August 5, 2008 § Leave a comment
There’s certainly a touch of mania in my psychological makeup, and I’ve been having a week full of wild dreams, fantasies, ambitions, and have begun a number of new projects.. all of which will most likely be abandoned in due course. I wish all the mental energy would translate into physical energy (more hours in the day would mean more got done), but instead it translates into my body slipping into an exhausted sleep at the usual time, while my brain continues chattering endlessly.
As you might imagine, this makes for some pretty vivid dreams:
Sunday night’s dream inspired me to buy a tiny island in Sebago Lake, upon which i should erect a small cottage and hang a hammock, and live from the beginning of June until August, observing a strict media fast. Weekly boat trips into Windham or Standish for food, then back out again. Think of all the novels that could be completed in such a place!
Last night was an action-adventure set in a Disneyland gone awry (“Oh, I never allow guests into the Northwest parking lot alone after dark,” said the desk clerk), which evolved into an action adventure of this basic equation: Sims 2 + Barack and Michelle Obama as superheroes + Harry Potter-syle magic = awesome⁷
We just bought two tomato cages for our savage tomato plants… far too late, as we probably would have realized if we were anything but starry-eyed hipster poseur gardeners. So, between the two of us, we pretty much massacred the two tomato plants that had any chance of delivering fruits this year, although we had many straight sticks of bamboo readily available. Forethought is not my forte these days, apparently.
So then, of course, I tried to stuff our MONSTER pumpkin plant into the tomato cage so it won’t be massacred itself by our apathetic lawn tenders on Friday. That exercise didn’t go well, either, if you were wondering, but I still hold out hope for them. Howard Dill bred ’em hardy. I hope.
On our trip to procure tomato cages (actually it started as a pansy run), we decided to treat ourselves to ice creams, with disappointing results. Although it did prompt a baby (embryonic) Proustian meditation on whether every job requires skill. Conclusion: yes. It may seem that ice cream scoopery is a pretty basic, mindless job, but no. Proper cone construction doesn’t come naturally to everyone, and it sure didn’t to this woman.
Picture your ideal cone. Now imagine its exact opposite. That’s what I got.
And let’s talk for just a second about sizing. What does “one small cone” mean to you? Does it mean 16 ounces of dairy perched off-centered on a cone whose structural rigidity wouldn’t have been able to support that mass even without being exposed to 550% humidity for three weeks? Well, that’s not what I meant by “one small cone” either.
Damned First World problems. If all those starving Ethiopian refugees found out about this kind of travesty it would be a real eye-opener.