I laid in bed long enough last night to get all the way to an REM cycle. “Congratulations” the man said, “here’s your reward.” I dreamed that I picked up The Boy 3 in the bike trailer and by the time I got home he was gone. It was as if he’d never actually been placed in the trailer. I had no clue where he was. My only hope rested in that he knows my phone number. Fetch me my Prozac.
A simple analysis of this dream reveals these anxiety factors: The MinusCar Project, the danger of coexisting on roads with automobiles, all the people who don’t know where their loved ones are because of Katrina, and how proud I am that The Boy 3 knows my phone number.
Don’t Let the Bed Bugs Bite (this is gross)
Two weeks ago as I slept I felt a sharp tickle in my nose. I woke up enough to not fully realize something had crawled in. I exhaled sharply and felt the unique satisfaction that a hasty nasal exit gives. You know what I mean, don’t you. Come on, admit it.
That morning I awoke with a bite on my leg the size of a half dollar. Over the next few days it grew to it’s current size of two paper dollars.
I went to the doctor yesterday and came home with a cocktail of topical antibiotics, oral antibiotics, oral antihistamines, and instructions to “take three antigens and call me in the morning.”
Katrina Relief (He Gets It)
The Boy 7’s school is raising money for Katrina help. At dinner we discussed his potential involvement in the effort. It sounded like he’d like to give a dollar. Thinking $10 seemed reasonable for me to give I offered to multiply whatever he put in by 10. The next morning he came to me with a five-dollar bill. I think I'll stick to the more common 2 to 1 match from now on.
I’ll take the guy on the recumbent with the full-face helmet that has happily waved to me each morning for the past 10 as we pass each other on the local bike path. You guys can have the local shop owner’s brother and the other well-known local cyclist who’ve recently refused to even acknowledge this fellow cyclist.
Ok. Let’s play.