The Dream Me Isn’t Very Dreamy

applepieSome people say that dreams give you a window into your subconscious. If that’s true I’m starting to wonder what kind of person I really am. I like to think of myself kind and good-natured. I’m the kind of person who’d pick up a struggling worm on the sidewalk and return him to the dirt.

In my dreams I’m someone completely different though. I’m the person who steps on the worm on the sidewalk or steals the puppy you left tied up outside when you popped into the store for a few minutes. Yeah, that’s the dream me and it’s about time I admit it.

Just last night I had a dream that my husband and I went on a road trip with our six small children. I wanted to stop to eat lunch at a nice restaurant. My husband insisted that we couldn’t afford to feed all eight of us in a nice restaurant. Than the dream me came up a brilliant solution to the problem.

“How about I go to the restaurant and you can all wait for me in the hot car?” I suggested.

My husband who is very agreeable in my dreams agreed. So we went to Sizzlers (when you’re looking for a nice restaurant Sizzlers is always the first one that comes to mind).

I paid $17 for a salad and a slice of apple pie. While I ate it, I watched through the window as my husband struggle to keep the kids under control in the parking lot.

Who does something like that? The dream me, that’s who. I’m just warning you in case you ever run into me in your dreams. Chances are you will. I realize that once you reach my level of popularity that you make guest appearances in most people’s dreams.

Note: I did a guest post on Thoughts from Paris yesterday. Check it out here.

Photo by King…

My Thoughts on the Super Bowl

The Super Bowl is serious business in this house.

The Super Bowl is serious business in this house.

The Super Bowl is finally over. That means that instead of watching football games on television my husband will be regularly checking NFL.com to keep up to date with all the football gossip. Have you seen the stuff they put on NFL.com during the off season? I swear it’s like The View for men.

I strongly dislike the idea of watching any sport on TV, except of course power breaking which is universally loved. There’s nothing like the drama of watching a martial arts nerd try to break a stack of concrete slabs that is almost as tall as he is with his elbow. Everything else is just meh comparatively. I think it’s because there are way too many rules to learn in most sports, and I’m a rebel. I don’t play by the rules because I never take the time to learn them. It’s February and I’m wearing my Christmas socks. That’s how much of a rebel I am. That’s a big reindeer up yours to rules … about Christmas socks.

Even though I have strong feelings of disdain for watching sports, I did go to a Super Bowl party once. At the time I was trying to break out of my shell and do things a bit differently. I’m not a party person, but I decided that I needed to start becoming one. So I showed up ready to paaaaaaartyyyyyy like it was 1999 and there was no real party to be had. Since when is sitting around on a sofa watching football and eating pizza a party? There was no DJ, no dancing, no one laying in a pool of vomit on the bathroom floor, and everyone kept talking about football.

Now I spend the Super Bowl at home where I can enjoy a nice cup of tea and watch documentaries about power breaking in the next room while every one else “enjoys” the football game.

Taxes?

boxesIt was 11:30 last night when my husband said, “You know our UK taxes have to be filed by the 31st of this month, right?”

This wouldn’t be a big deal if we weren’t living like hobos right now. Have I explained our living situation to you yet? Since we moved to the US we’ve been packed into the guest bedroom in my parents condo along with all of our earthly possessions. If you’ve ever been in a living situation where you can’t seem to get organized and you don’t know where anything is multiply that by 7 million and you’ll know what we’re going through.

“Can’t they wait until March?” I asked my husband after I opened the closet door and looked at the stacks of boxes and clothes. We’re supposed to close on the house we’re buying on March 1st and once we’ve moved in I’ll be able to get a handle on things.

“It doesn’t work that way,” he said.

What does he mean it doesn’t work that way? I think countries should let you file taxes whenever you get around to it. That would be so much more convenient for me and you know every nation in the world should make their laws according to my convenience.

I started pulling stuff out of the closet and realized that I have so many silk scarves that someone might mistake me for a magician. I’m also quite good at making money disappear, but that’s a different story. Among the silk scarves, musical instruments, and sweaters I probably won’t wear again any time soon where a stack of unlabeled boxes. Labels … who needs the labels? I’m a magician. I can see through cardboard. My tax records were in the second box I checked. I’m a lucky magician.

Once I found them I spent a few minutes … okay probably like 15 … sitting amongst the mess feeling sorry for myself. I don’t know what made me feel worse the fact that I had to put all that stuff away again or the fact that I would have to do my taxes. My ultra organized husband probably finished his taxes in the time it took me to find my records. Okay, that’s not true. He didn’t do anything about his until this morning.

My taxes are done now and I don’t have to panic again until it’s time to do the US taxes.

Photo by ejhogbin

Attack of the Flu

It’s that time of year again. That’s right, the time of year when the news reports feature lots of stories about the flu accompanied by images of people in hospital beds and needles dripping with flu vaccine jabbing people in the arms. It’s also the time of year when we hear reports that most states are short on flu vaccine so you better go out and get yours as soon as possible.

Normally I scoff at flu season. I live in a shiny internet bubble where my contact with the outside world is limited. It’s kind of like John Travolta in The Boy in the Plastic Bubble only with less drama and more computers.

This year I was one of the lucky few to come down with a case of the flu. The good thing about having the flu is that it got me out of cooking for four whole days. I can’t decide what’s worse a fever, achy joints, and feeling generally miserable or cooking dinner. I’m leaning towards cooking dinner.

I got the flu from my stepson who got it from his mother who got it from work, I guess. This is what happens when you come into contact with actual living human beings during the course of your day.

The whole time I was sick my husband kept telling me that he wasn’t going to get sick because his immune system is so much stronger than mine and if I ate less cake I wouldn’t have gotten the flu in the first place. How could you blame the flu on something as wonderful as cake?

Well, guess who has the flu now. That’s right, Mr. Too-Good-For-Cake-Iron-Clad-Immune-System. Maybe someone’s been eating cake at his gigs. How else would he have gotten the flu?

A few days ago as he lay in bed delirious with fever he admitted that I won. “What’s that?” I asked delighted.

“You won. I admit it. You won,” he repeated.

I walked silently out of the bedroom pulling the door closed behind me. Then I clasped onto the floor in a fit of laughter. There’s nothing like the joy of victory. It is definitely worth a few days in bed with the flu.

My Pretty Schedule

schedule

Me: I haven’t made my schedule for next week yet.

My husband: You’re doing that again?

Me: Yeah. It really helped with my productivity.

My husband: It helped you complain about how you weren’t following your schedule all week.

Me: No, it didn’t.

My husband: Yes, it did. That’s all you talked about. “I’m supposed to be writing from 10 to 12, but I don’t feel like writing so instead I’m checking emails, but this is writing time.” Why not make a list of tasks instead?

Me: … but schedules work for me.

My husband: Schedules don’t work for you. You never follow them. A list of tasks works too and it doesn’t take as long for you to make.

Me: … but schedules are better because I put them on Google Calender, and I can color code tasks, and it’s pretty. I like schedules. You don’t have to like them. I like pretty. You don’t. You’re a man. Now I’m going to go spend an hour of my time making a color coded schedule that I’ll only loosely follow instead of trying to correct the code on my massage site that is making some of the pages shift to the left. Thank you very much for offering your opinion.

The Seven Best Things About Being Married

Today is our seven year wedding anniversary and of course I have no good pictures to show you as evidence that we actually did get hitched. That’s the nature of being less than sentimental and completely unorganized. Anyway, I found this poor quality one on my hard drive. We were so young back then.

wedding

In honor of our seven year anniversary I thought I’d write a list post because we all love a good list. So here are the seven best things about being married.

7. When a giant spider makes its way into the house I don’t have to deal with it. Even if my husband isn’t home I just trap the spider under a plaster container and let it wait for him to release it into the wild. We don’t kill spiders. We set them free.

6. I never have to do dishes … well except when I have to do dishes, but that’s not very often.

5. I have a chauffeur. I hate to drive.

4. If anything ever needs fixing around the house I can count on someone to attempt to do it … badly.

3. I always have a date for the party. Now I just have to start going to parties.

2. There’s always someone on my side except when my side doesn’t agree with his side.

1. I never run out of material for this blog because my husband is always doing something that is worthy of mocking.

Oiling Up

I used to think that I hated the beach until I actually started going and realized I like it a lot. Besides the sand getting sand in my bathing suit and the possibility of getting eaten alive by sharks, the beach is a rip roaring good time. That’s why when my husband asked what I wanted to do this weekend I told him that we should go to the beach.

“We can’t do that,” he said, “I need at least three days to prepare.”

My husband is English. I mean really, really English. The lack of sunshine on the British Isles means that the people have to be quite pale in order to absorb enough vitamin D from the sun’s rays. My husband has nicknames like Powder and Casper because of his pasty complexion. Exposing his sensitive English skin to the powerful Florida sunshine could have disastrous results.

But what about sunscreen? Here’s the thing. You know those annoying people who read the ingredients of everything and refuse to use things that are full of tons of chemicals? Yeah, that’s us.

We use extra virgin coconut oil as our sunscreen. Using oil as sunscreen probably sounds like a bunch of crazy talk to you, but it works. My husband has only gotten sunburned once since we’ve come back to Florida and that was because he went out without any oil on.

He feels that his current farmer’s tan situation is not appropriate for the beach, and he’s not convinced that coconut oil will have enough staying power for the beach. He wants to get a bit of color on his torso first.

After laying out for twenty minutes on each side covered with coconut oil, he still had no visible tan lines. I guess that coconut oil really does work.

If you want another good natural solution for sunscreen try using a St. John’s Wort oil infusion. Here’s a video that talks all about it.

If you’re interested in learning how to make your own herbal remedies, you should check out Learning Herbs. Yes, that is an affilitate link. Their herbal medicine making starter’s kit rocks the house. I got it for my mother for her birthday.

A Bad Hair Day

The other night when my husband came home from his gig he was a tiny bit upset with me. Before going on stage he went to the bathroom and when he saw himself in the mirror he was shocked because his hair was a slight bit askew. “How could you let me leave the house like that?” he asked. “You knew I was going to be on stage in front of people.”

I couldn’t help but laugh when he told me. You see, honestly, just before he left the house I noticed that his hair was looking something like this…

…but he was running late. I meant to tell him, but in the mad rush of helping him carry his equipment to the car I forgot. Yes, I could’ve called him on his cell, but I didn’t. He plays the bass. Whose going to look at him during the performance…other bass players? Other bass players aren’t going to notice his hair. Heck, they probably all have the exact same hairdo.

So he was introduced to lots of people with his crazy hairdo. He hung out. He ate some food. Then he noticed it and I think he ended up wearing a wool hat during the performance. Every time I think about it I start laughing. Even now while writing this post, I’m laughing.

Tha-Ke-Dhi-Me

For about two years now, my husband has been doing these South Indian rhythm exercises called Konnakol. They involve some unusual clapping and repeating of various syllables. This post is named after a few Konnakol syllables.

He loves to tell me about how much Konnakol exercises have helped him develop his sense of time. He’s not talking about time of day. He doesn’t wear a watch and is never late so I guess he does have a good sense of that too, but for this purpose we are referring to musical time. This is a really important sense for a bass player to have and apparently he used to worry about his quite a bit…but then came Konnakol.

The other day at dinner, my husband told me that Konnakol has also helped him in other aspects of thought–I’m not sure what that means–and he thinks I would benefit from learning it. Konnakol hasn’t helped his thinking process very much because he knows that I can’t even clap and sing at the same time. How could I possibly learn some complicated rhythm exercise.

I think he wants us to start having Konnakol conversations like these guys.

Patchwork

One of my favorite pairs of jeans tore recently. I hate buying jeans and want to hang on to pairs that fit properly as long as possible. Last week, I decided that I could just patch up my torn pairs of jeans. Because of the location of the hole I had to sew the patch on by hand and it took a long time. I did a pretty darn good job though. I only stuck myself with the needle 10 thousand times. That’s better than the 10 million times I stuck myself with the needle the last time I tried to sew something by hand.

When I wore them the next day my husband laughed and laughed and said that I shouldn’t wear them outside. Later that evening some people were coming to our house to have a very serious discussion, and he told me that I should change before they arrived.

Change before they arrive, I thought. What’s wrong with him? Then he showed me this picture.

I swear it wasn’t that noticeable in the mirror, but it didn’t have a big red arrow pointing at it either. He won. I changed and now I have the misfortunate nickname, Vagina Patch.

Note: Apparently, misfortunate isn’t a word, who knew? Well my husband did and made it a point to correct old Vagina Patch as soon as he got home from his gig. I meant to say unfortunate, but I’m leaving misfortunate in the post because I’m hoping to start a trend.