Several nights ago I had a dream, but only remember fragments of the end of it; I was in a 3rd or 4th story room with no windows, and I had to get out. I knew the only way out was through the wall, but if I jumped through it my body would turn to sand...whatever the reason I needed to get out must have been a good one, because I ran and threw myself into that wall, and exploded into millions of pieces of myself.

But on the other side of that wall--body or not, sand and dust or not, I made it through--was not the daylight I expected. It was space, a gradient purple littered with stars. I immediately began looking for someone and was about to call out... and then Buddah jumped on me and woke me up.

But it stayed with me. I've had that vision of the stars imbedded into that vastness of differing shades of purple stuck in my head since then. It felt important; it feels important.

And then Friday Miz posted this picture. And that was it, that's what I saw, just substitute the water droplets for stars. Even those bright spots towards the middle feel familiar.

Kinda cool, kinda freaky.

I filled with excitement and joy when I heard the man in the library parking lot brag to his Significant Other, "I got eight and a half inches."

Oh yes, I too wanted at least eight and a half inches. And it's not every day you can get that at the library. It's only possible every 3-4 months, and I look forward to it with a joy that appeals to my inner dork which can only be matched by hearing the Spouse Thingy say, "Let’s go look at motorcycles."

Oh yeah. I walked up to the door all atwitter, and almost squealed when I saw the BOOK SALE TODAY banner.

I walked out of there with 12 inches of books.
Fifty cents an inch.
You just can't beat that.

---

I was so distracted by the idea that there was a room full of fifty-cents-an-inch books that I couldn’t focus on what I had gone to the library for--to work--so I packed it up and headed to Border's, where I could sip iced tea while I pretended to spew forth my literary brilliance. I got halfway there and Mother Naturereally wanted to talk to me, so I pulled into the parking lot of a fast food place and headed in for a quick conversation with Momma N.

Just outside the door, there was a woman and her son, maybe 11 years old. They were standing by a trash can, hands full, trying to figure out how to get the trash into the can without touching the push-in lid.

"Use your elbow, Mom."

"It's FILTHY."

So I pushed the lid open, the kid looked at me like I'd committed the utmost grievous sin by touching The Filth.

"They have soap and water inside," I said.

They thanked me, but the Mom stared daggers at me.

Apparently touching a dirty trash can means you'll curl up and die before you can get to the restroom. Who knew?

---

As I'm paying for my iced tea at the Border's cafe, the clerk asks, "Aren't you hot in that sweatshirt?"

"Um, no..."

"It's hot as hell outside!"

"But it's cool inside."

She didn't know how to respond to that...

Apparently, the thingies that make my bike stop on demand were pretty well worn through...



At least they look worn. And I presume these are the actual brake pads that were on my bike; I have to take the shop's word that they didn't just hand over some random worn pieces of metal to justify calling and saying the front pads on my bike were worn.

Now, the bike only has 4,000 miles on it, and that seemed a little suspect, so I got online and asked Those Who Know, and across the board they told me to get the old pads back, because that just didn't sound right. People with the same bike have 15-20-30,000 miles on their pads.

Apparently, I must ride the brake more than I thought I did. Or perhaps I did last year when I was learning to ride, hanging on during those ohmygodohmygodohmygod moments but no longer do (say it with me: "lead wrist?")

I've had mixed feelings about this shop before, like they would have no problem concocting a problem just for the money. But I did notice a huge difference on the ride home, and last year when I thought I was dangerously low on brake fluid they didn't laugh when they had to show me I was checking it in completely the wrong way. Perhaps I expect too much? Or perhaps I'm inventing these feelings to justify getting my next bike at a different place, where they have a bike that makes my inner teenager squeal with delight?

Whatever, I have new brakes, they squeak, and the bike is now all serviced and inspected, and I can go zoooom this weekend.

We won't know if we're getting the house for sure until next week. We have the renter's application in hand and she'll pick it up Monday, run our credit, and then we'll see. I don't anticipate any problems, but I know better than to count on anything until it's a done deal. If she changes her mind, there are other houses out there. Not that I want to go looking for them, but we'll find something.

And because it became a very minor issue in comments from the last post...the wishlish link started out as a joke. It's been there for 4 years and until now no one, other than the chosen few, has noticed it. Those few people knew it was there because they asked for it. Initially it was littered with obvious eye-rolling things: a 42" plasma TV, mega-expensive computer systems, a Segway scooter...and toothpicks. Cinnamon flavored toothpicks. When the joke was over and friends wanted something different, it morphed. It's no more realistic because the crap on there is pricey, but...so?

Thing is, I've had links like that for years and no one noticed. To me, that was funny. But to have it called disgusting...that's not funny. The commenter didn't ask why the links were there, just called it disgusting. She didn't bother to find out that the Bike Fund link was there for one specific person, who pledged 52 cents if there was only a way to get it to me. She didn't bother to find out that when he coughs his 52 cents up the link will disappear. She never asked for why the wishlist was there or knew about its million-dollar-list origin. She just assumed.

Look, a lot of people have links for donations, links for wishlists, links for porn, whatever. Some people have tons of text ads--click on those and they make money. It all ads up to a big fat shrug of the shoulders and a hearty"So?"

If Murf ever coughs up his 52 cents, the bike fund link will go. The wishlist link is there for friends. It stays. No one says you have to click on it anymore than you have to click on the text ads on other peoples' blogs. I expect nothing, other than email from those friends who want to know when I'm pulling my head out of my ass.

Whoever keeps shoving firecrackers up Buddah's butt in the middle of the night can stop now. The 45 minute holy tears through the house, thundering up and down the stairs over and over and over again--especially when he runs into the bedroom to bounce off my chest--is getting old. Really. I appreciate that he's getting some exercise, but I'd really like some uninterrupted sleep...

First we were not going to move.

Then we found out we were. 'Cause the owner is totally a liar-liar-pants on fire.

Then there was the chance that we could just move to the house next door.

Then a few days ago we met with the lady who owns said house, and who was oh-so-apologetic, because she had promised it to her nephew. But she did have another property around the corner we could rent...which sounded good until we got to the part of "the garage has been converted into a bonus room." We kinda need a garage. The bikes need someplace to sleep.

She really was apologetic, and very nice.

So today we went to look at a house; it was very nice and the bedrooms were big, but the living room was so small that our furniture would not fit. There wouldn't be enough room for even the spiffy chair upon which my Christmas-present-pillow sits.

We passed it up. We figured what the heck, we've been with this property management company for a couple of years and they'll find us a house. Upon talking to the lady showing the house, however, we learned that the rental market is super tight, what with all the foreclosures, and they're taking names and having waiting lists, and whoever has the best credit rating gets the house. We could spend the next 4 weeks just trying to get a house we don't even like.

Screw that.

We went somewhere else. They let you take the keys and go see their houses all by your lonesome. All they ask is a copy of your ID and $20, which you get back.

'Course, we got the wrong key and couldn't get into the house we wanted to look at, but we got to peek through the windows. It was doable, even though the appliances were about a hundred years old. And the grass was dead and knee high. Well, the weeds were knee high. But I can regrow grass, and I can make an ugly house presentable. Those are things I can look past.

We had another address; no key was needed, the lady said there were workers there, they would let us in. And we figured if that didn't pan out, fine, they had a house coming up that was right around the corner from where we used to live and it's a very nice neighborhood.

Just as we pulled up to the house, before we knocked on the door and disturbed the workers, the Boy called.

Lady that owns the house next door left a message on the answering machine.

Her nephew will take the other property instead, if we're still interested in that house.

Hell, yes we are.

So. Keep your fingers crossed. We meet with her again Thursday; hopefully she's ready to take deposits and the like. She might want to run a credit check. And get rental referrals. Which means we might not know for a few days after that.

I want my house with the pool.

And the hot tub.

I don't like that all the bedrooms are upstairs, but the guys can haul my laundry up and down for me, and if I need something from upstairs, well, someone else is going to have to go get it for me.

'Cause the house has a pool.

Did I mention the hot tub?

Thumpa wants.

=blink= =blink= =blink=

Normally I would not endorse the planting of one's butt in a chair all freaking day long, but that's exactly what I did today. Well, it's what I did after I hopped on the bike for a quick run to Costco in order to procure a copy of that book.

My eyes are all fuzzy and I need a little blood to move into the lower half of my body, but I am done and I thoroughly enjoyed my wasted day.

I am sure I was not alone in my literary endeavor today.

Real life may resume tomorrow.

Apparently, I have not updated my archives page in 5 months.
Thusly have I deprived you of going back to read my incredible dronings for 5 months.
I fixed it; you may now go admire all over again the Wonder that is Me.

I think 2007 is in reverse order every month...at some point I'll fix that, too.

No hissing at each other.
No paws swiping at each others' face.
No growling.
They never get this close quietly.
I think they're plotting something...

My editor seems to have issues.

He has spent a considerable amount of time this weekend sitting by the front door, not five feet from my desk, where he faces a wall and meows his little fool head off. Every time I stop and ask what the problem is he turns his head to look at me, and the look on his face suggests that I have interrupted something very important.

He's either having a two way conversation with the wall, and I am not fortunate enough to be included on one side of it, he's confused and means to be talking to the front door, trying to convince it to open up and let him out, or he hears mice in the walls.

I'm not sure they have kitty anti-psychotics, he knows he's not allowed outside, and if it's the latter, I may be glad we're going to move soon.

Buddah has been so insistent in his conversations with the wall that my harshest critic finally wandered over to him, hissed, and then popped him upside the head with a mighty swipe of his paw.

It worked for about ten minutes.

He's back talking in a stream of kitty chatter, and I am getting nothing worthwhile accomplished.

That's not a complaint.

I think I'll go bake a cake.

Border's Books apparently hosts a book club. And, apparently, you need to be 60 years or older to take part, and you need not have read the book of the month. Apparently, too, it meets on Friday afternoons, a time when I evidently had not yet hogged a table while I sip iced tea and pretend to write.

I didn’t find out what book they were there to discuss; I don't believe that the entire time I was there anyone mentioned it. I did, however, get to hear that Irene's bladder infection has cleared up nicely--they were worried to would spread to her kidneys--and that she would join them the next time. I also learned about Michael Jackson (but not that sissy boy singer!), son of Sumner Jackson (Why, I’d known him my entire life), who died last year at 76 years of age while on vacation in Italy. He had cancer and wanted to see the world before he died, and that was the last place on his itinerary.

They agreed, it was a lovely way to pass on, doing those last few things that you want to do. We should all be so lucky.

I also heard snickers and titters over the young man with waist long hair and a wiry beard who left the cafe with a flourish; he was wearing a long dark linen dress with a gold paisley-type pattern, pearls around his neck, several costume jewelry bracelets, and he carried a vibrantly sequined purse. I waited for the ugly edge of it, but they were merely amused.

"Honey, if I looked that good in a dress like that, you bet I'd wear it no matter what!"…"Good for him. If I can wear dungarees, he can wear that pretty thing."…"I want to know where he got the bag..."

They laughed at stories of each other's grandkids--three year old Jimmy has learned the word "booger" and says it at every inopportune moment, including quite loudly during a church service--and of the horrible way several of them golfed this week. "I got a 92!" one woman proclaimed, only to be met with "Well, yes, but that was on the first four holes and I don't think I'd be bragging about it."

There was a belch. I’m too old to need an excuse for that.

There was a spill. Get a napkin for me…Eh, get your own napkin…Don’t make that poor girl behind the counter clean up after you…Why not, I’d give her a nickel…

I was a little sad to see them go, but they noted the time and realized they only had half an hour before the Harry Potter movie started.

I love spunky old people.

I've been sitting in the cafe at Border's bookstore for a couple of hours, struggling with this manuscript, trying to figure out why I can't seem to make it come to life. It has the elements a story requires, but it’s missing that spark, the thing that would draw you in and keep you reading.

Right now I think if someone picked it up, they'd shrug it off by page 10 with a "meh" as they tossed it aside.

It works, but it doesn’t work.

Then this couple walked in. He looks like he's 90 years old, walking in microshuffles, his hands clenched tightly in front of his stomach; he takes a few steps, and pauses, as if he's trying to remember where he is and why. She seems to close to the same age, but she has that youthful bounce that says life has not yet swung its mighty sword at her. She's clear about where she is and why, and when he pauses with uncertainty she places her hand on his arm and waits, patiently.

I watch them out of the corner of my eye, not wanting to stare but wanting to drink them in. He stands by the counter, staring at the menu board, and she rubs his arm, as if to let him know she's right there, and it's okay. After a moment she tells him in a strong voice that he really enjoys their muffins, and some cold tea would be nice. He brightens a bit, nods, and she leads him to a table just off to my right, making sure he's safely in a chair before placing their order.

When she brings their food and drinks to the table he asks, quite loudly, "Is it cold outside?"

She reaches over to pat his hand and says no, it's very nice outside, but if he needs his sweater she'll go out to the car and get it.

No, he replies, I thought it was cold because of the coffee.

She reminds him it's ice tea as she unfolds a napkin to lay across the table. She breaks up the muffin into several pieces, and tells him not to worry about getting burned, because it's a cold muffin.

There are only a few other people in the cafe; no one seems to mind the volume at which they have to communicate. He tells her repeatedly that the coffee is cold, but it's good anyway. She reminds him that it's iced tea. He asks again if it's cold outside. Three times he mentions wanting to buy a new book by "that bald fellow." Three times she promises they'll look for it as soon as they're done with their muffin.

"It's the biggest fucking muffin I've ever seen," he declares once. I know I'm not the only one biting back laughter; she simply agrees that it was very big and that's why she only bought one for them to share.

"Is it cold outside?"

She never lost patience with him. When the muffin was nothing but crumbs, she reached over with another napkin and brushed it gently across his face. He smiled and in a moment of clarity thanked her, and asked if they could look for his book now. His eyes sparkled: I know who you are, I know that you love me.

I watched them leave; he walked in the same microshuffles with which he arrived, pausing to look around, seemingly unsure of where he was. She kept a hand on his arm, rubbing gently, assuringly. I watched decades of love and devotion inch across the carpet, and then disappear in between book stands.

They are the spark I don't have in this book. I'm trying to write about people who are patently unkind to one another, who are clueless about how to find the rhythm to dance with each other through life. I'm having a hard time writing about it because my life has been more like this old couple who shuffled into my periphery for 20 minutes. Even when bad things happen, my life has been peppered with these sparks of kindness, the unspoken understanding that even when we don't like each other very much, we will always love each other and treat each other with respect.

I'm having a hard time creating these people because I don't really know them.

That old couple, I know them. I was raised by them. I married into a family with people like them. I'm not enough like them to satisfy myself, but I know them well enough.

That's a good thing. It's not helping me whittle away at the words I’ve already committed to virtual paper well enough to finish the story--sooner or later it will get done--but at least I think I now know why.

It's not true that writers should write what they know; sometimes they need to write what they need to know...sometimes that brings their own reality into focus.

Meet my new editor.

Buddah Pest.

Apparently, he's not satisfied with the level of my work lately, as he's taken to shielding the world from it with his 13 pounds of shiny black wonder.

And he talks to me. Normally he's a quiet little guy, but as he splays himself across the first draft, he meows repeatedly, which roughly translates into "You should stop now. Save yourself incredible literary embarrassment and just come play with the kitties."

Or he might be saying "Crunchy treats. I want them. Right now."

Either way, I'm not getting much done.

:::waits for lottery numbers to be drawn:::

Well, it is supposed to be a lucky day. I figured this was as good a day as any to finally remember to actually buy a ticket.

::crosses fingers:::

Hush...

Flipped on the TV for noise as I blog surfed, and was greeted with the news that they're sure they've caught the serial rapist that's been running loose for the past couple of years here.

I have some ideas what they should do with him, but they're not very nice and would surely propel my blog from a G to a hard R rating...

HAPPY 4TH OF JULY!
With thanks for those who've served to get us this far...

We celebrated by taking a bike ride this morning before it got too hot, and it got too hot long before we expected it to, hence a ride shorter than we'd planned. Tomorrow looks to be even hotter, so if we want to ride, we'll have to get up at a normal people hour, and the opening of the garage door is going to wake The Boy.

And why would a motorcycle dealership have a huge 4th Of July Summer Blowout Sale! sign hanging off its roof, and then be closed for the holiday? They totally missed out on a sale today. Well, we would've bought a pair of gloves, but a sale is a sale and now they may never get my $19.99...

I don't know why I was having a yard sale on a cruise ship in a dream this morning, and I especially don't know why Rosie O'Donnell walked up to me, a mass of people in her wake, so that she could pluck hairs from one of my eyebrows.

Just one. Apparently the other eyebrow was tidy enough.

And I really don't know why, as she passed with that wake of people behind her, someone reached out and stole the $4.50 I had earned from selling my collective crap on the cruise ship. But I do appreciate that Rosie herself, upon hearing that the woman with the wayward eyebrow had been ripped off, came back all by herself later and gave me $5 to make up for it.