Birds, bees and spanx in Normal entries

It’s been some time since I’ve remembered a dream or even remember having one. This morning some dream or other shook my foundation, peeled my core, tapped my pipe. I don’t remember it and even if I did I wouldn’t repeat it; next to patriotism dreams are the last refuge of a scoundrel. Before you scoundrels get your spanx in a knot, I’m not saying I’m not a scoundrel, just that I’m not down to my last refuge’s. I’m thinking refuges are one of those things where you don’t know it’s your last until you go looking for one more. Sort of like a last stand, you weren’t thinking it was your last until you found yourself sitting on the ground holding something that used to be something else.

Wait, why do you have spanx? I’ve got a crate in the bomb shelter but those are for emergencies. To my own credit, in an ass backwards way, I thought they were spanks and was puzzling how they got em in a box. Imagine what the carnival games must be like at Vanity Fair. KInock over three milk bottles and win a picture of yourself.

So, yeah, dreamstruck I wandered down to make coffee for my mom and self and went back to sleep. I’m still a little haunted and so where better to ramble? I don’t really have a bomb shelter; that’d be silly, one way or the other Mommy Earth has been in the toaster too long. I have a spaceship. From Ikea. I’m pretty sure I put it together right. Spanx are just ballast, right?

This entry is already more interesting than the dream probably would have been and it’s not all that interesting. I keep saying dream. I’ve heard more than one kid say “Dogs are boys and cats are girls”. Calling the psychotic gauntlet of my sub conscious “dreams” follows the same sort of logic. I think what kids mean is that dogs seem masculine and cats feminine, and I’m not telling other peoples children about reproduction of mammals. Though the birds and the bees must confuse the shit out of them seeing how neither of those things have mammal sex. I’ve honestly never heard the birds and bees as an explanation for sex, but I can’t imagine it satisfies curiosity. Like a lot of things grownups say I think it’s supposed to be so boring and confusing that the kid won’t ask again, or at least ask the bird and bee guy or lady, or, you know, egg laying pollen sucker.

There’s almost a foot of standing snow on the ground now, and four or five foot drifts where the plows have ravaged the street. It took several days to get there, a quarter inch at a time. Songwriters have yet to dream of a white 16th of December Saturday. An example of how no really wants to hear about dreams, even from Bing the fuck Crosby. Um, I think Bing the Fuck Crosby. I don’t know, I’m dream addled. And a whiter shade of pale.

My older sister stopped by the other day. Amid the horrible real events of the last year she was also bitching about the current keen and mew of disenfranchised and disgruntled citizens of the US. I think the franchised and gruntled ones are mewing a lot too, not just the usual suspects. Among the picayune torments of the masses the big issues seem to be riding in the back. I shouldn’t be the only one on the block with an Ikea spaceship.