The Balloon of Utmost Importance

I have epic dreams. When I say epic, I mean EPIC. I once had a dream with opening credits. I know from my dreams that the soundtrack to the end of the world is Pink Floyd. (What else would it be?) When I was imprisoned in a futuristic P.O.W. camp with Morgan Freeman, our prototype for a personal levitation device helped us to escape. (Thank you Shawshank Redemption and whatever weird crap I had for dinner THAT night!)

As you can probably imagine, my dreams can be a great source of inspiration for my writing endeavors. The only problem with this is that unless I get up and immediately write down every detail I can remember, the dream fades and by the time I'm out of the shower and mostly awake for the day I have forgotten all but one little snippet, usually meaningless when taken out of context, and often somewhat confusing.

For instance, last night a balloon played a key part in my dream. It was inflated, attached to a string, like any other balloon one might see at a birthday party. But there was something special about that specific balloon that I unfortunately lost sight of shortly after my alarm jolted me from my pleasant dream state.

My day job is repetitive and my mind has a tendency to wander while my fingers are tapping away, tending to the tedious task of matching purchase orders to invoices so the bills can be promptly paid. (Okay, alliteration overload.) Naturally the Balloon of Utmost Importance intermittently floated through my thought waves and I began playing dream detective.

What was so important about that balloon? Was there something inside of it? A map to a treasure chest, perhaps? I could deal with being wealthy. No, that's too simple and self-serving.

What color was it? Maybe that's the key. It was light, possibly pink or orange. Warm and inviting. Maybe the balloon was filled with a magical substance that would bring us world peace when released. No, that's too grand of a scale, and I'm not competing for Miss America.

Instructions for salsa dancing? The formula for reanimation? A time machine? What was so special about that damn balloon?

Realistically I probably just wanted to inhale the helium and sing Metallica in a chipmunk voice to make everyone laugh. But the not knowing is going to make me crazy.

Gleek, tank tops, and hairy ice cream

Have you ever had one of those days where you are so totally disillusioned with your life that you can’t even manage the simplest of tasks? Like you’re at work and your spreadsheet is one penny off and instead of searching for the penny difference you declare a major FAIL on your part and give up, and then you yawn and gleek all over your desk but you don’t even realize it until you stick your elbow in it and wonder why it’s all wet, and then you remember that you haven’t taken your meds yet which has likely contributed to your outlook for the day so you go ahead and take your pill and but it gets lodged in your head somewhere between your nose and mouth and you can’t get it to go down or come back out either way so you start wishing you were at home eating ice cream and watching Roseanne reruns while lounging on your couch in a wife beater and underwear because even though the air conditioner works it doesn’t cool down the house enough because it’s poorly insulated and has crappy windows and it’s 103 degrees outside, and the discovery of a random hair in your first bite of ice cream is the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back and sends you over the edge even though the whole ice cream/Roseanne/wife beater scenario was a fantasy you were creating to distract you from the penny you’re missing in your spreadsheet and the gleek on your desk?

Well have you?

M'eh

I had to add the word "m'eh" to my phone's dictionary for texting purposes but when I added it I capitalized the M so now when I text m'eh it's always going to be capitalized even if it's in the middle of a sentence and that is going to bug me monumentally from now until I get a new phone, which will probably be a long time because I get attached to my electronic gadgets and I hate upgrading and figuring out new devices.

I Accomplished Something.

I came home last Sunday afternoon to the *bleep* of my dying smoke detector battery. This presented a problem on several levels.

1) I couldn’t think of any reason why I might have a random 9 volt battery lying around.

2) I’m far too short to reach the smoke detector without assistance, and my daughter’s step stool wasn’t cutting it, which meant I’d have to go out into the scary garage and get the step LADDER.

3) I’d have to unfold the step ladder, and it was sure to be all cobwebby and spidery, having spent most of its life in the scary garage.

4) I’m not capable of doing anything like a normal person. I need melodrama and fanfare.

5) It was Sunday. Isn’t Sunday supposed to be a day of rest or something? I can’t be expected to journey into the scary garage AND climb up a step ladder on the same day, and neither on the designated day of rest!

6) It’s not fair. Why do batteries have to die?

At first I thought, “Well, if it doesn’t beep very often, I can just deal with it until tomorrow.” No sooner than the thought entered my mind, the smoke detector said, “HA! That’s what YOU think!” Well actually it bleeped again, but the intent was clear.

I sighed dejectedly and began searching through the kitchen drawer for a 9 volt battery, which I knew I would never find. Hm. I don’t believe it. Not just one, but a still sealed pack of TWO 9 volt batteries! Jackpot!

I took a deep breath and plunged into the depths of the scary garage, windmilling my arms wildly to cut a path through any potential spider webs. I grabbed the cobwebby spidery step ladder, and quickly made my way back into the safety of my living room, holding the ladder in front of me to ward off any divebomb-y type creatures like wasps, bees, or pterodactyls.

Back in my living room fortress, my smoke detector still sounding its death rattle, I unfolded the step ladder without incident. I climbed up the two steps and deftly gave the dying detector a twist, backed off the ladder, and began trying to unlock the mystery of opening the battery compartment. I placed it on the table to get a better look at it when a tiny spider raced across the table directly towards my abdomen.

After jumping around like a rabid monkey and making a noise that resembled a drunk turkey that had just inhaled a balloon full of helium, I gathered my wits, made my way back to the table and replaced the dying battery with the fresh new one. I knew I had inserted the battery the right way because the detector let out a loud, high-pitched, and completely unexpected scream of joy which set off a reflex reaction in my arms causing them to smack my nose. I once again gathered my wits (what little I had left at this point) and climbed the ladder to re-attach the smoke detector to my ceiling.

With a sense of accomplishment, I took the ladder out to the scary garage leaned the ladder up against the wall in the spare room, dusted off my hands, and spent the rest of the night on the sofa.

Dear Monday:

I realize you feel as though you are the red-headed step child of the Weekday Family, and sometimes you are not given the thanks you deserve. Without you, there would be no Monday Night Football. Without you, Garfield the cat would have nothing to complain about. Without you we wouldn't have ... um ... we wouldn't have ... that song from The Bangles.

Having said that, I have noticed that you seem to be arriving earlier and earlier each week. My clock tells me it's Monday, but my body and my brain never feel as though they've had a full 63 hours of rest. I have reason to believe that you are engaged in some sort of tomfoolery in order to cut the weekend short, and I have a feeling that Sunday night is your accomplice in this trickery.

I appreciate the fact that you are anxious to greet us bright and early and show us all the things Friday didn't get around to completing. (By the way, Tuesday can probably handle half of those things. There's no need to burden yourself with an overload of work.) However, I must request that you put an end to the encroachment of my weekends and return the extra hours at once. Please leave them with Saturday night (I don't trust that sneaky little bastard Sunday) or I will have no choice but to involve Wednesday and Thursday for mediation purposes. (I would call Friday in for assistance, but he thinks he is God's gift to the calendar. He's been insufferable since they opened that blasted restaurant chain.)

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.

Sincerely,
Me