Morning has broken

I was having a dream this morning where I had been dispatched (?!) to interview an elderly author; I was supposed to write a book about him, so I timidly knocked on the door, but he was napping right on the other side of the door; he and his famous wife were sitting right there and they
acted like I should have known better than to knock in the middle of the day or something, and I acted like, sheesh, we had an appointment! How am I supposed to know that he's ALWAYS napping RIGHT BY THE DOOR in the middle of the day?

So the wife, who I knew a little bit about because he'd written 25 books about her, his only subject, the great love story of all time, that wife -- she looks at me and says, "So, do you have dolls?"

And, in my dream, I said, "No! I'm a grownup! Can I write the book now?"  And I laughed so hard that I woke myself up.  It's not that funny in the gloom of morning, but in my dream, in my head (russian doll-ish stuff going on here), I was laughing because adults who have dolls tend to be super fussy -- they collect dolls and keep them all perfect,  so in a way it's an extremely adult-like pursuit, one that I couldn't be trusted with.  If I had dolls I'd actually play with them, they'd be tattered and dirty and stained.  I'd set up little situations, "Ok, Mabel, now we're going to study the bones!  Let's sit on our little carpet square and find the the greater trochanter, shall we?  Oops, Sorry Cindy, I spilled beer on you!  Ainsley, now we're going to put on our bee suits, and then let's make popcorn, and then it will be nap time."  They'd be tiny little friends that would tag along on my day with me, which would cause them to get tired and dirty and cynical, but still, they'd look for signs of hope anyway, like it was an actual thing one could spot.

Anyway, in the gloom of morning it wasn't funny enough to wake me up so  I wanted to crawl back into the dream and talk to her more.  "What's it like have 25 books written about you?  Does it feel like love, or is it just annoying, like sheesh, famous guy, get a new topic!"

The other reason I wanted to go back into sleep is because in the middle of the night, there was this REALLY LOUD NOISE, and I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.  One reason I was so uncharacteristically on it is because there's been what I call a situation in our town, a situation in which some illegal dumping occured.  GASP.  And someone posted it to FB, and I made the sorry mistake of commenting once, just a simple, "here's who you call to take care of that" thing, and now it's like I've accidentally subscribed to the inner and outer thoughts of all the people who care about dumping, one way or another.  6,000 e-mails later, it has been resolved.  But I digress.  The important point in all of that just before said sitaution, there was a loud truck dumping noise in the middle of the night, so when I heard my loud noise, it seemed like I should also spring from my bed like all of the other amateur detectives in town.

It turns out we had a power blackout.   I was able to deduce this by how dark it was.  I know.  Even my alarm clock, which I cover with a pillow case each night like a little bird in a cage, was darker than usual.  And the noise turned out to be an extremely loud generator that's activated at my neighbor's house the instant the power goes out.  I spent a long while during the night wondering what's going on over there, why it is that they can't endure even a millisecond of power interruption, as if it's the situation room or something.  (Do you like how I've been able to sneak the word "situation" in a few times here this morning?  I know!)  In my weary middle of the dark night musing, it seemed like they must be spies.  Right?  What else could it be?  And if they're spies, well, who would they be spying on?  This made me wonder if, unbeknownst to me, I'm actually living a secretly interesting life, and they can't miss a single moment of data.  Ok, Mabel and I are going to yoga now.

Comments

  1. I make my husband cover up his alarm clock with an old diaper. I cover the light on the fan with a doll blanket. (Yes! Doll blanket!). Why so many damn lights?
    If I played with dolls I'd spill my martinis on them. "Whoops! Sorry Madame Alexander! We're going to have to wash and starch and iron that dress now! Why don't you have nipples? Here. Cover up with this doll blanket."
    Etc.

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  2. That made me laugh out loud. In fact, I'm STILL laughing! Thank you.

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  3. Oh Betsy, you never fail to make me smile! I hope you and Mabel had fun at yoga, although unless she was jointed or made of cloth she may not have been as flexible as she needed to be. I can relate to that. Here's to interesting lives, inner or outer or both :)

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    1. Yes, Mabel loves yoga too! She hardly minds that she can't move. (Hardly. By that I mean just a little bit of weeping over her immobile life. Poor Mabel.)

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  4. Death to generators; just deal with it.
    We have one. It kicked in, for real, one evening and ran for the next 24 hours. It is so loud I did not sleep, and I left the house most of the next day.

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  5. I once threw my Ken doll over the hedge and his arm broke off. Then he wore a tough looking armband so he wouldn't be a one-armed kinda guy.

    At Casa Coyote we have a sump pump which makes the most gawd awful noise. I woke one morning to a horrible grinding thrashing sound like a monster truck demo and I've never even been to anything slightly monster-truckish. Then I thought it must be a helicopter in the yard (natch!) because I apparently have State secrets and they were taking me out in handcuffs. To the cellar at the 'bureau'.

    Maybe we're both spies and we just can't remember because they've erased our memories. Or our memories were sucked out by space aliens.

    BTW-One armed Ken didn't become cynical. He thought he looked hot.

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    Replies
    1. I think you're onto something. Maybe WE're the spies! That would explain the helicopters in your yard, for sure...

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