This is wrong, and I cannot sleep without the radio on...

I had horribly unsettling dreams last night.  They’ve stuck with me today. 

The first bits are fuzzy.  It was implied I was going from place to place-maybe a couple of other women were with me-and I knew I was going to die that day.  I just didn’t know when, where, or how.  I walked into a bar with a gravel parking lot.  It was sunny.  The sky was blue.  And as I walked in I wondered to myself if this would be the place.  I didn’t see the inside of the bar, I didn’t see myself leave it, but there was a feeling of relief that it didn’t happen there.

Then I was in a dark living room, sitting in a chair, an old lady in the floor at my legs with her hands on my knees, looking up at me.  Her hair is thin; she’s wearing a standard old lady night gown.  I can see her face clearly even now, it’s no one I’ve seen before in waking life.  But in my head it’s Glenn Close.  I see red age spots on her forehead and hairline, and I know that something is wrong.  It’s her.  She’s the one who’s going to kill me.  I try to make eye contact with my wife—to let her know with a look that this woman is there to murder me, but I’m not sure she gets it.  I think that I need to call my mother.  I want to call her and tell her I love her, admit some things, but I don’t want to tell her I’m about to die.  I run through the conversation in my mind and I know she will be angry if I say all those things for no reason.

Then the old lady takes a q-tip out of her ear.  There is blood on the end –and now I know for sure I am about to die.

And then I woke up.  With a full bladder, and a throbbing that somehow sexualized my fear. I normally don’t let myself freak out over dreams, I analyze them and file them away.  But this feeling stayed with me.  On my trip to the bathroom, and the way back to my bed.  That little kid fear that something was waiting in the dark for me.

When I went back to sleep I was suddenly at a table full of people I didn’t know except for a man I’ve met once in waking life.  He is ordinary and of no interest, but there he was in my dream, sharing my table in a place that was dark and full and busy—but corny—like  a late night bowling alley.  He was talking about Thrice and Circa Survive.  I was surprised he knew these bands.  I tried to tell him I saw Circa Survive only days after I met him, but the room was loud and I felt myself straining to be heard.  He was still talking as he got up from the table.  I was still sitting.

And then I woke up.  To an alarm clock.  With the thought that I should call my mother.  I didn’t.  I’m not going to. Not today.

The Weekly Walk With Me

Like millions of east coast 'Mericans, I hunkered down for Blizzard 2016/ Winter Storm Jonas this weekend--or as my BFF put it  "Jonas spreads his love."  In my neck of the woods there were "phases" that went from 'this is fun' to 'get me the fuck out of here'--probably not unlike spending a weekend with an actual Jonas.

5 Things that Kept Me Warm in The Storm

1. Double-fisting these cocktails.

2. This book.

3. All this food I whipped up. And there was a lot of it. I'm not a 'take a picture of this sloppy mess and post it on Instagram like it looks delicious' person, so I only started taking pictures after I realized this could be blog fodder.

Roasted Vegetable Chili--a little sweet because, roasted; a little spicy because, red pepper flakes. 

Allspice Oat Bran with Dark Cherry Compote--yep, I made bran fancy.

Shakshuka--Jew food.

4. This spoiled cat who ruins my life on a daily basis but is too effin' cute to put in the microwave.

5.  This ridiculous candle that made my house smell like only the good parts of an Aunt Sarah's.

You're Still Breathing But You Don't Know Why...

I've been ill. Not sick, ill. Not a sniffle, or a "head thing". The kind of ill that a Ricola just won't touch.  The kind of ill that requires full blown science, chemicals.  Bleach, battery acid, medicine that tastes like tar. This started a week ago.  So gross I cut out on the Golden Globes at 9:30 last Sunday. Yeah, that bad.  Although, looking at all the post-show coverage it appears I didn't miss that much. Just a brief review:  Everyone looked like shit. None of the sleeves were necessary, everyone wore the wrong color, there was some serious highlighter abuse happening, and all the boobs looked saggy and flat.  I will say that I did love Jennifer Lawrence's structured Dior, but it looked like she bleached her hair in my bathroom.
Something happens to me when I am ill.
In my head--I always think when I'm at that feverish on the verge of hallucination point that this will surely be the end. I've known two women to die alone of pneumonia in their beds.  The first, a trans woman missing half of both of her pinkies. (She was a professional florist.) I always wondered how she managed to have that same accident twice, or if she took care of the second one on purpose so she would be symmetrical-she was very stylish after all. But as glamorous as she was, she still died alone in bed, in a bent position that looked as if she'd been reaching for the phone.  The other wore turtle necks and long necklaces and worked at a bank. She wore outdated glasses and had terrible hair, and though she had a boyfriend and three children, she died alone, in bed, just days after being released from the hospital.  So I decide with authority that I want to look like Candy Darling on her death bed when my body is found.  Only just this morning I woke up with my eyes crusted shut-and the t-shirt I'm wearing is at least 15 years old, so I am more likely to look like something from a Unicef commercial.  But I do have to admit that with every ounce of extraneous fluid oozing out of my body, my ankles have never looked thinner.
And I actually do tend to hallucinate.  The standard in my adult life has been blue muppets, like something from Sesame Street.  I ask them to bring me things, or turn the light out for me, and they sleep with me. I got mono as a teenager and told my mother about a feverish dream I had where I was a baby in an all white room watching giant black spiders crawl out of my toy box and march across the room.  She told me this wasn't a dream, but a memory.  She told me that as a toddler I was deathly ill and had to be rushed to the hospital in the middle of the night.  She said the room I described was my nursery and I had woken my parents screaming about spiders.  And on the way to the hospital in the ambulance I talked to angels.  I obviously don't remember any of this, but it's just fucked up enough to be true.
And in my house--I am given exactly two days to heal and get over whatever it is I am suffering from, no matter how serious.  After two days, my wife tends to "forget" that I am ailing and starts asking me what I am making for dinner, or if I will bring her something to drink, or tell me I have to start taking the dogs out because she's already done it once. And G-d this kitchen is so gross, these dishes need to be done. I could be bleeding from the eyes on day three and she would ask, "Still?"
So there is no rest for the wicked.  No sympathy for the devil. And though it is not nearly as romantic as Candy Darling on her death bed, I will hopefully live to see another day.  Because the kitchen is so gross.  Those dishes need to be done.

Cameraman Sways to Remember How the Eye Dances...

Good:  I just rolled out of bed.  At 11:00 am.
Bad: I feel like I've traveled cross country folded up in a suitcase. And I had the most devastating dream that has me feeling a little heartbroken.
Glorious:  I'm having a brand new bed delivered this weekend.

In the "this could only happen to me" files--Last holiday weekend I took a Clorox wipe to the film of makeup and bong residue on my body and ventured out to take advantage of the mega-furniture, spend money because America, mattress sales.  Heading into the first "luxury liquidator" type establishment, I see the vultures circling and here a voice, "I've got them."  And up walks a woman that in my youth I had dubbed Foushee Trollop.  I saw the look in her face, she was trying to place me but wasn't quite sure where she knew me from.  I saw her and knew immediately, I only had to glance down at her name tag to be sure.  Years ago this woman was a pastry chef at the country club.  Adorable. Short, curvy, gigantic blue eyes and shiny blonde hair.  She looked so fancy and innocent in her chef's coat and floppy hat. I always imagined her house had a lot of pink in it.  Then I found out-in small world style-that she had been dating an acquaintance of mine.  That is until she started sucking dick for drug money.  Only my friend continued to let her live with her because she was trying to "help" her. Classic lesbian co-dependence drama.  Anyway, I just couldn't put the pastry chef image and the horror stories together.  I couldn't bring myself to call this Strawberry Shortcake character a cum dumpster, so I settled for Foushee Trollop.  And so it was written. Anyway, the dick sucking for drugs racket has caught up with dear Foushee so many years later, because here she was in front of me selling mattresses- gaunt, chipped nail polish (gross), a questionable bruise on her forearm, and an I suck dick for drug money and/or validation wedge haircut-died black with blue streaks.  And there I was dressed for mattress shopping and climbing in and out of beds in front of G-d and everybody.  Just for fun I wanted to yell out, "Hey Foushee, did ya wanna get a good scissor goin on this one?!"  But better judgement kicked in and I left her alone.  And left without making a purchase.  And then of course I had to explain the whole thing to my not amused wife.

So off to a completely different end of town to the full-priced, high-end furniture store.  And after walking the length of the store and being accosted by every retail sales person ever to have tried to sell something, I am met with yet another familiar face.  (Is there a reason that every bed hopper from my partying past is now in mattress sales?  The irony is not lost on me...)  This time a guy, with no drug problem for sure, but loved a cocktail and a trashy girl.  In fact, I drank with him at happy hour almost every day for three years.  He drank Maker's and Coke, and went through every girl with camel toe and curled bangs in central Virginia.  He took me to some of the seediest bars I'd ever been to actually.  At least in this state.  And now here he was, selling mattresses in a suit. Same boyish good looks-a little bit more of him than there used to be-same gentlemanly southern drawl.  Only he wasn't so quick to bring himself to my attention.  He made side glances, walked passed me on purpose, hovered in the background while our salesman helped me on and off bed after bed.  I tried my damnedest to get him to make eye contact-like if I bore down long enough I could will him to look at me.  But he was determined not to be bothered, as if my presence was an offense to his furniture salesman, Walmart tie wearing, sense of good taste.  And then of course I had to explain the whole thing to my not amused wife.

Regardless, there is a fancy, cushy, no one was murdered on it, mattress in my very near future and I haven't been more excited about anything since ANNE MURRAY RETWEETED ME(!).

I feel the pain of everyone, then I feel nothing...

I’m not sure I really do the New Year’s resolution thing.  At least not in the sense that I make any kind of commitment to improving myself.  The New Year and birthdays always make me hopeful, and I just can’t go into it setting myself up for failure like that.  So I sometimes I actually try to make myself a less useful human being.  Example:  In 2014 I planned a wedding, so in 2015 I decided I wasn’t going to lift a finger for anything at all.  And I didn’t.  I volunteered only enough of my time to be able to look at myself in the mirror, and everything and everyone else was on their own.  But reflecting over the past year, as it turns out, by not making plans I actually got more accomplished than I even wanted to.
So I won’t be participating in sober January (True story—a drinking buddy of mine and I went sober for 30 days about 10 years ago and our favorite bar shut down) or giving up carbs, or adopting a refugee, or cleaning homeless shelters.  But maybe I’ll spend more time with that harmonica I’ve been staring at.  And I’d like to find myself alone in the woods for a few days sometime soon.  

And hopefully—with this being the last year of my 30s—I can figure out how to be a more honest person.  I mean, I am honest in that I don’t use Photoshop and I’ll admit to having High School Musical in my Netflix queue, and I don’t steal.  OK, office supplies and restaurant dishes, but not like cars or money… But I do find myself in denial a lot these days, and looking back I realize this isn’t new for me.  I pretend a lot.  Trust me when I tell you I’m an Oscar worthy actress.  And I’m always the life of the party.  But I don’t share my real joy—for fear I will be made to feel guilty for my happiness.  And I don’t share my real struggles—for fear you will all have something better to do. And I pretend to believe you when you talk—you’ve probably seen that in my face before.  Lucky for you though, I can’t hide my crazy. Every one of you gets that at face value.
Anyway, 2016 is the year I’ve decided to start being honest with myself.  Because, honestly, I’m about halfway done here.  So I’m gonna get to know me better.  And so are you.

The Weekly Walk With Me

What an exhausting holiday party season.  Mine finally ended today at a New Year open house.  In no particular order:

 7 Things I Love About Holiday Party Season

1. That one lady who thinks her Christmas sweater isn't tacky or ironic because it's black and might even have faux fur on it.  She got it at Stein Mart instead of Sears and pairs it with a black skirt and black nylons.  She has stylish older lady short hair and wears classic minimal make-up and diamond stud earrings.  You know this lady.  She might even be your Mom, or Aunt Doreen.  But she's still an old lady in an old lady Christmas sweater.

2. Champagne.  I love that people only drink champagne when there are string lights involved in some capacity.  In two months time I've had champagne with cherries, champagne with strawberries, champagne with OJ, champagne with bitters, and drank it straight from the bottle.  I drank champagne in the shower, I shared some with dogs, and even splashed some into my french toast custard.

3. Hanukkah trees.

4. Jacquard cigarette pants.  Got me through lunch dates and even a mid-day, day after Christmas gay wedding.  Everyone should have at least one pair.  Everyone.

5. This flawless jewel-toned smokey eye.  To be used only if you're dead serious about talking to strangers and being handed cocktails.  It's no joke, trust me on this.

Because this is what it looks like the morning after.

Bring a change of clothes, because I know you're gonna wanna wake up beside me.

6. That guy who wears a green and red plaid jacket or bow tie.  He tries to pretend that he never drank light beer before the craft brewery boom and he talks about that one time he traveled out of the country. Fifteen years ago.  With his high school class.  One of your friends probably went home with him, and he was wearing white athletic socks with his oxblood ankle boots.

7. Cheese straws.  Everybody who has a home party always has a cheese straw to offer.  And every one of those people always claims to have made them.  Now I do love to cook, and probably will throw something homemade your way if you find yourself at Chez White Girl for a drink.  I also know how to read a recipe, and admittedly the recipe for cheese straws is simple enough.  But I'm telling you, I have attempted them at home and it is no small feat. So I know you didn't make those fucking cheese straws, you bought them at World Market or Trader Joe's just like any other asshole.