Sometimes it is Sooooooo Good to Wake Up

I just woke up from my Sunday nap. I don't actually always take a Sunday nap but we had a superfantastic party last night and I got sleepy while reading to Kiki so when she fell asleep I did, too.

Anyphantom, I had a dream wherein I was babysitting one of Sarah Palin's twin daughters. The one I was watching didn't seem to have a name (but she was very cute). Sarah arrived to pick up Nameless, accompanied by the other twin, whose name was Susie. Susie was on her tummy at Sarah's feet because, it turns out, she didn't like to walk but preferred to slide on her belly, which she did with remarkable grace. So they came in and first thing Sarah sees a reflection in a darkening window and cried, "Oh my gosh, is that Matthew Perry?" and then she ran into the adjoining room to see but it was only my brother, George Clooney, at the computer. (The truth is, my brother actually does look a lot like Matthew Perry).

Then Sarah came back out into the kitchen and we were just chatting and it was all very normal until it slowly began to dawn on me that I was talking to Sarah Palin. I casually asked her how she felt about her show being over, hoping to keep her occupied for a while so I could figure out how to tell her that I thought she was a very dangerous woman.

Dream Dream Dream

Last night I dreamt that The Child and I were siblings. I invited her to cycle into town because I wanted to get some lotion. While she was deciding if she wanted to go, Dame Judi asked me to stop and get a pound of bacon for dinner.

I lifted a 2 pound package of bacon off the kitchen counter and said, "We have bacon, Mommy. And there's a pound in the fridge".

"I know", she replied, in that way mothers have who know everything because they do know everything. "And I need another pound of bacon".

I balked and she looked at me oddly. "I'm a little scared, Mom. I'm scared that you think we need 4 pounds of bacon for 3 people".

True.

I've never been one to analyze dreams too much. Dreams are nothing more than the arena where I work out my woes and encounter fantasy. They are comprised of wishes and fears, informed by what I've consciously done or experienced, read, seen or thought about. They are colored by the random bits that float quickly through the transom of my mind, bits so small they don't register to my awake self but which manage to embed themselves in some soft place in my subconscious and transform into something more.

If I'm stuck in Barack Obama's website, it's probably because I've been reading his book and thinking a lot about politics. If I'm on the deck of the Galactica, it's because the new season of BSG is long over due. If I'm dating John Cusack during one of my semi-regular "Celebrity Guest Appearance Dream Weeks", well, who doesn't want to date John Cusack?

Last night's dream makes sense. Engaged, as I am, in the epic challenge of mothers and teen age daughters, it would make perfect sense to seek the safety and security of being a child again, in the home of a mother who always knew what she was doing and never once said "Who needs a cocktail?" or that my subconscious would make my relationship with The Child only slightly less fraught by turning us into a pair of bicycling sibs.

The bacon? Again, as with Mr. Cusack, who doesn't want to date bacon?

Things You're Not Supposed to Talk About in Polite Society

But when did that ever stop me?

Sex
The first part of the season finale for Project Runway airs tonight, where we learn which of the lovebirds, Chris or Rami, makes it to Fashion Week. Money on Rami.

Politics
I dreamt last night that I was stuck in Barack Obama's campaign website. I'd wandered into "Position Papers" and was trying to get to the home page but somehow kept getting into the "Vision" page instead. And when I say "stuck" you must understand that I didn't dream I was at my desk experiencing some sort of computer glitch. I mean that I was actually, literally in the website, wandering around towering pages of information like Alice after a particularly large and steaming dose of "Drink Me".

Überwonky? Moi?

Religion: But They Are All Scientologists
Why do you suppose it is that Kirstie Alley and Kelly Preston don't creep me out but John Travolta and Tom Cruise do? (Although John less so, for any number of reasons not the least of which are Vinnie Barbarino, Danny Zuko and Edna Turnblad).

Money
I'm still working with my "big" client. It's kicking my arse. I'm enjoying it, but man oh man oh man...

I have learned a few really important things about my abilities but premiere among them is that I am unique. My client was telling me the other day that she's worked with other organizers before, without success. I suggested that owed to them coming in with a system and trying to implement it on her behalf. She agreed. Where I'm different is that, while I have some definite priniciples which inform my approach, I don't impose anything on the client. Rather, I tailor what I know to fit his/her circumstance, learning style and general way of doing things. In this case, for example, it's all about making things as straightforward and simple as possible. I have no ego around what the client needs to do, it's all about finding something that will work for that particular person.

Isn't that just swell of me?

Music (Which is Considered a Perfectly Acceptable Topic of Polite Conversation, Although I Have Known Any Number of People to Get Quite Heated About It)

I have not been able to get this song off my mind so I'm going to stop trying:

"Falling Slowly" Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova

Shameless Self-Promotion or Putting it Out There and Why I Usually Don't

There seems to be a little theme emerging in the life of some blog buddies these days, to do with creativity and putting it out there and such like that. People far more talented and creative that moi, like my beloved Hat, have opined about it. And people, like she and Iwanski, are even actually doing something about it, accompanied by a chorus of "Go for it!" from this supportive little group.

As a rule, I find that the vast majority of us are very creative people, living our regular lives but dreaming about our creative self being more "out there", possibly even earning the occasional ducat from something we love. I fantasize from time to time about the fascinating conversation Oprah and I have about my moving and funny new book or the way in which my syndicated column has the power to change the world. Sure I do. Not that I've actually done anything that would remotely get me a call from Oprah's people, but I think about it.

I think that blogging is wonderful, of course. But I persist in the fantasy that Graydon Carter is just gonna stumble across my blog and insist that I become a staff writer for "Vanity Fair"...that my writing is going to become a career without me doing anything more than sitting in front of my laptop in my jammies and writing crap. Which, you see, is not how it is done.

Since the Unbound Press, one year ago, I haven't submitted anything for publication. Partly it's the classic "fear of rejection". Sure it is. Hell, I'm more protective of my writing than I was of my heart. Back in the day I was putting it out there all the time, only to have it lied to and tossed around like a Frisbee and kicked into the gutter until The Spouse came along and saw the battered, bruised little bugger and said, "Oh, poor little heart, I will love you".

But my writing? That's another monkey altogether.

"But you put it out there every day on your blog," says you.

"Sure", says me, "because it doesn't feel like a risk". Only twice, in nearly 3 years, have I ever received a negative comment from some anonymous bastid who unkindly told me that he/she thought what I wrote was twaddle. (That was a real word someone used. Hee. I write twaddle). But fundamentally this is a very supportive community who are always saying things to each other like "this is brilliant...I loved this...you should be published" (and really, we should all listen to each other more because we are quite right about that). But getting writing out there where assorted editors and publishers can see it and say, "Meh"? That's scary.

Oh, but it's even more than that, I just realized. I wasn't raised to say "Hey, looky me!" Which is what submitting feels like. Isn't there something kinda pushy about sending in an unsolicited piece to someone? Something that smacks of a little girl in a new party dress twirling around the middle of a cocktail party saying "Aren't I pretty? Don't you just love me?" Because in my experience that is the sort of behavior that gets one sent to one's room.

Consequently, I realized that it fundamentally goes against my nature to ask for attention, to promote myself. Which might make me fit for polite society but isn't going to do a lick toward lengthening my CV or getting me clients. (Because that whole marketing/self-promotion thing is required for that, too, and I haven't been comfortable doing it. Which is problematic).

Then I was thinking about Buck. A month or so ago I sent him a link I'd found to a magazine in Chicago that was looking for local writers. He sent in a piece. They loved it. Not only are they going to publish it - and pay him for it - but they want him to write more. I'm super proud of the fact that he's going to be published. But when he was here I told him that I was even more proud of the fact that he had submitted something in the first place. And in his quiet and self-deprecating way he admitted that he almost hadn't...that it had come right down to the wire and then he decided "what the heck". Maybe it didn't feel like a risk to him. But the point is that he did it.

I have a dream for my life. It has me helping people organize their homes - for money - which is something that I find to be a very affirming task, something which brings me delight and energy. And at my age, I really want to be able to work at something that feeds me rather than sapping me. In fact, at my age, I think I deserve that. I've been in soul-deadening-gig-just-to-pay-the-rent land. I don't think I have to go there now. And part of what I like about this scenario that I've envisioned for myself is that it still leaves me time and energy to write. Which is the other thing I really, really want to do. Granted, if some things don't break pretty soon I may have to abandon part of that dream because high school tuition ain't gonna pay for itself. (In fact, I'm going to start temping after the first of the year for a bit. I was going to start earlier but soon everyone else in the family will be on Christmas break and I selfishly want to play, too). Point is, I want to make my business work and I want to publish and I am going to have to take concrete steps before saying that it isn't going to work.

Fine, so here's the thing. Those concrete steps go against my nature and make me feel uncomfortable. Duly noted. But my dreams aren't going to come true unless I'm willing to stop thinking about how hard it is for me and be willing to twirl at the cocktail party in my pretty pink dress even if it means the grownups are disapproving and send me to bed.

I took a little risk last week. I was reading Blogging Project Runway and they have a feature called "Recapalooza" where they share other bloggers recaps of the show. There was a call to send them links. So I did. What the hell, right? And yesterday I learned that they had linked me! On top of that, my hits yesterday were more than twice what they normally are. And you know where all that traffic came from? That's right. Now granted, "Here's the Thing" isn't a commercial site and all that traffic doesn't mean anything in the way of income or potential fame or a syndicated column. In fact, there's a very good chance that most of those readers will only come around if I'm doing Project Runway stuff. Which is fine. The point is that I did, in a very small and totally uncharacteristic way, put myself out there by sending that link and it didn't kill me. So maybe, just maybe, I can find the wherewithal to do it again, only this time to a press or magazine. Because truly, at this point, I have absolutely nothing to lose. Greater writers than I have been rejected, for crying out loud. It's part of the territory. So what?

Here's some more shameless self-promotion: I'm trying an experiment with my business. I'm offering on-line services. I don't know that anyone else is doing something like this or if it's going to work but I'm giving it a whirl. The way it works is that a client sends me pictures of a trouble spot, I ask some questions and then come up with a strategy for them. The service then includes a month of electronic hand-holding whereby I email them to see how it's going, offering additional advice and encouragement as they work through the challenge. It may work. It may not. But it's worth a shot, right?

And then it occurred to me (here's the shameless self-promotion part) that I should tell all y'all about it. Because maybe some of you would just love to have a virtual organizer. Maybe you know someone who would. Which led to an even crazier thought, along the lines of "Hey, you know what would make a superfantastic Christmas gift? Moi!"

That's right. You can now purchase my virtual organizer services as a gift for that hard-to-buy-for someone. Perhaps you know someone who lives in the Seattle area; in that case you could consider buying an hour of in-home consulting for someone you love. Wouldn't that be better than a Wii or an iPod? 'K, maybe not, but it certainly would be different. Anygoo, think about it. There are very nifty PayPal buttons on the site and if you decide that this is just the last-minute-holiday gift you need for someone, simply purchase the service you're interested in and then email me (the business email is on the site), with the name of the lucky recipient and I'll send you a gift certificate for them.

Ok, that took a lot out of me. We can pretend it didn't happen. (Unless you were thinking, "Damn, that is a swell idea! I am so getting that for Auntie Mame!" In which case, I'm super glad I told you so you could finish your holiday shopping early.)

Now I'm going to go enjoy my really super clean house for a bit. And then I've got some articles to work on.

Happy 1st of August

Is it just me or does summer feel like it's spilling away?

Last night I lay in bed forever thinking about things and not sleeping. In fact, it felt like I didn't sleep at all. Which I realize isn't true because when I was having my coffee this morning I remembered a dream. It was a terrible dream. First of all, I was a teenager. That would be enough to make me cry out in my sleep. The last thing I would want is to ever be a teenager again. Anyway, I was falling in love with a guy, who seemed to be falling in love with me, and we were being stalked by another old boyfriend of mine. So that was creepy. But the other thing was that the new guy had a dog, a Rottweiler or a doberman or something. And the dog hated me. He would be really nice to everyone else but when no one was looking he'd try to bite me.

I told the new guy about this but he didn't believe me. And then one time he left me alone with the monster. At first it acted like it wanted to play with me, so I was holding a book and letting it chew on it. But then it started chewing my hand. First just nibbly little play bites, like our dog does. But then it started really chewing on my hand. And it hurt. And I couldn't make it stop. I tried to pull my hand away but it wouldn't let go. Things were getting really ugly and scary so I did the only thing I could think of and, suddenly full of self-protective rage, I started to shove the book down the dog's throat.

I left it for dead and went to get my hand treated and when I came back, New Guy and a bunch of other people were with the dog, who wasn't dead, just seriously wounded, and they were all mad at me for hurting the dog. And I'm standing there with my bandaged hand, crying and trying to explain and all any of them could do was tell me what a horrible person I was for hurting an innocent creature.

And then the dream ran on for about another hour during which everyone in the dream shunned me and New Guy started legal proceedings against me.

Isn't that lovely?

I think I might be taking this Steve Martin thing harder than I thought.

Angry Boots

I had a scary dream last night, one of those dreams that is really scary when it happens but very silly when you talk about it.

I was getting ready to leave the house to run some errands. The Child had left all her school clothes, including her funky boots, in a heap on the floor by the piano. I was at the door, getting my coat or something, and one of the boots started tapping impatiently. Then both boots got up and charged me.

The Spouse woke me up because apparently I was crying out.

It was 3 a.m. and I couldn't sleep so I got up for a while and fussed with some things, pulling out bills that need to be pungled today and like that. After about an hour I was sufficiently tired so returned to bed.

The Dog, as is his way, had moved up from the foot of the bed to take over my spot, but he was lying close enough to The Spouse that I could get into bed without disturbing his furry self. I lay there for a moment, The Dog curled against me, my husband slumbered on the other side, and I felt very blissful and tender. I lay a hand on The Dog's little head and stroked The Spouse's foot with mine. And he promptly pushed it away because it was cold.

I thought that was funny.

Unoriginal Thoughts

I didn't blog yesterday and I woke up this morning at 4am with a brain tumor so I don't feel like blogging now. But I'm going to. I'm stalwart that way.

Last night I dreamt that The Spouse and I were at a restaurant with Jon, Iwanski and Miss Healthypants. I was sitting next to Iwanski and he didn't speak the entire time so I kept coming up with stuff to talk about, each topic more lame than the last. I think it's because Jon and I have been talking all week about this Chinese place that we have to eat at when we're in Chicago this summer and because Iwanski said something in a post this week about hating to have unoriginal conversations. At which point I thought, "Frak. I have to come up with some original thoughts by July. When am I going to have time to do that?"

Fascinating what the subconscious will put together for our amusement. The Neighbor had a very detailed dream last weekend wherein she was engaged to Richard Gere and her mom was angry because she'd forgotten to pack her wedding dress so her mom had to ship it to her. "And it cost me $200," she complained. The funniest thing about the dream was that The Neighbor kept calling her betrothed "Richard Gere". Not Richard, Rich, Rick, Dick or Snookums but always Richard Gere.

The Spouse is making fried chicken for dinner tonight and chimichangas tomorrow. That's exciting.

And that is all I have to offer in this brief lull before my brain tumor acts up again. I need a nap.

I Am Really Annoyed

This weekend I posted about a dream wherein The Child and I were walking on a muddy mountain road in the rain and she was naked and pushing her bike and how she kept wandering to the precipice from which I kept having to call her back, not wanting her to plunge over the edge. It ended with some (insanely clever) comment about how well I was handling her turning 13. And people left very nice and supportive comments.

So today I went to that post to add a label and then hit "enter", because that's a pretty ingrained sort of thing to do, you'll admit, and Blogger totally ate my post! And it didn't so much as burp or say "thank you", it just ate it up - poetic description, wit, comments and all.

And as long as I'm on it, because it has been a while since I complained about Blogger, sometimes when I save a post as a draft it completely disappears and doesn't save at all. Has anyone else had that happen? It's done that about 3 times now. (And yes, the solution is of course to compose in Word and cut/paste over here...I know that. I hardly ever do).

That is all.

Last Night I Had a Dream

I was on a mountain road, walking with The Child. It was raining and the road, which was unpaved, was deep with mud. She was naked and pushing her bicycle alongside me. She started to go toward the edge of the road, which of course, fell off into a deep, deep place. I called to her to come back to me and at first she did but she kept going back over to the edge and I was so fearful that she'd slip in the mud and be lost to me forever.

Apparently, I'm handling her transition to Teendom just great.

Well, That's a Fine How Do You Ho Ho Ho

It turns out that next Friday is the last day of school for the year. I did not know that. After being quite lacksidaisical about Christmas preparations I now have to get the bulk of it done next week, while I still have the freedom to do so. It's not a big deal, just a little surprising.

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Last night I dreamed that I found my earring, but it was missing a ruby. I discovered it at a birthday party for The Child, the theme of which was "fairies". The house was full of people I didn't know, leaving little adorable fairy-like party dresses as gifts. Except The Child was her real age and at 13 wasn't going to be fitting into any of the dresses. And then some woman wandered through and said, "I'm assuming because of her politics she'd like something that can be recycled?" Huh?

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I'm looking forward to this weekend. We don't have anything to do, except that The Child and I are going to Lorene's book-signing and out for coffee afterwards. (She told me yesterday that she wants to spend more time with me. Awww.)

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Speaking of spending time...as a family we are in the same house quite a lot but we don't necessarily spend inordinant amounts of time together doing mutual family things. Besides sitting down to dinner, that is. But we have a new project. The Spouse wants to make a little movie and he has received a script from the fabulously talented Mr. Iwanski and so it's going to be lights! camera! action! The Child and I are starring. Won't that be fun?

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I spent some time yesterday working on the play list for this weekend's 80s video extravaganza. It has, as I told JP, become a sickness with me. And mercy, just when I thought I'd run out of classic 80s hits I uncovered all sorts of things that hadn't been played yet. It'll be a fun weekend.

All I Have to do is Dream

I kinda have a thing for Anthony Bourdain. I've never watched an entire episode of his show on the Travel Channel, never read any of his books*. My feelings for him have none of the depth I reserve for my next husband, Steve Martin. But there's just something about this guy...

He's kinda handsome in a Lurchy kind of way. He has a deep, groovy voice. He's got a bit of a hipster/bad boy thing going on and for all I know he could be a big jerk (although someone who understands food and eating on the level that he does cannot possibly be all bad). His writing style, at least his food writing, is fairly casual. But I heard him on NPR the other day and he blew me away with his cynical, self-deprecating humor and articulate use of the English language. (I'm big on articulate people being not so much articulate myself. I repeat myself alot and never seem to have handy the word I want when it's needed...thus my admiration for people who can say beautifully what they mean to say).

Last night I dreamt that I was trying to clean wads of dough from a big, white plastic tub. I was very intent on the job, which wasn't going well, but was very calmly sticking to it. Looking up, my gaze went through a doorway into a vast kitchen. Anthony Bourdain, in a white chef's jacket, was manipulating a large sheet of very thin dough, like for a strudel. He radiated the peace of a Zen master, intent on what I would deem a thoroughly thankless task. He was fully in the moment and the sheet of dough thinned and rippled out over the large marble table, exactly as strudel dough is supposed to do.

I've watched people make strudel dough. It is an experiment I will never make. Life is too short.

The interpretation of this dream wouldn't be too difficult. It doesn't matter, though. There was something very lovely about that image of Mr. Bourdain making strudel. That's all.

*Update, as of March 2011 - I have seen all his shows and read nearly all of his books. And now I love him even more.

Bad Dreams

We had a Karaoke party at school tonight. I was the impetus behind the idea so necessarily felt a fair amount of obligation relative to its success. Short story, we had a great time, we raised some money and I got to sing "Love Shack" with my friend Dave. All good.

But last night I had a very freaky dream. I'm sure, on the most basic level, that I was worrying about whether the party would be a success. In the dream I was in a church sanctuary. Suddenly, a group of terrorists come in with automatic weapons and force us all to the floor. There was a bit in there about window shades that wouldn't close. I remember lying on the floor and heaving with fear. Then, with no apparent transition, I'm in a room alone with Karl Rove and he spends the next hour trying to convince me that he's a good guy but all I can think is "Geez, this guy is such a tub".

Isn't the subconscious weird?