Move your car to the other side of the street, it's street cleaning day!

You don’t need a psych degree to figure out these dreams:

There’s some terrorist or maniac or whatever loose in the football stadium. I can *see* Jude, in the top row of bleachers, but as I run towards him, yelling and shouting his name, he keeps moving away from me. Simon is with his cousin Connor on his way out of the stadium, and I know he is safe, but Jude…I have to get to Jude. And in his typical Jude way, he is oblivious. He’s hanging out on the top row of the bleachers (let’s not even think about if he falls over backwards…) and just sort of climbing up and down.

This one was preceded by a dream in which my 7th grade math teacher figured prominently. Mr. Colby was this nice, soft-spoken guy with the typical Boston accent (“Pahk the cahr in Hahvahd Yahd”) and cute, floppy brown hair. I was wildly in love with him. In my usual immature fashion, this meant I alternately could not speak to him at all or I was so belligerent and rebellious that I consistently got myself kicked out of class. I think, in some way, he knew and was fairly understanding; but still, the poor man...

Sandwiched in between was the usual Dan dream in which we cannot communicate at all, it’s as if we are speaking two different foreign languages – and if course the end point is always, “That’s it, we are getting divorced, but how do we divvy up the kids’ time?” I always wake up from this one feeling sick to my stomach. And then I am all affectionate with Dan and he says, “You had that dream again, didn’t you?” God, I hate when he’s so smart : )
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I was keeping a reading journal when I started this blog with Gina. I don’t think I’ve touched it in a while -- although I do still have a sheaf of index cards scribbled with book titles in my wallet for when I am at the bookstore or library and can’t think of anything I want to buy or read. I used to keep an actual personal journal and still possess those scribbled-up, falling-apart notebooks recording my years of teen angst and college love affairs. I can’t bear the thought of destroying them even if I never ever want another living soul to lay eyes on them. I like the idea of keeping a journal, but find that I am increasingly uncomfortable with the thought that I may get hit by a bus one day and someone will find my journal. And READ it. And even if it’s just thoughts on what I am reading, it makes me cringe. Yet here I am, recording my thoughts, life events, and reading tastes on the Internet, the most public of forums. I know, a curious paradox. But I find I self-censor in these posts, which is fine – I don’t need a brain vomit, I just need an outlet. And I just spent three minutes organizing my blog entry directory into chronological folder/archives (I compose in Word first since Blogger has eaten more posts than I care to remember). It occurred to me that I can stop feeling guilty for not recording these things in a pretty little book with a wonderful pen – typing them into Word and sharing them with people I know (and don’t) is ok too. It constitutes a perfectly valid record of my present life, one that I am ok with people reading…obviously. Could it really be just me that has this sort of guilt over something as innocuous as blogging?
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We were halfway up Baum Blvd this morning when Simon says, “Mom! I am supposed to bring a picture of me and Daddy to school today.” Now I know it’s for a Father’s Day craft/gift, and I am not completely heartless, but I wanted to get them there in time for them to eat breakfast. I foresee years of this coming, anyway: "Mom, I forgot my permission slip...I forgot my lunch money...I forgot my clarinet…I am not wearing any shoes...I am wearing two different shoes…I need two egg cartons and a pair of old eyeglasses this morning for art class…I need brownies for the bake sale this afternoon…" ad infinitum. I called Dan who mercifully was still at home and he brought the photos with him, since he conveniently works four blocks from the daycare. Yet again, I love my cell phone. Whatever did we do before them?

Then I went to run a zillion errands, all of which have been on my list forever:

• Went to Target - where I found a pair of perfectly fine brown leather sandals for 20 bucks on clearance. Decided to keep the pink maternity shirt I'd bought a week ago since the medium didn't fit my stomach (shirt too small) and the large didn't fit my boobs (boobs too small) -- but my stomach is only going to get bigger.


• Returned the too-narrow Birkenstocks I’d bought while shopping with the boys last week (hey, you try shoes on with two little guys running around the shoe store…).


• Shipped back the extra Guinness glasses.


• Returned as many library books as I could find, including the Beatles one that the library is threatening to have us pay replacement costs on since it’s been gone so long, and two of Gina’s books – both late (I paid the fine, Gina, sorry!).

Now it looks like rain so I don’t think I’ll get to the porch painting. Will start some laundry and clean the bathroom so I feel somewhat useful...how come it’s eleven thirty and I feel as if I have accomplished exactly nothing?
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I don’t understand this latest update in the Terri Schiavo saga. I thought the story was that she had suffered a heart attack due to potassium imbalances created by her eating disorders. Of course she died from dehydration after the removal of the feeding tube; the question, I thought, was, did she have a chance at a real life, was her brain viable, was it possible she could recover? Not, if we remove her feeding tube and she is not nourished for thirteen days, will she die? Having been witness firsthand to my mother's death, I can vouch for the resounding Yes to *this* question, without benefit of an autopsy.

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Mind dribbles:

I read nothing last night. I sat on the porch in the post-rain cool air, sipped half a glass of a delicious, fruity red wine Dan brought home a few nights ago, and then went to bed at nine.

Every morning as I fire up IE, I have a fleeting moment of, “Oh my God, something horrific happened overnight in the world, and I slept through it. This may be my last moment of innocence.” Like if you woke up at noon on September 11, 2001, and had no inkling until you turned on your computer.

I heard the Curb Your Enthusiasm theme song as a cell phone ring tone in the library the other day. I want it! I am a convert to the show so my zeal knows no bounds.