Forecasting by Dajamou.

"I wonder how old you're going to be when you can play all by yourself."

"Twenty."

"That's probably the most depressing thing you've ever said to me."

Boundaries.

I had this totally messed up dream last night in which I was staying at a B&B and this suave, 50-ish guy with prematurely white hair (it's some actor, I can freakin' see him in my head but I can't even think of what he's been in recently so I can't IMDb him*) made a totally obvious pass at me. As in, trying to dance with me and rubbing his hard-on against me! Which, let me tell you, hardly ever happened to me even before I got married. And when he put his hand on my ass I grabbed his hand and tossed it away from me, said, "You may not," and walked away angrily. Yes, I remember that in my dream I walked away angrily. If I were taller it would have been stalking away angrily but I'm only five-four and you can't pull that off with legs that only come up to here instead of there.

Anyway, later I noticed that I was naked.

Let's pause for a second and remember that I'm in a dream, here. But still, WTF?

So I'm naked, and now I'm feeling a little guilty like maybe my being naked gave Suave-Silvery-Guy the wrong message. (Which idea fills me with outrage now that I'm awake and I'll be having a talk with my dream-self someday when I take that lucid dreaming seminar I've always wanted to take.) But I'm feeling guilty and so I grab some kind of cheap-graphic-printed blanket (like a Spiderman or Batman blanket or something - this B&B was a classy place, let me tell you - did I mention we had to wash our own dishes there? That was in the dream too) and I wrap the cheesy blanket around myself and go upstairs, where I debate on telling the dajadaddy about the whole ordeal. (Which also bugs me, why would I even debate it?) But it turns out to be a moot point because he's asleep. I didn't even occur to me to wake him...I'm wondering why, now. Anyway.

Then I don't remember how, but I end up with some sleeping pills in my hand and I try to take them so I can go to sleep just like the dajadaddy, but they kind of fall apart as I put them in my mouth, so now I have nasty medicine powder coating my tongue and useless, icky, empty capsules rattling around in my mouth and scratching my throat as I swallow them. And that's all I remember.

That was a lot more fun to write after two goblets of mead and two goblets of wine than it was to tell this morning before breakfast or coffee. But it's still bizarre. Which? Totally par for the course. Every time I tell the dajadaddy one of my dreams he tells me some variant on "You crazy."

But why, why, why did I title this post "Boundaries" when I should have titled it "Crazy Woman! Run Away!" Because in some weird way, I'm proud of myself for that saucy, little "You may not" that I tossed off to Silvery Guy. Like no way I'm gonna let my boundaries be crossed without permission, boyee, so watch my big white you-know-you-want-it-cuz-you-tried-to-grab-it butt go walking away from you for good. Three snaps and all that.

Hey. I take 'em where I can get 'em. Um, empowering moments, that is.



*Come to think of it, I'm glad I can't think of who it is. It was messed up enough without having permanent weird creepy sexual associations with someone I might actually recognize in real life. That's happened to me before and I'm just glad I don't work with him anymore. Nuff said.

Is this creepy?

Every single time I flip to TBS this weekend it's come to the exact same scene in The Mexican where Brad Pitt says "Maybe he does sit naked in his garage soaking in gasoline and lighting matches, I dunno."

Every. Single. Time.

Have I mentioned my love/hate relationship with TV?

I feel like someone's telling me I'm meant to see this movie. And I really don't want to. Not that much. But now? Julia Roberts is doing her tearful "No, No!" thing and maybe I do. Because I'm a sucker for tear jerker moments. Which is why I also watch Extreme Makeover: Home Edition every week too.

Is this sad, or what?

Behold the power of television

OK, so most times? Most times, when I think about it, I'm scared to death of having more children. The dajamou is wonderful, she's creative, she tells me she loves me several times a day, and she totally. wears. me. out. And I'm thinking, more? More of them would just wear me out faster, more often, and in all new creative ways. Add to that the fact that my mother is an identical triplet, and you've got grounds for drool and the jacket with the extra-long sleeves.

But.

Put a couple of glasses of wine in me, put me in front of one of those ensemble comedies about families like Brothers and Sisters, and it actually makes me want to have more children.

Behold.

The Power of Television.

In case you were wondering.

My Unitarian Jihad Name is: Sister Boot Knife of Sweet Reason.

Get yours.

Not quite ready to sing the blues

My roof isn't leaking. I've still got my man, my kid and my dog. I'm not out of food or booze. The law isn't after me.

But.

It's dark and gloomy and raining. We haven't had any snow to speak of all winter. (I'm in PENNSYLVANIA here, aren't we supposed to have snow?) I haven't had a decent night's sleep since we got back from our trip to Oregon. I'm achingly lonely for the kind of hanging-out friends that don't need a reason to come over. The dog hair on my bedroom floor is three inches thick, and if we walk on it some more it will just turn into carpeting. I'm tired of initiating, inviting, reaching out, and never having anyone do the same to me. I dread going to bed at night, but I never want to get up in the morning. People are DYING because of some stupid men's overbloated egos. I have no self control when it comes to snacking.

But.

The dajamou is playing on her computer so I can have some alone time. I got to snuggle with her AND the dajadaddy this morning. My hair is looking pretty good today. And I'm going to see my doctor in an hour to see if she can fiddle with my brain chemistry so I won't be so blue. So maybe this is where things start looking up again.

At least I have good coffee.

It's the little things that keep me going.

It's been a relatively warm, mild winter in Pittsburgh this year, which while good for our heating bill, is not as high on the loveliness scale as some good old-fashioned new-fallen snow.

But I just went out to put a new bag in the garbage can (which seems apropos on a grubby, muddy day like today) and I saw a whole flock of cardinals (which I've only ever seen in ones or twos) take off from my lawn. Like rose petals falling up.

Little things.

Back to the real world.

And a whirlwind holiday it was, with Christmas at Babbaloo's, a day and a half at home, then off to Portland to ring in the New Year. This time the Dajadaddy got to come too, for the first time since we moved to da Burgh almost three years ago. It was wonderful as usual to see everyone, and we ate at almost all of our favorite restaurants too.

And now we're back and I'm dealing with the post-vacation blues. Dajadaddy doesn't get it; he thinks that vacations should re-energize me, and send me back home with renewed zeal, vim and vigor, all that rot. And I suppose he's right; that's the way vacations should be. But how can I be happy to come home and leave a place where I was surrounded by friends and family, people I can really relax and talk to, children for the dajamou to play with...in what way is it good to go back to life without my village?

I'm not saying I hate it here, or that I'd want to extend our visit any longer than it was. It's tiring to live out of a bag, working your normal routine around someone else's, all three of us in a single room, hearing the creaks and pops of a house that's not ours. But there's also a period of adjustment when we get home. There's food to cook and dog hair to sweep and a girl who wants to play with me ALL THE TIME because suddenly there's nobody else. I've always prided myself on my adaptability to different routines, but it takes time, that's all.

So I'm feeling a bit gloomy and not liking how I look and finding the stocking-stuffer chocolate that I forgot to stuff in the stockings. All in all, it's going to be a while before I'm feeling perky again.

On the bright side, I have another appointment with my new doctor on Friday, where she tells me what she found out from my million blood tests. (OK, 15. But still.) And hopefully we can start to figure out what I need to change in my lifestyle in order to battle back the depression. So that's a forward step, and I'm clinging to the anticipation of it to get me through the post-vacation blues.

Blah blah blah, whine whine whine, it's my blog and I'll piss and moan if I want to.

the end.