, so I had those Jeff Tweedy sex dreams, what, like two years ago? Then I read this post and dreamt about Jeff last night. There was no sex though, but he was parading around shirtless and he was suddenly all buff. I wanted to jump him this time, but alas it was not to be.
More for Blossom's Dad, I guess.
Posted by: Exena at September 26, 2006 04:02 PM
Mary, when I told B. about the new trash cans, he was ready to call the real estate agent and list our house immediately.
Lynsalyns, having read the recent bruhaha on your blog, I couldn't agree with you more. I'm lucky that I've got two friends who live in the town we're moving to, another good friend two towns over, and we're still going to be 30-45 minutes away from the rest of them. Moving to a new part of the country like you did, that's hard stuff and I hate that people have given you a rough time about it.
Allison, we'd grab that house in a heartbeat, were it not for the school district.
Michelle, I had an early-'90s-era Tweedy dream last night. I'd still make out with him in his current state, though.
Exena, I'm glad I could be of assistance.
Posted by: Robin at September 27, 2006 01:46 PM
5 bucks i dream about german simpsons homemade jelly porn tonight. i am really suggestable.
Posted by: jenB at October 1, 2006 04:39 PM
