Friday, September 7, 2012

Bring on the Dancing Cabana Boys!

And then tell them I need all those boxes opened and the stuff inside put away, please.

HOLY COW. Notes to myself from the move:

Yes you really do have a hundred boxes of books. And those don't count the hundred or so boxes that burned. You can either join a 12-step program or just suck it up and unpack them, because if you don't, you'll fill the bookshelves with new books before you even get out the old books, and that will not make the problem go away.

Yes. You really do have that many shoes. See above.

Two words. Kitchen Gadgets. See above.

This! This is why you had all those kids. See? I told you there was a really good reason. Oh, I know for that first dozen or so years it was an iffy proposition at best, but seriously, you have to love how they've stepped up during this whole house burning thing. They're like a lean, mean moving machine with Quadruple Action Teen Power. They can carry stuff. They've got boundless energy! And they can assemble things. Bed frames, we scoff at you! Electronics? Bring them on. As long as it can be done after four in the afternoon because of school during the weekday and sleeping in on the weekend, they're right there, beside you.

You don't care when you do stuff as long as it gets done, do you? Hear, hear for the family moving crew!

Now, about that dream...

I dreamed I was being tortured by a mother/son team of serial killers. (I know. Dreams don't really make sense, do they?) They put in an IV line and poisoned me slowly for months, but somehow I got away. Then I found out they had my husband! He waited until the man was gone, and somehow, some way, managed to escape death by stabbing the man's mother before she could inject the final, fatal dose. We shoved her into the back of his car (I don't know why) and headed for home, each driving our separate cars. 

On the way home, he was stopped by the police, who found the unconscious, stabbed woman in the back of his car and took him to prison for attempted murder. We tried to explain the situation, but of course, we couldn't prove it and there was no one to corroborate our story.

I got him a lawyer and he made bail, and while we were having a brief family respite (I remember there were cupcakes involved) and playing nerd gun wars with the kids, my children's favorite teacher joined us. She and my daughter were having a pitched battle. We were on top of a building, running around on a flat roof and trying to keep our darts from going over the side, out of bounds. Then my children's favorite teacher ran full tilt to avoid my daughter's shots, garroted herself (her head flew up into the air and floated back down like a snowflake and her body went over the side.)

This was all one dream. And you know what? I'm such a narcissist, my first thought (in the dream) at seeing the teacher's head flip end over end and then float gently down to the rooftop, was oh, fuck. I am going to jail. No one will believe that was an accident.

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