Sleeping in: A Chance to Dream

I love these long breaks, I don't have to wake up at the crack of oh-dark-thirty and be on the freeway before first light. I can, instead, feed the kitties and go back to bed. I have my best dreams during second bed time. I dreamed about sleeping in, and dreaming. The bedroom got cold, so the dreams had the usual histrionic version of that - stranded out on the ice in Little Red, trying to get the little engine to make enough heat, but because I left the car in econ mode, the engine wouldn't come on enough. Eventually I got the message, woke up and put an extra blanket on. My brain has to make up these little dramatic interludes instead of just saying "wake up and get another blanket."

Next I was in KPFM, only they'd added a bar on the upper deck, removing a layer of small tables. My friends were already there and had saved me a seat next to a woman I hadn't met before she was part of a larger group of new folks to our little social group. The seating was a bit close so our shoulders overlapped. I turned towards her a little to make more room, and she immediately snuggled up against my fat belly. She smelled a little bit like baking soda, familiar, and not unpleasant. I was enjoying the warmth and her conversation. A definite Star Wars fan, interested in having a Star Wars role-playing get together when she discovered that I was a game master. (Truly a nerd's dream girl.) She was trying to convince her friends to commit to a date when there was a loud rumble from her tummy, echoed immediately by my own.

I made a comment about the "hungry chorus in B-fat," poking my belly. She, however, appeared to be mortified, she straightened up and moved out of contact with me. There was the tell tale smell of diarrhea, mixed with baking soda. I could tell she was profoundly uncomfortable, so moved myself out of her way. She was blushing furiously and excused her-self. She leaned in and made whispered comment about getting old, and cheese and grease, then with a quick "so sorry, I knew this was a bad idea," she headed towards the bathroom, pausing long enough to pick up her over-sized purse. She had tears in her eyes and I knew that, unless someone talked her out of it, she would bolt after she cleaned up. I got the attention of one of her girl friends, and she agreed to try to get her to come back to the bar, but told me "she'll probably hole up for weeks." I took a sheet out of my notebook and wrote my phone number on it. "Please ask her to call me, I'd love to continue our conversation."

She seemed surprised, then pleased and relieved that I wasn't disturbed by her friend's problem. Both women returned, the tall blonde friend and my short dinner companion, whose curly brown hair, I now noticed, had purple highlights. She tried to take her friend's seat, but the much larger blonde just eased her right on by and pulled out the stool next to me. She sat, clutching her large bag in her lap. She wouldn't look at me, though.

That's when I woke up and realized that Giles was back, and he smelled like cat litter. (The cat litter has baking soda in it.)