3.30.99
Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party.
As I told Robb, my life has slowly yet surely turned into a succession of song lyrics. As such, they are escaping via my subconscious and into my dreams. For instance, Sunday night, I had a work-related dream. I hate that. Don't I give them enough of my life without having to endure them in my sleep? I'm sure that someone could analyze the dream and come to the same conclusion that I have regarding their content. Basically, all of these dreams are telling me to either shit or get off the pot.
Sunday night's dream... This is a weird one. For some reason, my happy little organization decided to host a county fair-type thing, with each of the employees contributing some specialty for the rest of the blood bankers to ooh and awe at. My contribution? A pig. "My people" were, for the most part, farm people, so I know livestock. I can tell you exactly why pigs are not kosher (they eat their shit, and are thus unclean) and I can tell you that the 'V' shape of their mouth can remove quite a substantial chunk of flesh from the unwilling. Suffice to say I don't like swine in general. Here I was, though, accepting a cordon bleu for my efforts in porcine husbandry. The evil director of Human Resources (believe it or not, we actually still call it personnel. I call it HR, so people understand what the hell I'm saying) just kept gushing about how beautiful my pig was, what a lovely thing I had produced. Gag me.
Last night's contribution to dreamland was truly epic...in fact, a dream within a dream. The first part of this thing starts at work, most likely on a neighbour island blood drive in an old beat to hell hospital. I know it is a hospital, because there are old rusty iron lungs in the corner, and there are medical people about. However, it's a hospital with a kick-ass view of the ocean. There's a wall of glass that opens to the sea. It's quite pretty.
Anyway, I'm doing what I do best, interviewing a donor. I am having fun with this familiar person, cracking jokes and such. At the conclusion of my questioning, he says, gesturing to his arm, "When you do the phlebotomy, make sure..." I interrupt, "You can discuss that with the nurse that will be taking your donation today. She'll be glad to take care of you." I escort the donor to a bed, and collect all of the necessary equipment, realizing that there was nobody else in the room. I recant my previous statement, and proceed to do the fellow's phlebotomy. It goes well, so I excuse myself and go to the restroom. While I'm drumming my fingers on my thigh, I realize that I have left my donor on the bed with a needle in his arm. Oops! That's a BIG no-no. I make my way through a confusing maze of hallways until I get back to the room. I'm expecting to see a dead donor on the bed, but instead, I see no donor at all, just a whole pile of staff milling about in that way we do when there is nothing to do.
The charge nurse tells us all to take a dinner break. I look out the window, and say, "Emily, do you realize that it's only four o'clock in the afternoon? Why are you making a dinner break?" She explains that we are going to be busy in the next hour, and we might not have a chance to do it otherwise. I tell her that we are only scheduled to be working for another hour. Staff can eat at home later. She won't hear anything of it; I go off to soak my footsies in the water at the edge of the room.
Cut to the second part of the dream....
This is a sort of recurring dream that I have; though it is not a true recurring dream, only the plot recycles. We start with "Steve Stunning" driving up an impossibly steep parking structure ramp on a crotch rocket type motorcycle. At the top of the ramp, the ticket-spitter won't let him have a ticket to open the gate. An attendant with a red vest comes over (Oh, yeah...I dream in technicolour. I'm told that is unusual to do consistently) and opens the gate for him, explaining that motorcycles don't need a ticket, and he should park in the designated spot. He buzzes around looking for the elusive place, never quite finding it. There is an old car in a dark corner, and he is sad because it is leaking bright green antifreeze. One of the feral cats will drink it and get sick. They're just dumb animals, but nobody should die like that, he thinks.
There are some punkish youths in one corner of the garage, with a long dark weapon. Our hero goes over to these kids, and demands their gun. He says that he's going to make the escape, and he'll need it. Reluctantly, they give it up, and he presses up the ramp. There are some evil looking cops that give chase, but Steve has been here before, and is able to outrun them.
At the top of the ramp, there is a rusted out chain fence that he is able to open just as the cops start to shoot. In desperation, he jumps through the hole in the fence and lands on a bush at the bottom of the garage. There are two little girls playing in the dirt, They tell him to run before the cops get him. One of the little girls presses a scrap of paper into his hand. He runs away from the cops who are now in full pursuit.
After a long chase, he has escaped. It is now dark, and he stumbles upon a sleazy motel. The man won't give him a room, informing him that if he rents a room to the "privileged class," he'll be killed. The man is not without mercy, and shows the fellow to a garden shed with a thin futon in it. He stretches out on the mattress, and daydreams about how his family is being interrogated by the police for escaping from the "privileged class" and the embarrassment he has caused them. He looks at the scrap of paper that the little girl handed him. It says "Call Cheryl's mom for help." There is a number scrawled there also. Tomorrow, he thinks. Now to sleep...He has a dream....
That dream that he has is about me, having been sent on a dinner break, dangling my feet in the water in the middle of a blood drive at an old hospital. It's a continuation of the first dream. How very peculiar. I'll never know what happens, because my alarm went off at 4 AM.
Strange dreams these.... Just thought I'd share.
As I told Robb, my life has slowly yet surely turned into a succession of song lyrics. As such, they are escaping via my subconscious and into my dreams. For instance, Sunday night, I had a work-related dream. I hate that. Don't I give them enough of my life without having to endure them in my sleep? I'm sure that someone could analyze the dream and come to the same conclusion that I have regarding their content. Basically, all of these dreams are telling me to either shit or get off the pot.
Sunday night's dream... This is a weird one. For some reason, my happy little organization decided to host a county fair-type thing, with each of the employees contributing some specialty for the rest of the blood bankers to ooh and awe at. My contribution? A pig. "My people" were, for the most part, farm people, so I know livestock. I can tell you exactly why pigs are not kosher (they eat their shit, and are thus unclean) and I can tell you that the 'V' shape of their mouth can remove quite a substantial chunk of flesh from the unwilling. Suffice to say I don't like swine in general. Here I was, though, accepting a cordon bleu for my efforts in porcine husbandry. The evil director of Human Resources (believe it or not, we actually still call it personnel. I call it HR, so people understand what the hell I'm saying) just kept gushing about how beautiful my pig was, what a lovely thing I had produced. Gag me.
Last night's contribution to dreamland was truly epic...in fact, a dream within a dream. The first part of this thing starts at work, most likely on a neighbour island blood drive in an old beat to hell hospital. I know it is a hospital, because there are old rusty iron lungs in the corner, and there are medical people about. However, it's a hospital with a kick-ass view of the ocean. There's a wall of glass that opens to the sea. It's quite pretty.
Anyway, I'm doing what I do best, interviewing a donor. I am having fun with this familiar person, cracking jokes and such. At the conclusion of my questioning, he says, gesturing to his arm, "When you do the phlebotomy, make sure..." I interrupt, "You can discuss that with the nurse that will be taking your donation today. She'll be glad to take care of you." I escort the donor to a bed, and collect all of the necessary equipment, realizing that there was nobody else in the room. I recant my previous statement, and proceed to do the fellow's phlebotomy. It goes well, so I excuse myself and go to the restroom. While I'm drumming my fingers on my thigh, I realize that I have left my donor on the bed with a needle in his arm. Oops! That's a BIG no-no. I make my way through a confusing maze of hallways until I get back to the room. I'm expecting to see a dead donor on the bed, but instead, I see no donor at all, just a whole pile of staff milling about in that way we do when there is nothing to do.
The charge nurse tells us all to take a dinner break. I look out the window, and say, "Emily, do you realize that it's only four o'clock in the afternoon? Why are you making a dinner break?" She explains that we are going to be busy in the next hour, and we might not have a chance to do it otherwise. I tell her that we are only scheduled to be working for another hour. Staff can eat at home later. She won't hear anything of it; I go off to soak my footsies in the water at the edge of the room.
Cut to the second part of the dream....
This is a sort of recurring dream that I have; though it is not a true recurring dream, only the plot recycles. We start with "Steve Stunning" driving up an impossibly steep parking structure ramp on a crotch rocket type motorcycle. At the top of the ramp, the ticket-spitter won't let him have a ticket to open the gate. An attendant with a red vest comes over (Oh, yeah...I dream in technicolour. I'm told that is unusual to do consistently) and opens the gate for him, explaining that motorcycles don't need a ticket, and he should park in the designated spot. He buzzes around looking for the elusive place, never quite finding it. There is an old car in a dark corner, and he is sad because it is leaking bright green antifreeze. One of the feral cats will drink it and get sick. They're just dumb animals, but nobody should die like that, he thinks.
There are some punkish youths in one corner of the garage, with a long dark weapon. Our hero goes over to these kids, and demands their gun. He says that he's going to make the escape, and he'll need it. Reluctantly, they give it up, and he presses up the ramp. There are some evil looking cops that give chase, but Steve has been here before, and is able to outrun them.
At the top of the ramp, there is a rusted out chain fence that he is able to open just as the cops start to shoot. In desperation, he jumps through the hole in the fence and lands on a bush at the bottom of the garage. There are two little girls playing in the dirt, They tell him to run before the cops get him. One of the little girls presses a scrap of paper into his hand. He runs away from the cops who are now in full pursuit.
After a long chase, he has escaped. It is now dark, and he stumbles upon a sleazy motel. The man won't give him a room, informing him that if he rents a room to the "privileged class," he'll be killed. The man is not without mercy, and shows the fellow to a garden shed with a thin futon in it. He stretches out on the mattress, and daydreams about how his family is being interrogated by the police for escaping from the "privileged class" and the embarrassment he has caused them. He looks at the scrap of paper that the little girl handed him. It says "Call Cheryl's mom for help." There is a number scrawled there also. Tomorrow, he thinks. Now to sleep...He has a dream....
That dream that he has is about me, having been sent on a dinner break, dangling my feet in the water in the middle of a blood drive at an old hospital. It's a continuation of the first dream. How very peculiar. I'll never know what happens, because my alarm went off at 4 AM.
Strange dreams these.... Just thought I'd share.
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