Category: Uncategorized

Yet Another, Yes, Military Dream

This one was a bit different. In the military again, with a friend, and our wives, and others, in a hotel. He’d once worked for me, but eventually passed me in promotions while I chose to retire. Now, here he was a CMSgt, E9, which is the senior enlisted rank and pay grade in the Air Force, urging me to come with him to party and do things.

A special guest was due, the highest enlisted position in the Air Force, a position and rank called the Chief Master Sergeant of the Air Force. There is only one at a time. My buddy was eager for me to meet him and have drinks with him.

I went along at first, but then decided, no. I’m done. Not interested. I’m passing.

He came by in his mess dress with medals and ribbons, and black tie to collect me. I was in jeans and a tee shirt. He said, “You’re not ready.” His face fell when I told him that I wasn’t going. He tried cajoling me to change my mind. I held firm.

“That’s not me,” I said.

He shook his head and said, “Man, I’ve so disappointed in you.”

I told him, “You’ll get over it.”

Then he went on, and I turned away to do other things.

The dream ended.

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‘Nother Day, ‘Nother Rant

Yes, it’s a new year but the first-world blues never end. Sometimes they lead to a rant.

Today’s focus is on the pharmacy.

They’ve done a fine job in the past, which is probably what lit this rant. I called my prescription refill in on Sunday, Jan. 5. The happy recording said it would be ready by Monday at 4 PM, all as completely expected.

That’s what’s called ‘foreshadowing’, kids.

Got in line today, Tuesday, Jan. 7. Was the only one in line. One cashier was in action. She was helping someone finish his purchase. When it was completed, she turned, and — ignoring me, shall we note — called across the store, “Rhonda, your prescription is ready.”

Now, that’s okay. She was helping Rhonda before, Rhonda’s prescription wasn’t ready, forcing Rhonda to wait, but, hey, do you mind saying something to the only customer in your line? I would consider it good manners and common sense.

After Rhonda’s purchase was completed, a few minutes later, it was my turn. Hey, short story, my prescription wasn’t ready. It wasn’t here. It would be here this afternoon.

No apology nor explanation. No reason for why I wasn’t called about it.

Now, as it happens, I live in town, so it’s not a big deal. I can return. But what about the people who have mobility issues, or who live outside of town, who need help to pick up their prescription, or who must make a special trip?

Yeah, that’s my rant. After dismissing my irritation (yes, via this post) (after returning a few hours later for the prescription), I’m good to go.

Onward.

 

1

Tuesday’s Theme Music

Yeah, out of the dream reflections about the party dream came Pink’s song, “Get The Party Started” (2001).

Not much of the lyrics have much to do with the dream except that others were present and urging me to party. It’s more that after I was thinking about it, I got up and moved onto other things, telling myself as I did, “Well, it’s time to get this party started.”

I was referring to the day so it gave me pause as I pondered new accidental insights into the dream. Then Pink’s music jumped the stream, and off I went.

2

She Thinks

Sitting with friends, laughing while nibbling a scone (blackberry, overbaked, it doesn’t taste that good, and she’s not that hungry, but she bought it because the rest insisted, “Get something,”), celebrating (after the fact) a friend’s birthday, an epiphany strikes her.

Inspired by Barbara’s recounting of her husband’s recent illnesses (he’d gone through surgery but developed an infection), Diana and Belle are speaking about their late husbands. Both died of heart attacks in their mid-sixties.

She thinks about her husband, two years older than her (and in his mid-sixties). Coughing for days, he’d been listless, and getting worse, it seems. He’d always been a health freak — didn’t and doesn’t drink except for an occasional social beverage when they’re out (which she usually finishes for him), and a pescatarian for over forty years (no, almost fifty years, to be more accurate, always important to her). He runs five miles a day four days a week, cycles everywhere, and rows with a club several times per month, activities that he’d needed to curtail when he’d become ill. A cup of coffee a day, he always said with a wink and a grin, is his vice. Yet, he seemed to be getting sicker.

His illness really started over two years before. He’d seen doctors, and everything was great. (“They tell me that I have the arteries of a teenager.) This is when her epiphany is delivered, a thought so striking that it sucks the air out of the room and her lungs. The voices fade. Dizziness topples her.

Others say suddenly, leaning in, touching her hands and shoulders, concern on their faces, “Are you okay?”

She smiles. “Yes, fine, what?” She shakes her head. “I just got distracted. I’m sorry. What were we talking about?”

They buy it after a few seconds. When the attention leaves her, she thinks, is her husband slowly killing himself to keep her from being happy?

It’s audacious and ridiculous, but she thinks, it’s keeping with his character. He’s always been something of a passive aggressive, secret saboteur. His mother, sisters, and cousin had told her stories about how he’d undermined friendships (and an engagement). He was always sneaky when he did it. He’d been the same at work throughout his career, a liar, essentially, but very clever about it, damaging relationships when he did, but always as an innocent, and almost always believed.

Now, he’d retired. No family lived nearby. He has few close friends (were any of them close to him?). Could he have turned his attention to his relationship with her?

She thinks, how? (He could be poisoning himself.) Why? (Because that’s who — what — he is.) She thinks, I have no proof. It’s insane for her to even consider it. Yet, the idea remains moored in her thoughts. She thinks with growing shock as the group breaks up and leaves the coffee shop, it’s possible.

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Destiny

Brooding with leftover anger and resentment, he stared at the page, unable to read.

The book, by Lee Child (a Christmas present), was a thriller (which he usually enjoyed), but an argument was displacing his attention. It’d been a stupid argument, not worth even recounting, but it was another in a string of stupid, exhausting arguments. One a day? Hell, on a good day, it’d be one a day. Most days, there was one in the morning before they left for work and another in the evening. They were part of the routines.

He was tired of that routine. He decided that if he could, he would change his life so that he and his wife had never reconciled after they’d separated. That had happened less than nine months in (nine years ago). His life would be so much more pleasant, wouldn’t it? Her, and her attitude. It infuriated him.

Maybe, instead, it would be better they hadn’t had children. Much had changed when she’d become pregnant. The pressure to succeed, save money, and everything else, had ratcheted up, becoming relentless. Besides, they hadn’t been getting along well before that point.

He loved his children, though, although they worried and wearied him. A friend said that having children was all about the three Ws: worrying, wearying, and weaning. That sounded right.

Maybe, instead of not reconciling, he would not marry his wife. Then there would be no children. He tried imagining that life. He’d be like Grover, alone on holidays (and declaring that he liked it most times, but also decrying it on other days), but doing whatever he wanted, whenever. But he’d asked her to marry him because he loved her. Probably be better then, to have never met her. But if he’d never met her, would he have ever met anyone and fallen in love? (What an expression.) Yes, he had other girlfriends. He’d been popular.

Setting his book aside to watch football on television for a moment, he waited for some spirits to show up, someone to tell him how different his life would be if he’d never met his wife and married. That sort of tale had been written to death. Hadn’t there been movies with that theme? He waited for the television screen to change to a movie where he was the star and the plot was that he’d never met his wife and married. But that would’ve required many other changes, since he’d met her in high school as freshmen.

He had to consider all that would’ve all changed to keep them from meeting. One of them would not have been in that school (or maybe just not that year) (but both were good students), or their activities, likes and interests would’ve needed to change. He tried peering into the past to see what needed to shift to stop their meeting from happening. Maybe they met but didn’t fall in love. That’d seemed instant for both of them, like destiny.

Wiping her hands with a dish rag, she stepped into the room. “Kitchen’s clean.”

“Good.” He heard the dishwasher running.

“Are you hungry? Can I make you a sandwich?”

“Okay, sure, thanks.”

She smiled. “Want a beer?”

“Okay.”

“Anything else?”

“No, thanks, that’d be good.”

She glanced at the screen. “Who’s winning?”

“Titans, third quarter.”

“That’s not who you wan to win is it?”

“No.”

“Well, there’s still time for it to change.” Smiling again, she turned and left the room.

One child hit the other. A scream erupted. He leaped up, refereeing, consoling, explaining, parenting. A few minutes later, detente achieved, he sat down with a slow exhale and looked at the television. The third quarter was almost over but the score hadn’t changed. He picked up his book. He couldn’t remember where he’d stopped reading, what was happening, or what he’d been thinking about.

Turning the page back, he began reading again.

 

 

3

A Baseball Dream

I began as a middle-aged man, probably in my thirties, in the dream. Somehow, I was asked to come to high school to play baseball.

Several points from reality should be noted: our high school didn’t have a baseball team. I didn’t play for our baseball team.

But in this dream, I said, “Sure,” and went off to play this game. A brief tryout, conducted by my high school football, track, and wrestling coaches, was conducted: “Can you pitch?” I threw some fastballs; they were satisfied.

It was a loose “old-timers vs. young players” game. I was part of the old-timers. Teams were formed: I’ll pick him, I’ll take him. I was selected and was riding the bench until I was asked to pitch in relief in the middle of the game. None of us knew how that would go, but I pitched well, striking out several. Then I batted, and hit a triple. Very cool. By the game’s end, I was considered an unexpected hero.

Back home (after a dream team leap), I was asked to play in a second game. I agreed. Time details were provided.

Now, I was worried. Anxiety levels jumped because, hey, there were expectations. Then I started overthinking things and confusing myself about what time I was supposed to be there.

All sorts of things next happened. I was getting dressed, but paused to pee. When I did, there was a commotion out in the house. Hearing it, I peed on the bathroom wall. It was like, oh, no, but then I threw on a robe to go see what was going on.

My Mom and her boyfriend and their friends had returned from a trip. She and he were their current ages.

They’d arrived home early and unexpected. After briefly greeting me, they went into a chaotic conversation about flights, schedules, and tickets. You’d think that they were planning the trip instead of just finishing it. By the way, Mom asked, did you call your Dad? He was supposed to have surgery. I hadn’t heard anything about that.

Amidst this, I scrambled to dress. They’d given me a uniform. I put that on but now I couldn’t find my glove, bat, and ball. The first two were located with help from my Mom’s boyfriend, but then I couldn’t locate the ball. At last, a cat was spotted batting it around and chasing it.

I retrieved the ball, a mold-covered lime orb that had no resemblance to a baseball or softball. What the hell, that wasn’t important, I decided, and I was running late. Scramble, scramble.

I headed for the field. Along the way, I met my wife. She was going to the game. But first, we were being assembled in a classroom. Some of my friends from this period in my life were there. Weird. The teacher (an old high school English teacher of mine who didn’t remember me) was going around, passing out reading material that we were to read aloud. Each of us were given excerpts from different classic pieces of literature.

Then, though, I protested that I had to go. Telling them that I’d see them at the game, I rushed away. Now I’m in this huge U.S. Air Force facility, passing displays about AF history, technology, and traditions. I’m with some of my military peers. We agree, boy, has this stuff changed.

As I pass through the AF facility, I’m trying to understand where we are. It seems like an air base, mall, museum, and flying ship at the same time. I have a deep, sneaking suspicion that those impressions were all true, that we were somewhere high in the atmosphere.

There wasn’t time to consider it more than that, because, oh! Time! Baseball game. I wasn’t sure what time I was supposed to be there, but now I believed that I was definitely late. Rushing to the field where we were supposed to play, I discover that no one else from my team has already, not even the coach. Holy shit, where is everyone? What’s happening? Am I in the wrong time, place, and date?

Some young players show up. My tensions eases. The coach still hasn’t shown. What the hell, we’re supposed to play soon.

He finally shows, and apologizes for being late, but there was a family thing. I talk to him, and end up counseling him on how difficult families can be. Then he tells me that I’m going to be the starting pitcher. Can I handle that?

Sure, I can, I answer, but I’m enormously doubtful. I remind myself that I was successful before. But that was different, it was unexpected, and now, given the chance, I was overthinking it all, and that would probably skew my performance. I needed to relax and not worry, I told myself.

As I take the mound to warm up, the dream ends.

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A Spy Dream

Six of us were there, to start, males and females (nobody that I knew), in an old part of a modern city. Sunset had passed. Shadows grew among the narrow bridges and streets wedged in among canals and buildings. Silence grew as businesses closed and people retired to their houses.

We were supposed to be finding our way through the city. I don’t know who the others were, or why we were tasked with this. But the assignment unnerved us. Then, trying to be bolder, one made a decision to go down an alley, thinking that was the right way. We never saw him again.

As the dark grew deeper, we depended on light coming from windows to see. Growing more nervous, the others crowded closer. But, I said, “Wait. I know what’s going on. We’re being tested.” We thought they were testing our direction, but I realized that they were testing our mettle.

Talking it through with the rest, I convinced them that I was right. As they finally agreed, the lights came up. A man lead a group forward. Talking with us, he confirmed that I was right. It was a test, and it was over.

“Follow me,” he directed, leading us into a building. The halls were narrow. He put two of my group into one room, “Because they were done,” and then lead me and two others into another room.

The room wasn’t large. Stereo speakers crowded it. A window allowed people to watch us. Music played. As it played, we were told to select colors from a panel as fast as we could. When this was done, after what seemed like just ten seconds, I was led away.

“Your thinking tells us that you can be a spy,” the man told me as I was led off. “Your respond to music with colors in the same way that trained spies usually respond, so we want to make you a spy.”

I didn’t know who he meant wanted to make me a spy, nor what I was to spy on. Everything was happening with bewildering speed. As he led me forward, he said, “Take off your shirt.” I did, and then he opened another door.

I went in. I was on a stage with a dozen others. A motley collection of people watched from tables and chairs. The man said, “Okay, everyone, these are our spies. You know most of them, but we have one new one. I’m going to introduce them all.”

As he began calling out names, I shivered, because I was cold. I saw that others were studying me and tried to remain nonchalant.

The dream ended.

1

Here We Are

Here we sit, on the first day of 2020. 

Memes about the roaring twenties abound, but others are attracted to the vision aspect of 20/20. That’s funny when you think of it; people often think of 20/20 vision as perfect vision. 

It’s not.

“A person with 20/20 vision can see what an average individual can see on an eye chart when they are standing 20 feet away,” says Dr. McKinney, an ophthalmologist and glaucoma specialist at Eye Health Northwest in Oregon City, Ore.

An eye chart measures visual acuity, which is the clarity or sharpness of vision. The top number refers to your distance in feet from the chart. The bottom number indicates the distance at which a person with normal eyesight can read the same line.

For example, if you have 20/30 vision, it means your vision is worse than average. When you are standing 20 feet from the chart, you can read letters that most people see when they are 30 feet away.

h/t to American Academy of Ophthalmology.

You can argue that 20/20 means clear vision to you. That’s fine; we’re not here to nitpick.

Whatever it means and whatever you do, when you create your vision for this day, week, month, project, or year, make it your vision for you to see where you’re going, and give yourself some ways to measure your progress.

If you’re serious about wanting to achieve that vision, you should write it down. Studies have shown that doing so helps you become more likely to achieve your dreams (h/t to Huffpost). Evidence exists that the path to success becomes stronger if you share your dreams and ambitions with a friend who believes in your ability to succeed.

So, don’t wait for success and achievement to fall into your lap. Pursue it. Write it down. Put it out there. Find someone who believes in your ability to succeed.

Create your vision and pursue your dreams.

Cheers

2

The Rock

“Follow me.” She took the movers into the backyard. It’d been a last minute decision but was appropriate.

A foot taller than her, they followed her out into the immaculate backyard. Winter had drained its color and autumn had jerked the leaves from the trees but a sense of comfort embraced her as she wrapped her sweater around her shoulders, glanced up at the milky sun, and limped across the grass.

A innocuous rock about a foot high and a foot wide rested in one corner in sunshine by a patch of dirt. She pointed at it. “This rock. I want this rock to go, too.”

The movers, without exchanging looks, said, “Yes, ma’am.” The three encircled the rock and studied it. She said, “I’ll leave you to it.”

Turning, she strode back into the house, casting eyes over the cottage. She and her husband had bought it twenty-one years before, ten years after they’d retired, coming up here for a more relaxed life. Then came the cat, a tiny tabby mewing on her porch as rain poured outside. The husband had died later that year. The cat, though, had lasted for twenty-one. The rock had been the cat’s favorite sitting place in the back. Sunshine always found the rock, and Pebble, named for her petite size, always found the rock.

She could leave the house – had to, really, because small as it was, it was too much for her  now – but she wouldn’t leave the rock. The cat was gone, but she’d always have the rock. And who knows? Maybe in the new place, she’d put the rock on the tiny balcony and perhaps find a new feline companion.

Or maybe it’d find her, as Pebble had.

It would be nice to have another rock in her life.

NOTE: Someone posted a photo of a mover carrying a large, unpretentious rock into an apartment. Others wondered why someone was moving a rock into an apartment.

So did I.

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Geoflooftry

Geoflooftry (floofinition) – Branch of floofmatics that deals with the measurement, properties, and relationships of points, lines, angles, surfaces, and solids.

In use: “Most animals (but especially housepets) have a poor sense of geoflooftry, believing that they can fit, wedge, or shape themselves into any space, even if its one tenth of their size.”

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