I woke-up late this morning; my husband woke-up early. This is a toxic combination, and it often makes me think of that movie War of the Roses. I’m not unlike Kathleen Turner in that movie, at least, until about9:00 a.m.
Here’s a hint to all you guys out there: When a woman starts to complain about all the little things you do, like the way you hold a phone, the way you drive a car, or the way you comb your hair, it’s a bad omen. She’s falling out of love. When she gets to the point that she can’t stand the way you breathe or chew your food, it’s beyond over, maybe even dangerous to hang around. Women are not as direct as men. Sometimes, they won’t even face their own emotions, and in an effort to justify the unjust, they will keep prodding you, until you provide a reason to end the relationship, and she can have something justifiable to tell her family and friends. She’s not really, really upset by the way you inhale and exhale. She just wants to scratch your eyeballs out.
I’m not like that. Well, I am, until about9:00 a.m., and then my logical side takes over.
Anyway, I digress… what I really wanted to say…
I had a wonderful dream last night. In it there was an old foundry. A massive building with large windows but still mysteriously dark and haunted on the inside. It had been converted into loft apartments. Only writers were allowed to live there and the state paid the tab.
Rather than being ignored by society we (writers) were celebrated. (All televisions were gone…poof…something about EMP bomb and pole shifting.) There was only the local theater production and us to entertain the masses.) Reading was the-thing-to-do. Oh, so chic. The people just couldn’t get enough of the written word. People came to foundry for Story Hour every day with a kind of eagerness that was embarrassing to us.
Also, it was wonderful living with folks who had a sixth-sense about knowing when to talk and when to shut-up, when to leave me alone and when to invite me over. But sometimes, I suspected that we were prisoners there. (That’s me: always a stab of suspicion in everything.)
Ron Howard and Clint Eastwood appeared in the atrium to eat lunch with us. And then I woke-up. Dreams…you never get to The End. What’s up with that?
P.S. I know what you’re thinking: What makes her think that I give a rat’s patut about a dream?
Okay, maybe you don’t. So I’ll add this link, where I looked up the slang phrase rat’s patut. Urban Dictionary.