An Odd Dream

Kathy and I often tell each other our dreams.  We adhere to the admonition in the Torah–”An uninterpreted dream is like an unopened letter.”  Thing is, I usually  have vivid and bizarre dreams, but  can’t remember them.  This time is an exception, and rather than burn cell phone minutes to recount it to her, I am putting it down here, for her, and whatever other Xanga readers I have, and the NSA to read.

I had just moved into an apartment in new Yrok City and was sharing it with my mother (who is edead now, and was young then) and my sister Alyce (who is married, addicted, and rather loony).  Mom was working as a waitress, I had some sort of job, I don’t remember what.  It was a very nice building–one of our neighbors owned an antique shop near the apartment building–she had a bunch of items out on the sidewalk for sale, one of which had a Betty Boop motif, which I wanted to buy–she only wanted $22 for it.

My father (who is also dead now) stopped by to visit, and had some items to give me, including an owners manual for his first car, a 1932 Chevy coupe (in real life, his first car was a 1949 Pontiac sedan) and some war medals.

There was more–we were getting company, I wanted to change out of the odd thing–soert of like a track suit made out of a shower curtain–I had been wearing, couldn’t get it off, that sort of thing–but can’t remember any more.

Paging Dr. Jung. . . . .

I feel spiffy, oh so spiffy. . . . .

My sweety once said  I was a clothes horse, and I took umbrage at that.  She’s good at that–in fact, during the fall of 2002, so many people had taken umbrage at her remarks that there was a severe shortage on the East Coast, and umbrage futures soared to record highs on the New York Commodities Market.  But I digress….

I have long since returned the umbrage–at uxorious rates, I might add–and now revel in my equine sartoriality.  Take today.  In two hours, the Wasilla market opens, and since there is a better class of folks there  than the drunks and dopers and assorted unindicted co-conspirators who are my usual customers at the Strip, I have eschewed my usual frayed jeans and garish t-shirt and ball cap in favor of this: starting at ground level, Arnold Palmer signature suede walkers–comfy, not terribly bling, but nice.  Bill Blass casual slacks, with generous pleats and full cuffs and a nice break over the heel–old man pants, in other words, but I like them.  They are held up by a nice leather belt in an alligator  texture.  Next, we have the Bill Blass checked sport shirt, and the whole is  topped off by an imported Austrian fedora.  My watch is a Sergio Valente calendar tank watch, set with a wee diamond at the twelve o’clock position.

Now just a darn tootin’ minute, protests someone from the peanut gallery.  You are always going on about your poverty and shit–what did you do, pull off a daring daylight robbery at the local men’s emporium?  No way, sez I.  Here is my secret.

The shoes, pants and shirt came from a local thrift shop–total cost for them, less than ten bucks.  My sweety got the hat and belt online for me at a big discount years ago, when we had lots more dough–she was making thousands off the books growing pot, I was doing $200-300 a day as a street peddler in Talkeetna.  This was before they ran me out of town.

The watch I got on sale–one of the local box stores has a close-out sale once a year–and paid less that $13 for it.

Oh, and I smell faintly of Tommy Hilfiger Body Lotion–which I got out of the local dumpster.  Smells pretty good.

The lotion, not the dumpster, ya big silly.

Comfy socks = Epiphany

The other day, I was at our clinic, where I get medical and dental care in one building.  I had carefully made my two appointments so they would be back to back, since as it is, going there means a  150-mile drive.  But they had called me that morning to move my dental appointment up two hours–so I had to rush and rush to get there–and my medical appointment was pushed back, for no  apparent reason.

Anyway, I am  glumly sitting in the waiting room, waiting and waiting and. . . .waiting.  I inventoried my symptoms–the medico I see does not believe I have ME/CFIS, despite the constellation of symptoms I show, and in  general, has the compassion of a diamond-back rattlesnake, but is much less attractive.  My ankle hurt, my knees hurt, my hip joints hurt, my right shoulder and neck muscles were all knotted and tense.  Suddenly, I realized that my feet felt good.  I mean, really good.  I remembered that the previous week, I had gotten a good pair of wool-blend argyle socks  at the local thrift shop, and only had to pay a quarter for them, since they had no price tag.  Usually, they would charge fifty cvent or more for such a good pair.  And I love argyles. I even bought a mismatched pair once–fortunately, my feet are color-blind.

So I am focussing my attention on my comfy feet, and I recalled the story of the guy who had been forced off a cliff by a tiger and was dangling there hanging onto a root or something, when he saw a  wild strawberry growing  there.  He popped it into his mouth and thought “Wow–what a great strawberry.”

So I resolved to henceforth enjoy life to the fullest, to always look for something enjoyable–or at least interesting–in any situation.  And it has been working.

Instead of rushing through breakfast, I savor each mouthful.  When I read a good book, sometimes I read passages aloud in order to get the most enjoyment out of the writing.  When I am just driving to town for groceries, I listen to the radio and marvel at the wonderful tone quality–I drive a 17-year old Mazda MPV, but it runs well and has a  top-notch Panasonic tape system in it as standard equipment.  When I am working and it starts raining, I just cover up my tables with plastic and enjoy some uninterrupted time reading or doing a crossword puzzle. Even going out to the dumpster is an adventure–I often find useable articles–food, medicine, clothing, odds and ends of hardware, even money.

Ever since that fateful day over three years ago when I quit using tobacco, pot, and alcohol in one swell foop, life has gotten better and better.  Now, with my new-found determination to enjoy life and always remember that I am enlightened, life has gotten even better.

I just need to remember that although I have no control over others, my own life is always exactly as good or as bad as I choose to make it.  I intend to remember that, and always choose to make my life better and better.