Some of my favorite songs have "dream" in the title.

The other night I had a dream.

This is not unusual or really cause for noting it, but it was a weird one, and I thought if I wrote it down it would help me figure out what, if anything, it means. I sent it to a friend in an email, and I think I even posted it on Facebook, and no one had much of anything to say about it except, “Weird, man,” so maybe that’s all there is to it, but since I’ve got this space here, you know, for my ramblings and other bullshit, let’s fill it in.

I woke up September 15th at 1:30 a.m. Here’s what I wrote then (punctuation or lack thereof as included in the original, sleepy version. Also, I should probably read up on the anatomy of birds):

“Just woke up from a dream wherein a man possibly my father was explaining to me that birds that eat other birds (is there such a thing) will not eat a bird if it has been shot in the heart incorrectly because then the dead bird’s heart droops into the body and the blood pools in the cavity and if the heart is submerged in blood the other bird won’t eat it. And my dad was waving around a dead bird with half its dried up heart rattling around inside it’s ribcage like an avocado pit and do birds even have ribcages.

My brother was cooking dinner nearby and I was trying to get a stain out of some very thick carpet with a stiff brush, and a little boy, maybe the one from Starbucks I told you about*, was playing with a small racetrack where you had to pull the cars backward to make them go and I was singing, loudly and clearly, an old Soundgarden** song, while I scrubbed the carpet.

My mother was there too but I don’t know what she was doing.”

Explanation for those of you not lucky enough to receive weird-ass emails from me at 1 in the morning:

That night I had visited Starbucks with my laptop and my books and got some homework done. While I was there, a very tiny, incredibly adorable little Asian boy came in with his mother. While she was paying, he was sitting at the table in front of me, singing a song and playing with something, maybe a business card or thick piece of paper. Mom was pretty easy with having her back to him (at this age I was either holding Jules’ hand whenever out in public or hyper-aware of his whereabouts. I’ve calmed down a little but I would hate to lose my kid due to my own inattention. And isn’t that always when they get hurt?), and so he seemed pretty cool with sitting there by himself, playing with his little piece of paper. As she was paying, and I guess when I looked down at my work - See? No one was watching him and he escaped! - he crawled down from the chair and snuck out the back door to the patio. The Starbucks employee saw this and said something to mom, who calmly finished paying and gestured to him through the window, “Come back inside.” He didn’t. He walked until he was directly in front of the window to my right (I was also between him and his mother; I don’t think he had come that way to be in my eyesight) and he stood there, gently slapping his palms against the window, singing his little songs. It was one of the sweetest, cutest things I’ve seen in a long time, and maybe writing about this dumb dream was just a way to get to this little kid, because I’m glad I remembered him.

A note on the previous post.

A friend (male, of course) commented on my last post. He said, “Did you call it that so no males would read it?” When I saw his comment, at first I thought he just said, “so NO ONE” will read it. We had a little text-based misunderstanding until I went back up and re-read what he had actually said.

Anyway, the answer is “no.” That title was a (terrible? Genius? It is not for me to say.) pun. The sad thing is, I don’t think this friend was even alive when “Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus” was published. Or if he was, he didn’t need a lot of self-help books at the age of 15. Or watch a lot of Dr. Phil or Oprah.

So, if you were offended by the title of my last post, please accept my humble apologies. The fact that you are here at all is enough to make me feel supremely repentant for potentially bumming you out. Dear reader, you are just as real to me as the people standing in line at this Starbucks at 8:49 on a Friday night.

Men are subpar; women are genius.

We had a little Chinese food extravaganza luncheon in the office today for one of my coworker's birthday. While I was eating, facing out in my cubicle so that I could chit chat with people, another coworker (not the birthday girl) started talking to me.

I honestly don't remember what we were discussing... Oh! I told her that I had started reading "The Hobbit" to Jules this week and he was really liking it, despite my copy having no pictures. (I asked him: Do you have a brain? - Yes. Do you have an imagination? - Yes. Then let's give it a try, okay?) Midway through the unexpected party and all the wonderful descriptions of the dwarves, and Bilbo's discomfort, I could tell he was hooked. We don't read much, a few minutes before bed, only a couple of pages, but he likes it. Anyway, so I told her about my reading (by the way, if you never have, read "The Hobbit" out loud. Newsflash: Tolkien could write like a motherfucker) and she told me about hers: she's re-reading "A Wrinkle in Time." She said she read it in junior high and loved it, and it had taken her a little time to remember the title (I said, dude, next time ask me). I gave my whole-hearted support of her sitting down with one of my favorite books, and recommended "Meet the Austins." So, after we talked about that for a while, she mentioned that she had picked up a copy of "Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus." (Not sure about my capitalization there, and don't really care.) I laughed, a little, and said, "That book is still in print?" She said yes, and so I said, "I hope you didn't spend more than $1 on it!"

She said she hadn't, and then she told me she was really enjoying it. This woman has no mask. I always feel like she is exactly how she seems, and it's surprising to recognize that. She's fun, and funny, and a kind person, but she's also exactly that. I think she's not embarrassed or self-conscious at all about her interests and the gaps in her experiences, and she doesn't care if I think she's smart or stupid or clever or pretty; she just wants to talk, and learn, I think is what I'm trying to say. She recently got married, and I guess she wants to understand this man she has living full-time in her house now. It's pretty sweet, actually. We talked about how lots of the stuff is common sense stuff, but I just realized that even though I made fun of the book, me saying it's "common sense" is probably only possible thanks to books like this, and the others that I probably picked up in the Self Help section and sneaked peaks at when I worked at Crown a hundred years ago.

We talked about the usual ways men and women approach problems and the differences and similarities, and what we personally prefer, and it was a nice conversation. Her field is safety and she had to take a few psychology classes in college, and she spoke about what she was reading as if she was really, really interested in it. So even though I think that book is probably garbage, it was fun to talk to her about it and make connections to herself and to me. 

A few years ago I would NEVER have been moved to say this, but I really like almost all of the people I work with. 

I told her how, it just recently occured to me that my husband never tells me things are going to be OK. I only noticed this because I've had a few moments of (whatever. Don't think "despair" but okay, somewhere between singing songs and full-on freak out), I'm not sure how I described those moments to her. I think I just said, you know, when you think everything is going wrong and you suck and you have too much laundry to do and some parts of your job suck and you're old and sad about getting old and getting old sucks and are we raising Jules to be a curious, interested, engaged person. Okay, fine: I didn't say all that. But she knew what I meant, I think, about wanting some basic reassurement about the state of things: I said, it's kind of important to me to hear that. Otherwise, our worries and little problems turn into big ones. Never ending ones. And even if it's just a salve or a bandaid, hearing "It'll be OK" has meaning and comfort built right into it. But, Patrick, in tune with me as he is, sometimes gets it wrong. Hey, he's human. It's okay (see what I did there?).

I think I started thinking about this because of something that happened yesterday morning, before the Chinese food. I had a little confrontation with a man at my work. We have limited charging stations, and I had snagged one early at another building (still part of my department). There are signs posted that there is a 4 hour limit, and I was unable to go pick up my car within that time. I was about 45 minutes late. My coworker (not the birthday girl or the reader) had parked his plug-in hybrid at the other space, and had gone down to his car a few minutes before I did. He texted me to tell me that someone had parked a third plug-in hybrid in front of our cars, blocking us in. He had to go do whatever, so I told him I would take care of it. However, I think in the ensuing texts, he figured out that I was P.I.S.S.E.D., because he said, "I'm coming back." 

I had taken the security guard with me over to the cars, and she helped me find out whose car it was and when that guy finally came down to move it (it was probably there for 45 minutes), the two of us had a pretty intense conversation with him. I believe I used the word "bullshit" more than once (later I texted my coworker, "Bet you've never heard me swear so much!" I really didn't swear that much but I was embarrassed. He assured me that he wasn't scandalized. I don't know, I've had former coworkers fall on the ground the first time they hear me say the F word: I think they think I"m all proper or well-bred. Ha! Joke's on you, losers! Then he told me about his Greek mother, and that what I did was nothing compared to what she would have done). Anyway, I drove away for lunch, and the two of us continued texting about it. I was still upset and worried about possible retaliation if I reported what happened (even if my car was there too long, preventing me from leaving was pretty low), and we talked about some other incident-related fears, and then my coworker texted me this:

"Don't worry about it. It will be OK."

And you know what? I immediately settled down. Now, I don't know where he learned this or if he's a caring person or if at 33 years old, he's used to settling down middle aged women, but it was exactly the right thing to say. 

So while my coworker (not the birthday girl or the plug-in hybrid owner) and I talked about men and their confounding ways, I extolled on the virture of the words "It will be OK."

The guy who said it was sitting right next to us, behind the four foot cubicle wall. He couldn't see me but I'm sure he heard me. I hope he realizes I really appreciated what he had done.  

I haven't talked to Patrick about that part of the story yet. I probably should. I definitely will.