Weird Dream

I had this weird dream two nights ago. It is unusual for me to remember my dreams. Often I remember how I felt while dreaming (intense sadness, anger, joy, contentment, etc.) but not the details of the dream itself.

In my dream, I knew I had to help a group of children. I do not know whose children they were, or why they needed help, but I was utterly convinced I had to help them. Part of helping them involved stepping in what looked like run-off water. The water was dirty, but it was moving, like a river runs downstream, but it was very shallow...not even half an inch high. For some reason I had to get the kids away from the water. When we "crossed" the water, the kids got their feet wet, but nothing happened to them. When I stepped in the water, immediately these spore-like substances in blue and green started traveling up my feet, then my legs, and soon engulfed my whole body and entered into my pores. It did not hurt, but I knew it was bad for me.

I felt infested with millions these spore-like creatures moving inside my body. Then, someone gave me a liquid to pour over myself. When I poured the liquid on my arm, one tiny area of my upper arm experienced a sharp pain. I saw a little object coming out of my arm, just barely revealing itself. It looked very small, but as I plucked it out of my arm, it was actually a huge geometric object that somehow I knew was organic and the stuff infesting me. (((shudder))).

I kept pouring the liquid on me and as soon as the little spot of something would appear through my skin, I would pull out this large blue and green object out. Like snowflakes, no two were identical, but they were all similar. The pain was sharp and isolated to whatever area the object came out of...it was not a burning, continuous pain.

Somehow I sensed that I needed to get all the yucky stuff out of me or something bad would happen. As soon as I began pouring the liquid on my skin and pulling these odd objects out, the kids disappeared from my dream. They were not there and they did not seem important anymore. But not because I was preoccupied pulling disgusting geometric objects out of my skin, but as if the role they were meant to play in this story had completed.

And that is when I woke up. I had not finished pulling the invasive species out of my skin and my upper arm hurt in one spot, then quickly faded as I became more conscious.What does this dream mean? At first I thought it may be because I was getting over a cold and felt like it was the virus infesting my body and me (trying to get well), pulling it out of my body.

Then I thought, maybe the application is more spiritual. Is there sin in my life that I have been infested with and am trying to pull out? Something that may bring momentary pain removing, and may seem small and insignificant at first, but once removed was found to be quite large?It was strange because the objects I pulled out of me were not gross. They were not putrid or gelatinous or slimy or ugly. They were sky blue and mint green and were angular with straight lines.

I knew they were bad, but they were not disgusting to pull out. The only thing that was kind of gross was realizing how big they were as I pulled them out from such a tiny pore. And I still definitely felt infested when I woke up. I felt like I needed to scrub myself clean. Just thinking about it again is making me feel itchy.

Perhaps it was an anxiety dream. My job is in limbo and I think it is bothering me more than my conscious self is willing to admit.Why can't I remember the happy dreams? The sweet dreams? I want to dwell on those for awhile.

Mutual Hate Society

I hate going to the dentist. And I am sure the feeling is mutual. When my dentist sees my name in his appointment book, I am sure he groans inwardly, as he is too much of a professional to outwardly groan.

My intense dislike has nothing to do with my dentist as a person. He is a nice guy and thoughtfully asks about how my parents are doing and if I have been on any trips lately. I, too, am a nice enough person. I politely answer his questions and ask after his health. It is when I sit in that dental chair and he puts on his mask and eye shield that the mutual hate society begins.

It stems from the fact that I have a small mouth. (Hey, no snickers or nasty comments from the peanut gallery!) I do! My jaw can only open so wide and my teeth are all sort of close together. Suffice it to say, it is not only my sensitive gag reflex that would prevent me from being a successful gay guy. Anyway, I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, small mouth.

Many times I wish I could unhinge my jaw, leave it there for the dentist work on and come back later and pick it up. At the very least, I wish the dentist would knock me out with some high-grade anesthesia. I think it would make life easier for both of us.

I understand that his goal is to get in there and get his work done; however, I cannot keep my mouth open or wide enough for him to accomplish that. It's neither of our faults, but it leads to a frustrating situation. The pain gets so bad if I try to keep my mouth open "wide" that tears seep out of my eyes, I get a monster headache and it takes everything that is within me not to leap out of that chair.

Luckily I have not had a cavity for several years...until my last visit. I had two small cavities in my molar. One word: excruciating.

At the end of the ordeal, my dentist pats me on the shoulder and says, "Good job." (See, he is nice.) I respond feelingly, "You, too." He laughed and said, "Good team work."

We are both glad that we won't have to see each other for another six months.

Rollercoaster Ride

Well, it has been a tumultuous week. Actually, this has been going on for longer than a week. I am just so exhausted by it all. I feel like an insignificant pawn in the Governor's chess match with the Union.

I work for the State. My classification is temporary civil service. This basically means I have a contract that ends every two years. In the regular course of business, even if your contract is not renewed, you are expected to go to work and will get paid. If the State plans not to renew your contract, they give you notice that they will let your contract lapse.

We have not had any notice. One day they say our positions are safe. The next day my boss tells us that if we do not hear differently, do not come to work on July 1. *sigh* Yo-yo action at its cruelest. Actually, it is not as bad for me as it was for my co-workers. Both have about 8 years in with the State. You need 10 years to vest in your health insurance. If they had a break in service, even for one day, they would have to start at Year 1 again. Plus, they would lose all their sick leave...some of them have over 3 months worth of sick leave. As I have been here less than 2 years, all those extra considerations did not really apply to me.

I was worried about health insurance, though. As of yesterday, the staff in the benefits office said that July 1 we would be considered unemployed and would have no insurance until we could apply for COBRA if we chose. My co-workers had to go to the pharmacy on their way home to fill their regular, long-term prescriptions (high blood pressure medicine, and the like) before they didn't have health coverage anymore. I was hoping not to get sick or hurt or need any kind of hospitalization.

So, yesterday we packed up our stuff, took down our pictures and other personal items and drove home after a rather glum day at work. My boss promised to call if the Governor signed our contracts to extend them.

No call last night...

Except my friend wanting to know how I was doing and if I wanted to go out and drown my sorrows. Very sweet offer. Very nice friend. But I told her I was okay and that if I felt worse later (I figured it would hit me in a week...when it wouldn't feel like vacation anymore, or when I applied for unemployment), I would call her and take her up on her offer.

When I woke up this morning, I checked for messages. "You have no messages." *Sigh*

So, I rolled out of bed and started a load of laundry. The water is still filling the machine when our office secretary calls. She found out this morning the Governor signed a 3-month extension for us and I should come into work today.

At this point, I am so numbed and de-sensitized, I wonder if I even want to go back to work. But the practical (mortgage-owing, bill-paying) side of me wakes up and says, "Go to work!" So I hustle out as soon as I can, happy that I did not unload my junk from my car yesterday, so it is all still in my trunk. I leave my clothes in the washing machine (I hope they aren't too gross by the time I get home) and set off for work.

So, like my co-worker said, it's like getting 3 months notice. After all that I have gone through, I really feel lousy about working for the State, and in particular, this Governor. I do not know what her agenda is, but she put a lot of good, hard-working people thorough a whole bunch of stress. I have a mortgage, but I don't have kids...in private school or college. I don't have to take care of my parents. It's just me, and I am lucky enough to have family here, so I won't be homeless. There's always someone's couch to sleep on, if worse came to worse. Other people in my position may not be as lucky. I know in the Department of Health alone, there were over 500 people waiting to hear whether they would have a job or not.

Through it all, I knew that it was in God's hands. That helped with the stress part. It didn't really help for the "I'm just a pawn" part. Frankly, I would rather have them tell me a month ago that the contract would not be renewed. It was the uncertainty and the daily good news/bad news dynamic that was really getting to me. I felt like an expendable bargaining chip for the Governor.

One good thing that came from all this is that people have been incredibly supportive. One lady from the Division across the hall gave me a hug today, because of the turmoil she felt I was put through. People that I generally just see in the hallway or have the occasional chat with have made a point to drop by my cubicle to say how unfair they thought this all was and how glad they are that our contracts were renewed. That makes me feel better about working for the State. The people are cool.

Happy Father's Day

To all the men who:
Sacrifice for others,
Stuck around through thick and thin,
Tried to rectify your mistakes,
Walk in faith,
Want more for another human being than what you had . . .
Happy Father's Day.

For all the men who:
Tried and keep trying,
Mentored and keep mentoring,
Encouraged and keep encouraging,
Hoped and keep hoping,
Loved and keep loving . . .
Happy Father's Day.

Happy Father's Day to my Dad. A man who embodies all of the above and so much more. I am so lucky to have you as my earthly Father. I love you.

Head Sweating

I am a head-sweater.

TMI?

I don't know why I am a head-sweater. I do not think my parents are head-sweaters, but I should ask and find out for sure. I mean, maybe it's genetic.

For those unfamiliar with the term head-sweater, it simply means that I sweat from my head. It always begins with the head. Perhaps this makes sense because heat is supposed to rise upwards and people are always talking about the importance of keeping your head warm.

Some people sweat from their feet. Others may have damp palms. Some people sweat from their underarms or elsewhere. For me, it is my head.

I do not even need to be particularly hot, when I notice a little drip maneuvering its way from my scalp, past my hairline, down my brow, and into my eye. (Ouch, it stings!) Or perhaps if I tip my head just so, gravity will work her magic and it will slide down my cheek. A meandering tear. If I'm hot, eating spicy food, etc. hand me a towel to apply to my fevered brow (or wet head).

At its most innocuous, it is inconvenient. At its worst, quite embarrassing. You see, when my head sweats, I do not only have to worry about combating the actual sweat coming down my head (rivulets), but my head gets hot, too. (It looks like I'm blushing or have a bad case of rosaca). And I wear glasses. The result? My glasses fog up. And if the unobservant (or forgiving) of you may not notice the sweat, you will definitely notice my glasses fogging up when you can no longer see my eyes. Like walking out of Ice Palace on a humid day. Voosh! Instant fog.

So, not only do I have to worry about discretely sopping up the immense amount of liquid pouring off of my head (is this the price I pay for being well-hydrated?), but I also need to be cognizant of wiping my glasses so I can actually see. Sometimes I just take off my glasses and squint. I prefer semi-blindness over having to wipe my glasses and my forehead every 5 seconds or so. This way I can focus on my sweat and I get the bonus of not being able to see clearly the expressions of those around me...or where they may be focusing their attention (perhaps on the girl who is sweatting profusely from her head and has the foggy glasses?)

You will rarely see me wearing a hat. Perhaps a visor on occasion, but not a hat or cap. Not just because I tend to look silly in hats, but they also trap all the heat in, which creates a sauna-effect on my head. Not pleasant.

I do not tend to sweat profusely from anywhere else (except if I'm really hot or exerting myself like a challenging doubles game at noon). It makes me wonder, are there other head-sweaters out there? Are you the bandana or sweat-band wearing among us? Do we have our own support group? Does someone out there understand why I can be completely dry everywhere else, but my head will be raining sweat down like I was hanging out on deck with Noah on day 20?

I can go about my business, then suddenly I feel the tell-tale trickle along my hairline before even registering that I may be hot. Perhaps I should carry a hankie around with me like the Southern Belles did (or do...I don't know much about Southern Belles). A perfumed handkerchief which I can use to delicately daub my glistening forehead, in the most demurest of fashions, of course! Yup, that's me. I'm not in the corner, but maybe if the spotlight is on me, you will see a hanky (or more likely my sleeve) lift gingerly to my temple to absorb my head sweat. Ahh...so lovely!

Drips and Dribbles and Spills, Oh My!

I have a problem. Well technically, I have several problems, I suppose, but there is one in particular I wish to discuss. For some unfathomable reason, I am unable to remain clean while I eat. I could understand this if I was careless or lacked decorum, but I am generally a polite and conscientious eater. All right, in full disclosure, I may occasionally talk with food in my mouth. Oh, and I also eat off of other people’s plates, but only with an invitation and just to steal a couple of french fries or something like that.

But other than that, very polite and conscientious. I mean, I do not chew with my mouth open. I ask my fellow diners to pass me things rather than reaching over them. I do my best to avoid drips and dribbles. I tend to use the correct silverware for its intended purpose. Most people would find me a decorous, non-embarrassing dining partner.

Despite all this, I almost always manage to get food on me. Usually my blouse and/or my hair. Of course, if I drip sauce on my hair, it eventually touches my blouse leaving a stain. I am baffled, because I honestly make a conscientious effort to eat neatly (ever since I noticed my propensity to stain my blouses). I try not to splatter sauce if eating noodles; I endeavor not to drip soup or some ooey, gooey dip; and I am focused when eating salad with dressing.

It has made me paranoid and distracted. When eating out, I continually look at my shirt and hair to see if I made a mess. One minute I am fine, clean and pristine. The next minute . . . glop. Pass me a napkin and an individually packaged “Shout” towelette. So, if we ever happen to eat together, please do not be offended if I seem to be looking down my shirt rather than listening to your scintillating conversation. It’s me, not you.

I saw a Japanese movie recently called, “Gu-Gu the Cat.” The main character kept getting rice in her hair. I could totally relate. I remember eating a teishoku meal at Sushi King (teri chicken and shrimp tempura with sauce, of course). I had to ask my friend to drop me off at home before going to the movie so I could change my shirt! I had speckles of sauce and other debris on me and did not want to go to the movie theatre (aka out in public) like that. Yesterday, as I was hanging up my blouse I noticed some red/pinkish dust near my top button and lapels. It was remnants of my lunch which included Flaming Hot Cheetos.

So what is wrong with me? I could understand if I was a total slob or unconscious of any of the social graces related to eating. (Makes me think of the Friends episode in which Ross is dating a well-put together woman whose apartment is disgustingly slovenly). It is to the point where I am putting off cutting my hair (to donate it), because a part of me fears losing my ability to cover my uncomely splotches and splooches.

I am seriously thinking of creating some kind of quasi-fashionable bib to wear when I go out to eat. It’s either that or only eat at lobster shaks. Of course, I have no idea what this quasi-fashionable bib would look like. I am even calling it quasi-fashionable, because I already recognize the impossibility of wearing any type of bib while I eat and calling it fashionable.

Has it come to this? A plastic parka as my signature fashion statement? *Sigh* Guess I better go to Longs and stock up on Shout towelettes.

Movie Popcorn Amnesia

Like a siren’s call to unsuspecting sailors, so is movie popcorn to me. That roasty, toasty smell of freshly popped corn. The bag, overflowing in its bounty. The “butter” coating each kernel so it catches and reflects the light just so. The satisfying crunchy texture. The salty goodness tantalizing my taste buds. Yes, it is difficult to resist movie popcorn.

So I eat it. I munch and I devour. My fingers become slick with oil, with a touch of traction provided by the salt. My lips glossy with butter-flavored goodness. Somehow it is easy to lose track of how much I am eating while I am being entertained by the action and dialog on the big screen in front of me. Watch, grab, chew, swallow . . . repeat.

Unfortunately, by the time the credits are rolling, so is my previously happy belly. Somehow, the light, fluffy kernels have turned into rusty lead pellets working their way through my intestines – and not in a nice, orderly way, but in a not nice, disorderly way. The unholy combination of fibrous popcorn absorbing liquid and butter-flavored product greasing my insides serve to disrupt the delicate balance of my gastro-intestinal tract.

I will groan tonight. I shall toss and turn, in a vain attempt to find some comfortable position. A position that will quiet the quite-irritated-on-the-verge-of-being-quite-angry stomach of mine that is rebelling against my movie popcorn indulgence. But alas, alack! No position exists and as I lie curled in a fetal position at the mercy of my aging innards, I will ponder how they no longer possess the ability to take the abuse it would literally have sucked up in its younger years. That is, if I am able to ponder anything at all.

One would think that an intelligent, well-educated individual such as myself would spare myself the agony and skip the movie popcorn. But no, like the true siren’s call, it bids me to chomp anew. Each time, like the first time, I am compelled to answer the call. I settle into my seat in the cool, dark room, snuggling my bag of popcorn close to my heart. I smell the familiar smell and I happily begin stuffing my face . . . four, even five kernels at a time. Like movie popcorn had never upset my stomach before. Movie popcorn amnesia. I’ve got it. I’ve got it bad.