My sleep was full of dreams. At least these ones were somewhat funny. I dreamed that I got a new job, at some kind of ice cream shop, running a cash register which worked without money. I love dream physics. My new boss called me away from my task to make me stir a goopy ice cream concoction. I had to stir it with the lid from a tupperware container. Really substandard. I turned to her and announced that I was not hired to do that, and I wouldn't be doing jobs that I wasn't being paid to do. This is when I realized that the part of "boss" was being played in my dream by the woman who, in real life, was my supervisor at my last "real" job a few years back. She was the one who gasped in horror when I told her I wasn't being paid enough to load the dishwasher when I was supposed to be on cash. Like, dishwasher or cash. Not both. Uniform or scrubs, what's it gonna be? There's only one of me. I developed a real minimum wage attitude problem. So in my dream I just let her have it, only because it was a dream. I was incredibly witty and clever about the whole thing.
Darn I wish I could remember what I said. In my dream, I got into my car, which was a bright yellow VW NewBeetle, and escaped from the wet grey pavement strip mall world. The clutch was so hard to push in that I had to take a deep breath before I shoved my left foot down on it. Also the gear shift was like a crazy Rat Fink shifter; I had to reach up over my head to get it. Man, it was exhausting. I was so tired by the time I got to my dream-home (which may have been a trailer, I mean there's no logic to dream-physics) to see dream-Jethro. I told him I quit my job. He said, "Right on! Was it a good quit?"
"It was an awesome quit!" I sank down into my dream-couch and told him, word for word, about the triumphant quit. And now I can't remember my victory speech.
All that backtalk and sass took a lot out of me. To make matters even worse, it all morphed into that recurring dream that the horses opened the gate and were wandering around in the barn yard and down the laneway. I had to walk down all of those dream-horses and chase them back into the corral, and then get a chain and clasp to close the gate, but the chain kept unwinding and the clasp kept unclasping, so I had to do it over and over. I woke up feeling like I'd been working all night.
Truth is, I put in a long day at the studio the day before. By the time we got to bed it was Stupid o' Clock. This morning I got up, made sure everybody else was up, fed the critters, ate my breakfast at the dining room table with my giant light box shining several thousand megawatts of simulated sunshine into my eyes (I'll tell you about that too, later) after which I slunk back into bed. It was around 9 am. I flaked out on everybody. I checked out. My neighbour came to the door looking for her walking buddy, meaning me, and ended up taking just my dog instead. I know, my neighbours are awesome.
I woke up around 11 but it took me another... hour? to actually get out of bed. It was like magnets were holding me there, but in reality it was just the critters. They breathe sleep on me. Some day I will get my son, the 12 yr old scientist, to prove that cats and dogs actually do have a special chemical in their exhalations that lulls humans to sleep.
And they were soooo warm. Nigel, the ancient little-old-man-cat, can still generate a good amount of body heat, despite his shrinking body. He was curled up at my shoulder, almost under my chin. I used to be so grossed out by the thought of having a cat on my pillow. That's what growing up on a farm will do to you. Never let the outdoor dirt end up in your bed!!! But none of those barn cats ever lived to be nineteen years old. I only personally know of one cat who made it to that age, and he was also a black cat. They are lucky; don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise. Nigel's sleep inducing powers have increased over the years. He's perfected it and loves to show off his superior sleep skills.
Just for making it to age 19 he's allowed to sleep on my pillow. He's allowed to do pretty much anything he wants now. I don't know how much time I've got with him anymore, so he can sleep on my forehead if he wants to.
The pug somehow ended up on my bed, even though he can't jump high enough to get there on his own. Oh he is good at sleeping... and he is warm... he curled up behind my knees and got busy with the snoring.
How could I resist?
There are a lot of things I SHOULD be doing. I feel guilty almost daily for not having a "real job." I have to be reminded regularly by my husband that we talked about this. Working at real job means less time for the training needed to pass my riding tests and get my Instructor's certificate. It also means less time with the kids. They still need one parent who does not put in 15 hour work days. Jethro repeats what he said years ago when I quit: "If you keep working there, you're never going to get that book finished, and I really want you to be able to finish it."
I know. My husband is awesome.
I feel guilty for not earning a much-needed income. We talk it out and it keeps coming back to doing what we're doing: live cheap, do without luxuries, and buy everything used, or pick it up off the side of the road when someone else is done with it.
But I still feel guilty for going back to bed while he's out there working for a living. You know, I might feel guilty because it's raining today. Maybe that's just my problem.
Tomorrow, it'll all be different.
It'll be big round hay bale, barn chores, housecleaning, and an afternoon with the piano tuner. Then it's bank, library, dinner, piano lessons. Somewhere in there I need to write. Then Friday, it's back to the studio, where I'll be filling the truck box with another load for the dump. I can guarantee it'll be a long day at the studio. There's no such thing as a short day.
I really relished that quiet morning nap with my doggencat.