March 15th, 2003


Dream Log: Invisible Man

I dreamed that I was in a hotel room, trying to order something from a catalog. A maid came along and I vented my woes to her about how I couldn't fill out the insert. She was rude, and then I got ruder--horribly, viciously rude. When she left I hastily began packing so that I could be gone before she came back with frowny hotel officials--but instead, a bevy of staff swept into my room and began making me an expensive meal. They also brought me two "black-and-tans," which in the dream weren't beer but some kind of variation on a White Russian. I decided to stay one more night in the hotel--it was already paid for, after all.

As I was eating, I noticed Darien Fawkes across the room. We pretended not to know each other, but he kept doing "meaningful" things to crack me up like breathing heavily on a silver cigarette case. Whatever. I fell off my chair with laughter at one point, mid-fettuccine. Then I invited him to stay the night as my paid man-whore. The staff girls giggled to themselves when he accepted. Wink, nod.

However, somehow he ended up being serviced by three or four of them on the far end of the room while I finished off my meal. And I let him sleep that off, but when he woke, it turned out that one of girls had infected him with cryptomutant alien spores, and as a result his entire body was turning to moldy swiss cheese.

Then we went to the airport.

Adulthood is hard.

I don't want to say how old I am. I have become one of those over-thirty women who just can't face their age, for whom they design lame thirtyish birthday cards. ("I'm actually twenty-nine--forever!") Maybe it's because I haven't lived, and so it seems...a failure to have reached this age. And done so little.

Anyway. This morning I woke up and I thought my refrigerator had died. So I called my landlord, who came over, which is when we discovered that I merely needed to defrost it. Cue scenes of great embarrassment and patheticness. Patheticity. I'm thirtysomething years old and before today I had never learned how to defrost a fridge. I mean, sure, I chipped away at the ice now and then. And of course I knew that there was this formal process called "defrosting." But I hadn't put two and two together and figured out a functional response to my fridge's icy woes, even though I've lived on my own for about fourteen years.

Time to break out the whiskey.

Whiskey and pancakes.