James McAvoy Couldn't Save Me

So, I dreamed that hubby and I (hubby was James McAvoy, which I thought was rather nice of him) were spies.  Not just run-of-the-mill spies, but "if you get caught we don't know you, you're out in the cold" spies.  We'd captured . . . someone.  Some diplomat or counterspy or something like that.  Who just happened to be Joss Ackland.  Of course. Who else would he be?  He was unconscious, and we'd jammed him into a fifty pound bag of dog food (empty, other than Mr. Ackland, of course) and I was holding the bag rolled shut and jammed down at my feet in the car.

A faded blue 70s model Chevy, if I'm remembering right.

We were headed for some safehouse.  It was disguised as an old, decrepit "folk" Victorian home, just shy of "mansion" territory.  Much like the old place we pass every weekend on our way to the Farmer's Market, strangely.

As we made our way down a long, dark hall with warped wooden floors and peeling wall paper, Mr. Ackland began to stir.  I told hubby to hurry, that he was waking up.  We got to the room at the end of the hall and made a beeline for the closet.  See, the back of the closet was a false wall, and beyond was . . .

The afterlife waiting room from Beetlejuice.  No, no one from Beetlejuice was there, but it was that room.  That room, and it was full of spies waiting for assignments, spies waiting to be debriefed, etc.

Just as we began dragging the now struggling-in-the-dogfood-bag Mr. Ackland through the closet, it happened.  We'd been followed.

And a firefight ensued.

In the fray, I was shot.  At that point, I found myself watching from behind and above.  Watching as, shot, I shattered.  Like a mirror, I shattered. In fact, I WAS a mirror, and the long, bright shards of me collapsed in a shiny pile on the floor next to the wall.

And then I woke up.

I love my brain.  I love my husband.  But when my brain makes my husband James McAvoy?

Well, that, my friends, transcends mere love.

I have NO idea who this picture belongs to--I found it on a web search, clicked to find out whose it is (so I could ask permission and properly attribute), and wound up on a site rife with naked women and porn links.  It's an absolutely lovely pic, though.  I'll be glad to remove it, should the owner so desire.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tonights dietary adventure?  Fake hotdogs (Lightlife hotdogs) and with fake American Cheese (Veggy) on lower-carb whole grain bread with organic mustard and ketchup.  With Farmer's Market corn on the cob (steamed, no butter or salt, of course), steamed broccoli, and salad.  Dessert?

Pear, apple, and watermelon juice.  

This is gonna be tasty.  I hope.  I'll let you know.

And now, three hours later?  It WAS good!  The hotdogs weren't the BEST, but they were good, they were palatable.  The texture still needs some work, but with melted vegan cheese and some ketchup and mustard?  Perfectly fine--even the boy liked them!  And the juice?

Heavenly!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Had a sad while today, after yet another over-the-top religious bit of whatever came skidding across my Facebook wall from an old friend.  She used to be pretty with it, pretty stable and happy, but a hard divorce and a subsequent relationship with a freaky, out-of-control, Libertarian survivalist ala Nugent really broke her.  I remember hearing it in her voice, knowing that she was getting more and more out there, more and more politically disconnected and extreme.  All the while, her drinking was becoming increasingly worrisome.  Three hour phone calls, so disjointed, so absolutely drunken, sometimes from work (her line of work wasn't well-suited to sloppy drunkenness).  Listening to her puke her stupid guts out over the phone, then having her ask, days later, "Did we talk the other night?  I don't really remember . . . "  

She had, in college, all the makings of someone who was going to keep growing, keep honing those critical thinking skills, but it didn't happen.  She's sunk into the swamp of falling for every Snopes-worthy hoax and posting increasingly strident religious memes.  She doesn't really seem to "get" social media, and I feel really bad for her.  I don't think she's happy, but I don't want to argue "faith" with her because I think clinging to that might be the only excuse she has for staying relatively sober.  

What a sad mess.  Not sure what to do, since I'm sure any attempt to reach out would be disastrous, and she seems very insecure and unstable.  So I guess I'll just let her gawdawful memes wash across my wall and keep my fingers still.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Speaking of silly mythologies and gullibility, I just came across the friend of a friend's Facebook page.  His disjointed, failed-fartsy, barely literate attempt at wishing her good luck relocating led me to him.  Ever see the annual "worst fiction ever" contest?  This guy?

Absolutely a contender.

Anyway, so I check this guy's wretched page, and it turns out he's a "medium, psychic, spiritualist, and EMPATH."  He has, apparently, a "spirt" guide.  

Oh, goodness. Oh, my.  I may actually injure myself laughing.  My poor AURA is bright pink with mirth, and the VIBRATIONS I'm sending out can likely be felt for miles.  

There's a fortune to be made out there.  If only I could bring myself to manipulate and exploit the gullible.  But I can't

I just can't.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And that's it.  Here's some ugly:

Add caption

Dreams, Redux

So, last night I dreamed that I was on a road trip with my Mom and sister.  Someday you'll get an earful on the last trip I took with my Mom and you'll know why this automatically qualifies as a nightmare.

Once again, this dream puts my Mom behind the wheel (yikes!).  In this dream, she keeps twisting around to grab things out of the back seat while the car careens wildly into the paths of various large vehicles.  Each time, I scream from the backseat, and each time she gets angry with me for criticizing her driving.  We finally stop in a small town with many Native Americans there--most young, from children through young adulthood.  The younger children, who are brightly costumed, are lining up on the sidewalk, as are various vehicles decorated with spangles and flowers and such, and we realize it's going to be a parade!  I pull out the camera, but my Mom won't unlock the doors for me to get out, so I'm taking crappy, drive-by-tourist shots until I finally manage to convince her to open the cage.

Sadly, the "parade" involved only the little kids walking from one corner to the next, and then they were done.  No photo opportunities.  In the process of walking this one block, they left an unbelievable amount of trash--paper plates, plastic cups, a Saran Wrap box (?), etc.  So I wound up taking off my jacket and using it as a bag to hold garbage as I cleaned the street. 

We finally wind up at a nice-ish hotel (very Hemingway-esque, with a lot of stuffed exotics on the walls and deep, glowing paneling).  I've been in the room, just thinking about taking a shower, when my sister and near-hysterics Mom come in with the manager of the hotel.  My mother's credit card won't clear.  As things progress (degenerate?), it turns out NONE of her cards will clear.  I know I don't have the money, and I'm unsure what to do.  The manager is starting to make "calling the cops" noises, and my sister says she has an idea and walks out.  When she comes back, she tells me she's called my friend Joe and asked him for money, and that he's already sent it. 

I'm devastated.  She called Joe and and traded on my friendship to suck for money!  She doesn't see the problem--she says (and rightfully, I suppose), "Beats jail, doesn't it?"  I ask for her cell phone, agonizing over how I'm going explain this to Joe, how I'm going to apologize, earn his trust again.  I hit redial, but it's not a real redial--instead, it shows the number, but then I have to flip back and forth between the redial screen and the dial screen, entering one number at a time.  I screw it up repeatedly, each time getting more and more pitched.

As I'm about to hit send, I look at my sister and ask, "When are you paying him back?"  Suddenly, it's HER on the other end of the phone, and I'm standing on a corner in front of a city park in Nevada somewhere.  She starts to laugh and says she makes it a policy to never pay back.  I start to chew her out and she hangs up on me.  I'm crushed.  I'm enraged.  And I'm scared to death--we can't afford to pay Joe back, and yet that's exactly what we're going to have to do. 

Crappy dream--I kept bursting into tears every time I thought about calling Joe. 

On the "reality on the homefront" front, the landlord has become a little less than terrific these days.  We've been asking his "handyman" to take care of the ice maker (which only works if you molest it in advance every time you want ice), the sliding screen door (which was broken and on the ground when we moved in), and the sliding glass door (which has been increasingly unwilling to open) since June (earlier for the screen and ice maker).  At this point, we've given up on the screen and the ice maker.  Those are luxuries.  But we really, really do need a BACK DOOR THAT OPENS!   The dog needs to go out a few times a day, right?  We tried adjusting the roller height--no effect.  We tried unhanging the doors so we can pull out the roller assembly and order a new one (on our own dime!).  No joy--the screw for the stationary door half is so stripped out that it can't be worked.  The door won't come out into the house, it has to be able to clear the stationary part, which won't budge because of the stripped screw.  We finally sprayed some wax furniture polish on the runners, and, while it's not fixed, it is moving well enough that, for now, the door is usable.  I've emailed the landlord about it AGAIN--last time I emailed, he said he'd "look into trying to get something done."  That was two months ago.  This is delicate and difficult because, on the one hand, we sure as hell can't afford 800 bucks to replace that door if it needs replacing, but on the other hand, we really need the landlord to renew our lease next fall, so we don't want to be gigantic pains in his ass.  If he doesn't renew, we are absolutely screwed.  We have no money saved up, and no way of getting into a new place.  So I'm trying to strike a balance between getting what we're owed, lease-wise, and not making the landlord want us gone.

Going into DC today.  Not a lot of walking around, my back is being punky.  But hubby really wants our boy to see the monuments lit up.  I wouldn't mind that myself.  Betcha I take pictures!