Really, other than praying to the telephone gods to make my phone ring with a call from the Macon area, I've been staying busy with handyman projects around the house, continuing the job search, and having the occasional lunch with friends. All in all, not a bad life.
Much more exciting, however, has been my dreams life. In fact, this week might be a banner week for crazy-assed dreams. Following is a brief synopsis of what has happened so far.
Monday NightHow awesome are they? Seriously, each morning I wake up smiling, if not laughing.
This one was a bit of a time-warp, Terry Gilliam type dream or, at the least, and unfunny Chappelle Show episode. I'm standing around with a bunch of my ancestors trying to defend one of my forefather's patriotism and, it turns out, his life. The person hearing the case is a black George Washington. He's having none of my relatives' arguments. I take the floor and give an impassioned speech that touches African-American George's heartstrings. I appeal to his sense of fairness and make him recall what he fought for to help win independence for the country. Then, I deftly illustrate that my ancestor's love for America isn't that different. Black George ruled favorably and my relative lived. I suppose, by the "Back to the Future" rules of time travel, that his survival meant that I also survived.
Tuesday Night
Instead of our actual house, we're living in an enormous two-story house that's full of visitors coming and going. In particular, our friend Heather (a.k.a. "R") is there with her mother who keeps trying to sell us on a life insurance policy. We're stuck in this quandry about how to continue avoiding her sales pitch while being polite. Just as we're lying down to go to sleep, an enormous rocket falls from sky and, while remaining perfectly vertical, crashes through our roof and both floors of our house. (Think of the rocket in "Weird Science.") Understandably, we're freaked out and feel lucky that we weren't killed. On closer inspection, the rocket, which we've determined to be Cuban, appears to be a U.S. rocket that has been stolen and painted by the Cubans. Seriously, you can see the U.S. paint underneath. As we're examining it, the thing starts to rumble and make a lot of noise. Expecting an explosion, we look for what cover we can find in the bedroom. Instead of a deadly explosion, however, the rocket belches out about 30 soccer balls and 15 pairs of athletic shoes.
"Wow, I've got to let my Ethiopian friends know that we're starting a team! We're going to rule rec league soccer!," I rejoice.
Wednesday Night
I'm hosting a barbecue at the house and using a reproduction of an "illegal barbecue pit," which looks exactly like a regular pit. Anywho, guests continue to arrive at the house and venture into the back yard to have a look at it. One guy in a wheelchair arrives and keeps making suggestions about improving the pit. Evidently, he's the authority on building and running illegal BBQ operations. As I'm listening and discounting his advice, I notice that my good friend, Joe Torre, has arrived. I walk up to thank him for coming and he gives my a huge bear hug. Obviously, it's been a little while since I've seen him. He thanks me for playing for him and tells me that he misses me around the clubhouse. I let him know that I think the Yankees thing was a huge debacle on the part of the Steinbrenners and wish him luck in Los Angeles.
As I'm introducing my friends to him, I go to put my arm around his neck but accidentally punch him in the chin, causing him to snap shut his mouth and chip some teeth.
"Damn, Joe, I am so sorry, buddy. Look I'm trying to help you out with your dental plan! You've only got two more days under the Yankees coverage. This will help you get all your money out of your Flex Spending Account so you don't lose it!," I explain.
Joe Torre looks at me, smiles, and mumbles that "it's OK" through his broken teeth. We share a hearty laugh and go look at the illegal BBQ pit.
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2 comments:
Do you know what the mayor of Hiroshima said when the bomb hit?
"What tha...?"
That's all I can say to Joe Torre and the soccer gear-laden Cuban rocket. You gotta stop eating sausage pizza right before you hit the hay.
i'm so jealous! i usually don't remember my dreams but on the occation that i do, they're normally me looking in the mirror to discover that my teeth are falling out (it ruins my whole day afterward), or i'm naked in the middle of a food pavillion, trying to cover myself up with a "House of Lin" napkin and for some reason i can't get my legs to go any faster than a quasimodo limp.
;)
amy
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