Tag: ice cream

The CIA Dream

I was working in marketing again, as I had for several years in real life. I was about the same age as well, early 40s, after retiring from the military.

Just returning from a long trade show, I went to my office and opened my cabinets to put things away. There I found that someone had been delivering food to me! Much of it were three by three inch cubes with Kanji on them. The wrappers were white, with either a red, green, or blue.

They totally mystified me. I questioned others, where did the food come from? Who brought them? No one could say.

I figured out through examination that the colors on the cubes represented fish, beef, or dairy. That amused me but needing my space, I began clearing them out.

Next I found bags of candy. Like WTF? Then cans of soup and containers of melted ice cream.

I couldn’t believe it. Why would someone put that in my cabinet?

A female co-worker came by and explained that the same thing had happened to her. It was part of some lunch program. We didn’t go in to get our food, so they delivered them to us. We weren’t there, so they put them away for us.

“But ice cream?” I protested. “That doesn’t make sense. Also, how much food do they think I need? There must be weeks worth.”

I was amused more than I was angry.

While I was cleaning, basically trying to do with this food, I kept getting summoned to meetings or interrupted by people coming by.

Two of the people who came by were CIA agents. Or so they said.

Male, dressed in suits, with ties. They wanted a favor.

Something was being installed. It was down on the ground floor, outside. They gave me a red and white placard. A white 5 was in the middle.

“Just put this on the cover of what they make. That’s all you need to do.”

Sure. Why not? Made no sense but did I care? Not really. I was too busy with other things to wonder about this strange venture.

Resuming my cleaning, I was almost done when two more men – white, in suits – stopped by. They identified themselves as part of the CIA. These two wore sunglasses.

I wondered, is this a joke?

One explained, “There is new construction being completed downstairs.”

The other held up a white thing. Basically resembled a white tent peg. “We want you to put this about a foot behind the construction, about a foot to the right. That’s all you need to do. We’ll do the rest.”

I repeated all that because it made no sense.

Then I asked, why are you asking me to do this?

“We’ve seen your records,” the first said, as if that explained everything.

I figured he meant my military records, and all those security clearances, and just accepted it.

Later, I did what the two pairs of agents asked. Privately, kind of secretly, ensuring no one was around to witness it.

Then I laughed as I walked away.

Dream end.

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Twosda’s Wandering Thoughts

I had oral surgery with a dentist last week. They sent me home with a ‘complimentary’ pint of chocolate ice cream. Later that week, I found flowers from my dentist waiting on my porch: yellow roses with yellow and white daisies and baby’s breath. When I told others about these things, people replied, “I can see the ice cream. But flowers? I’ve nver heard of anyone receiving flowers from their dentist.”

I grinned. “I think you just need to spend enough money. Tier one is ice cream. Tier two, and they include flowers.”

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Playin’ Favorites

Daily writing prompt
What is one question you hate to be asked? Explain.
View all responses

I so dislike questions about my favorite. I don’t care about the object: book, pie, food, beer, wine, music, movie…you get it. I don’t declare absolute favorites. I can’t speak for others but IMO, my favorites often slide along a spectrum that’s driven by mood and, or, circumstances. Sometimes memories float up and a song comes on, such as Tom Petty, “Running Down A Dream”, and I think, yes, this is my favorite song. But in another place and time, another song, such as “Us and Them” by Pink Floyd, or “Zombie” by The Cranberries or “Get It On”, is played and it strikes the note for the moment, finding a bit of sympatico with my soul.

I swing the same way with food and beverages. While I have regulars I turn to, they’re not necessarily the favorite. Same with movies — “Unforgiven”, “Bladerunner”, “This Is Spinal Tap”, “Men In Black” — and books — “Catch 22”, “Catcher In the Rye”, “Lincoln in the Bardo”, or series like the Murder Bots or Chronicles of Amber. Novels…authors…genres…

If I have an absolute favorite in anything, it’s

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Sunday’s Wandering Thoughts

My wife and I met with friends for coffee at 10:30 this morning. I ordered espresso with ice cream: an affogato.

My companions were appalled. “Ice cream, at this time of day?” they asked.

“Why not,” I retorted. “It’s time to do away with the provincial idea that ice cream can’t be consumed in the morning. I’m retired. WTF not eat ice cream in the morning with my espresso?”

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Lights Out

Light bulbs are so like cereal, ice cream, and bread. The range of choices sprawl along store aisles like invading armies staging to attack.

It’s been a period of lights out in our house. Light bulbs retired in the last several weeks all over our house. Kitchen, stove top, office, bedroom, garage, living room accent light have all been afflicted. As each burned out, I checked pulled it and checked it out for the replacement. Several of them hadn’t been replaced since being installed in 2006, when we moved in, so we got our mileage out of them. Easiest, in theory, was the office light, which had been first to go dark.

There are actually three bulbs up there. I pulled off the shade to take a look. One was burned out; one socket was empty. The third was almost an antique: 60 watts, GE, filament, frosted white. Poor thing.

“Can we get something brighter?” my wife asked. She’s had a lifetime of vision issues and compensates by turning on every light possible. When she uses the kitchen, she generally turns on four sets of lights. Yes, four. There are ceiling spotlights, under-cabinet work lights, and breakfast bar lights. The dining room is adjacent, just on the other side of the breakfast counter, so she always turns on it on to, adding the lumens from its five bulbs. There are basically 23 bulbs of different wattage going on when she’s in the kitchen.

The only one no in use alone is the sink task light. The others’ switches are clustered together, four switches under one faceplate by the kitchen’s entrance. She just spreads her fingers, flattens her palm, and hits them all, usually simultaneously click. But the sink task light is by the sink, and she forgets it. Funny, because it’s my favorite, and the one I mostly use, usually the only one I use. Just for the record, there’s also the range top lights, which are part of the hood/fan assembly attached to the microwave’s underside. She doesn’t use them. I use them when I’m cooking or to leave a light on when we’re out of the house and returning after dark.

The office required a sixty-watt bulb. Easy peasy, right? But how many Ks should it have, and lumens? I want an energy saver but of what nature? These were things that I didn’t know that I needed to know. I ended up with 60-watt comparable LED daylight white 5000K bulbs boasting of 750 lumens. Three were installed and the shade installed. Then, click.

OMG. “Wow.” My wife sounded giddy. “I can see.”

I was overwhelmed. She often accuses me of being in the dark, scolding, “How can you see in here?” Under the force of these three bulbs, I felt that sunglasses would be suitable. And they only use eight watts of power, don’t emit much heat, and should last over ten years.

“So you like them?” I facetiously asked. “Do you want them in the bedroom?”

“Yes!”

With that done to her satisfaction, I turned to the kitchen. The ceiling spotlights, all old energy-savers, issued a duller light. “Want me to install daylight bulbs in here?”

She hesitated. “They’re awfully bright.”

Screw it; I did it. Well, there are four of them. I replaced three.

“Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “I can see. Wow. This place is really dirty.”

No, it wasn’t, but she’s fond of using hyperbole like that.

“Too bright?” I asked. They were 75-watt comparable LED spotlights rated at 650 lumens and 4800K clear daylight. Yes, indeed, they were bright. They also cost about eight dollars each but would endure for almost twelve years. Their specs also claimed their use would only cost about $.016 per year. The last coaxed doubt out of me. Surely that couldn’t be right.

After those bulbs, the rest were anticlimactic. 40 watts for the range. 35-watts LED with a G8 pin base for the under-cabinet work lights. A 50-watts soft white pin mini spotlight (L9) for the living room accent installation over the fireplace, and one of the 60-watt LED bulbs (I’d purchased a ten-pack of the FEIT offering) in the garage. In all, I installed fifteen bulbs, learned a smattering more about the world of lighting, and spent about $57 in light bulbs. But I should spend less on replacements and use less energy.

We’ll see. It was so, so different from the old days of finding a small hardware section and buying almost exclusively on their wattage. Like cereal, which now has what seems like a million choices. Or bread and all of its options over wheat, grain, multi-grain, gluten-free — well, you probably know the dealio. We’ve come a long way from sliced white bread.

Or ice cream. You better know what you want when you decide to buy ice cream in a grocery store. Low fat, dairy free, gluten free, etc. That’s just a start. Then there are sizes and flavors. Prices. Or are you going to go with other options, like frozen yogurt? Options and choices can be overwhelming.

Just like when you buy light bulbs.

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Overheard

“It was cold in my house last night,” the sixty-ish man said. Dressed in a tweed cap and black fabric car coat, he and his trimmed gray beard cut a dapper image. “I had to turn on the furnace and warm the place to eat my ice cream.”

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The Ice Cream Dream

I was terribly sick in a dream. Not at first, though. First, ice cream chaos reigned. Ice cream was due to be served to people but supply issues and disorganization plagued the effort. Growing urgently angry, I stepped in to straighten everything out. The ice cream were mostly in little sealed cups. Varieties of flavors abounded. I tasted several before stepping in to fix the issues, and the ice creams were creamy and tasty. I felt I needed to step in because the incompetence on display insulted my sensibilities. Ice cream was being dropped everywhere. Melting. People were going without ice cream. That shouldn’t be, I thought. We have so much ice cream. Too much ice cream is being wasted.

I began organizing pods of people. Some were collecting the ice cream and taking them to marshaling points. Others were handing the ice cream out. Yet, people kept failing at their duties. Despite my efforts, the situation seemed as worse. I worked harder, faster, more demanding. Still no respite from the shortages and errors. The head honcho came down wanting to know the situation. I tried smoothing things over. He believed and accepted. Then he told me, “A little girl is at the front, Piper. Make sure she gets an ice cream.”

Right. I’d get right on that. I plunged my hands into a tub of ice cream cups. OMG, they were all warm. They’d all been opened, too. WTF! The honcho came back, shouting, “Where’s the ice cream for Piper?” “I’m on it,” I shouted back, then cursed, shouting, “All these ice creams have been opened. Why were they opened? Find me one that hasn’t been opened and take it up front to Piper.”

At that moment is when I began feeling sick. I rushed to a toilet, yanking my shorts down as I went. Too late; crap spilled out everywhere. The honcho came back and saw. “Oh, my, let me get someone to clean you up.” I replied, “We’re still looking for ice cream for Piper.”

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A Food Dream

Don’t recall what was going on earlier in this dream – it’s all hazy and splintered – but I reached a point where I sat down to eat. 

It was dark, with strings of colored lights overhead. I was seated at a long table with many other people. (I seemed to know them all but didn’t recognize anyone from my life.) Someone set a plate down in front of me. On it was this huge, loaded cheeseburger, along with a salad, and some onion rings. Laughing and talking with others, I took a big bite. OMG, it was so good. I was very happy.

Then, in a dream shift, eating was over. I was in another room, my wife beside me. Sitting in a little conversation nook, we were chatting with friends (no one from my rea world). My wife and I jumped up and suggested that we take their girls to get ice cream. The friends were surprised. They asked their daughters if they wanted to go. The little girls declined.

My wife and I went out and got ice cream. Sitting down on a brick wall in sunshine, we began eating, but we were disappointed that the little girls didn’t come. As I was eating my berry-flavored ice cream, I saw one of the little girls. She was inside, watching through a window. I went back in and asked her if she wanted ice cream.

The dream ended.

I was ravenous when I woke up. Still am.

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A Wrong-way Highway Dream

The highway dream began with ice cream.

Bowls of fresh ice cream covered a small table. There were different flavors and colors. As I checked the ice cream, I realized that some of it was blueberry. I thought, that would be tasty.

Mom was there, and my wife. Mom said, “There’s more ice cream in the freezer. The freezer’s not working so we need to get rid of all this ice cream because it’s going to melt.”

Get rid of ice cream? Why don’t we just eat it, or give it to people to eat?

Nobody wanted ice cream because they’d had too much ice cream. Cats and kittens came along. I scooped spoons of ice cream out for them to eat, which they did. Then I gave them a bowl.

Time to go. My wife and I got into a car. (I didn’t see the car at all in the dream but knew it as mine.) We were immediately on an broad, convoluted highway with many lanes. Traffic was heavy. Following signs, we ended up a hill along a long curve that went to the right.

I passed a man on a copper-colored motorcycle with a sidecar. He was in the right hand lane and I was in the middle lane. I thought my car had bumped him, and I worried. Trying to check, I couldn’t see the sides of my car. I couldn’t see any of the car, in fact, so I didn’t know where I was in the lane. This unnerved me.

I stepped on the accelerator to go faster. We were still going up a long, curving hill. The man in the copper motorcycle began passing us. I didn’t want that, so I pressed harder on the accelerator. Still going up the curve, we began slowing down, going slower and slower until we pulled into a place where the highway ended and stopped.

I didn’t understand. The highway had ended. How the hell did we end up here? My wife and I got out of the car to ask questions and found ourselves with others in the same situation. We’d all been following the highway but had ended up stuck here, off the highway.

We were told, “You were all going the wrong way. That’s why you’re here.”

Going the wrong way? I’d been going straight, following the road. There wasn’t any other way to go. How could that be the wrong way? And, I protested, “It doesn’t make sense. The faster that I tried to go, the slower I went.” It frustrated me.

Another man agreed, saying, “Yeah, that’s what was happening to me.”

It seemed like I could learn more up a small hill. It was a paved white cement ramp. I started that way but people told me, “Don’t go that way. If you do, they’ll arrest you.”

But I wanted to see what was going on, and I thought that going up there could help.

“No,” others kept telling me, including a woman dressed in an official-looking uniform. “If you go up there, you will be arrested.”

A few others were going up there. From what I could see, they were being taken away.

I decided not to go up there. Staying where I was wasn’t working, though. I told my wife, “Come on, let’s get back in the car.”

“Where we going?” she asked as others asked me, “Where are you going? What are you doing?”

I said, “I’m going back down there.”

“But that’s the wrong way,” everyone said.

I said, “I know. But I’m going back down there, to where the wrong way began, and figure out how to get out of here.”

People were telling me not to go there, but I was adamant. I felt, being who I am, I could go back and figure it out, and fix the problem. With my wife with me in the car, I began driving backwards back down the road.

The dream ended.

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