Archive for February, 2007

I rarely write about my dreams here (maybe never before). Partly because I think most people would rather poke themselves in the eye with a sharp stick than read someone else’s dream (because of my work, I would rather listen to a dream than poke myself in the eye); and partly because dreams are often so much more personal, more intimate than anything that happens in conscious life. I interpret and use my own dreams as often as I can. The insight from them is a big part of my waking life.

One feature that appears quite often in my dreams is wordplay. Puns, double entendres, homonyms, all sorts of tricks that my unconscious mind plays with words, I think mostly to amuse my conscious mind.

The other night I had a strange dream, which I’m not really sure I’ve interpreted accurately yet. (Btw, when this happens, I tell God that I didn’t “get it,” and that I need to hear it in another way, and then I get another one, and so on until I do get it.) In this dream, Jif and I were in a huge lake. We could not see the shore on any side, it was that big. The water was brown, the color of weak coffee. We were not disgusted by this, but a little frustrated because we could not see very far down into the water. All around us were floating pieces of lumber. Large pieces, like for home foundation building. And there was a sort of large raft that was built from these things. We knew it wouldn’t sink even though it was submerged an inch or two. We kept trying, with little success, to get up onto the raft. Adjacent to the raft was a dock, from which there rose rough wooden steps, rising up into the sky, as far as we could see. Such a sparse dream; two people, water and wood. Then I saw that very high up on the steps was a man, so high up there that we couldn’t see him at all, except to make out that it was a person. Somehow we knew who it was, though. We both acknowledged that it was Justin Timberlake.

I thought about that dream for days, wondering what it was trying to tell me. The one part that I really couldn’t integrate into any of my interpretations was why in the world Justin Timberlake would have been there.

Then it hit me. Justin Timberlake was at the top of the image. My funny brain was playing word games again. It wasn’t a pop star. It was a title. We were Just in Timber Lake.

*I changed the title of this post from the original, obvious choice, because I would’ve been inundated here with teenage boys. Plus, remember the movie trailer where the creepy kid whispers, “Lady in the water…”? Yea, well, LG and I creepily whisper that to each other, often opening the bathroom door to do so when one is in the shower, followed by screaming and laughing 🙂


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What is UP with all the long, straight hair? It’s pretty, but this is the OSCARS. A little glamour, please?

Oh, no. Nicole Kidman’s dress is RIDICULOUS. The thing is wearing her, I swear. That bow looks like a little barf bucket on her shoulder.

Here’s another one! Did they send out some freakin’ “long straight hair” memo? Even the black women have long, straight hair!

Oh, Kate, Kate, Kate. Who let you wear that color? The style is beautiful, but you are so washed OUT in that! And your hair! Who let your hair wear that color?!

Jennifer Hudson, no you are NOT going to wear that suit of armor to the Oscars. The brown dress is fine, but lordhavemercy, take off the silver wings, girl! No, it’s not wings, it’s one of those freakin’ neck cups they put on dogs after they have surgery, to keep them from biting at themselves. Are you at risk of BITING YOURSELF?! CHEEZ!

Ellen’s makeup is really nice.

Thankthelord, Jennifer heard me and took off the silver armadillo-wear. What were you thinking?!

What sort of snarky, catty person would offer such commentary? That would be me. And by what authority do I say such things? What qualifies me as stylist, critic, fashion editor? Perhaps it’s the fact that on Sunday evening, I’m wearing the same ensemble that I’ve had on since Friday night: mint green terry-cloth drawstring pajama pants and a moss green cotton shirt with snaps at the neckline. Not snapped, but there, just the same. And yes, it’s been a good 48 hours since my body has graced a shower stall. On my feet are black fuzzy slippers with little ribbons on them. And because I cannot get warm, and I do not know which hamper my warm black robe with the leopard print collar is in, my whole ensemble is topped by my big-ass pimp coat. Yea, a pimp coat (i.e., tan faux shearling, ankle-length outerwear) in the house. Or perhaps it is the fact that I smell. Myself. Or perhaps it’s my unique approach to accessorizing: at least once during the preceding 48 hours, I have eaten Cool Ranch Dorito crumbs plucked directly from my cleavage. I’m writing this during the boring parts of the awards. By the time you read this I will have showered and put on fresh jammies. Or will I . . .

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Sunday Post

making T-shirts

“99% of being a good parent is doing what you don’t feel like doing.” — Susie Fairchild (with acknowledgment as follows)

I learned this philosophy a very long time ago, although in many more words, from a continuing education presenter whose name, I am sorry to say, I don’t remember. The topic of her presentation was “adult children of depressed parents,” particularly of depressed mothers, and how depressed parents raise people who may have no understanding (because they had no role model) of the concept that what we feel like doing often is (and should be) quite irrelevant. What is important is not what we feel like, but what is needed. I think many a worthwhile noun can be substituted for “parent,” too: spouse, friend, employee, petsitter, etc.

I Peter 5:6-11

UPDATE: The par-tay has been postponed due to icing. And not the kind on a birthday cake 😦 But I do thank you for your encouragement and prayers. Next attempt is in 2 weeks.

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birthday balloons
The view from LG’s bed this morning

I’ve had a rough few days, physically. No end in sight. I’m putting all my energy into making today a good day. Because it really is the best day ever.

I’ll come back when I can. I really, really want to attend and enjoy LG’s birthday party on Sunday. Please keep us in your prayers. And thank you. Again 🙂

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accidental tree

The first time I met that little guy was probably the summer of 2004. We were weeding in the shady flower beds in front of the house. And there was a weed that Jif was about to pull. Until I stopped him.

“Hey! Don’t pull that. It’s not a weed.”

“It’s not? What would you call it?”

“It’s a tree.”

“It’s four inches tall.”

“You gotta start somewhere. It’s trying to be a tree.”

“It’s not going to get very far. It gets no sunlight here, and it’s way too close to that other tree.”

“Well, just leave it; let’s see what happens.”

So we did. And it grew. It was not invited, not part of the plan, and apparently unrelated to any other tree in the yard. No family here. But it has shown itself to be some sort of tough little evergreen. It doesn’t grow fast. But it stands straight and stays alive. And grows a little. Against all odds. It literally grows in the shadow of the other trees in the front yard. The other day as LG and I were leaving the house, I happened to look its way. And its image at that moment captured so perfectly the way I think of it, persevering “in the shadow” of the bigger, landscape-designed trees, that I took its picture right then and there. Because I had my camera with me. And I really did not have anything to say about it at that time. But then I saw Eclectic talking about trees, and I wanted to talk about mine.

I call it the “accidental Christmas tree.” Some day, it will grow too big to do well where it is. But by that time it will have earned the right to be moved to its very own spot, a place of honor in the yard. Some day, it will be big enough and strong enough to put ornaments on it, or even lights! Some day I want to decorate it, to help it celebrate that it came of its own accord, and it stayed, and it survived and thrived. I love that little guy.

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Sunday Post ~

“Careful with fire,” is good advice, we know
“Careful with words,” is ten times doubly so.
Thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead;
But God himself can’t kill them when they’re said. — Will Carleton

Proverbs 18:2
Matthew 12:33-37
James 3:3-12

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UPDATE: Nothing to see here, folks. Bucky has rescued me and my pix. Biscuit is no longer a poor black child, a rock band, or in flames. And the President of the Philippines has gone home. Cheez, what a day.

I’ve just noticed that photos on my blog, posted from my flickr account, are being randomly replaced with photos that aren’t mine! The first I noticed was January 19. Biscuit became a rock band, a small black child and then a fire, within just a few seconds. Then as I scrolled, I saw my koi become Corazon Aquino, I think. HAVE YOU EVER IN YOUR LIFE? What can I do? I’ve emailed both blogger support and flickr. I’m pretty sure my heirs will have to be the ones to tell you what those responses are. Anyone have any ideas? I’m a bit panicky; I don’t know what might show up here, and that’s not OK with me. (The html with the flickr URL for my photos is not changing, as best I can tell; just what shows up on the blog.)


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