The Wormlips Scrapbook

I dreamed last night that a Catholic priest interviewed me to evaluate how good a person I am. His decision: 3.2 on a scale of 5. I defended myself, pointing out that I am thoughtful, compassionate, honest, generous… “Yes, but you’re not Catholic. You’re not even religious.”

He also read some of my writing, declaring that it has potential except that it doesn’t make any sense.

I had just remodeled my living room when lava started seeping in through the base of the front wall. Within seconds a grey, steaming, bubbling skin had covered the floor leaving only tiny bare patches of oak. Suddenly I realized: Damn, I shouldn’t have turned on that lava machine!, which I guess was a feature of my remodel — maybe a cutting-edge, green way to heat my floors? I went to flip off the switch but nothing happened: more lava. I had nowhere to stand, and it was totally wrecking the finish.

As I write, again and again I keep hearing footsteps clomping up to my front door and then receding. I hypothesize that they belong to political activists who are reading the sign I put out there:

No soliciting, no matter how worthy your cause. Thank you.

Yesterday Stella and I got our shots, for rabies and flu, respectively. I didn’t really need that “respectively,” did I?

I’m feeling increasingly guilty about leaving her for so long. She’s getting mopey and hiding in corners a lot. So when she looked longingly at the toys on the shelf at the pet food store, I had to indulge her. I didn’t buy her this…

But she really wanted this one stuffed pig. She really did. I could tell. I thought it might comfort her while I’m gone. Notice that the first thing Stella does, once left alone with the pig, is to sniff its floral butt.

By the way, Polly Piggy is “created for interactive play” (as opposed to other dog toys) and is also a “really tough toy but still vulnerable.” It floats, and comes with the promise that it will be my dog’s “best friend and companion for hours of fun and enjoyment.” Here’s Polly five minutes later.

I had my first bone-rattling pre-travel anxiety dream last night.

Some nerdy guy in his forties was in a motel room near mine, packing for our rafting trip that was to leave that morning. He was rolling up a big scrolling paper that looked sort of like the Torah. It’s homework Mom wants me to do while I’m gone. Look.

I unfurled the infinite list of word problems, none of which made any sense. Go on. Try one, he urged.

I unrolled the list further. How about this one? I asked, pointing. No, not that. The words in the middle are too big. Pick another.

Every time I made another choice he told me it was wrong, and got increasingly frustrated with me: I told you. You can’t do that kind of problem.

Unbeknownst to me, the rest of our rafting group had gathered half a mile downhill for a sumptuous breakfast. Their bags were fully packed and rafting supplies had been doled out by the crew. By the time I arrived the food was almost gone. I put the few remaining scrawny pancakes on my plate. They turned out to be chocolate chip cookies, but I lost my plate before I could eat any.

The bus rolled in. I hadn’t packed. I ran back up the hill to my motel room to try to organize. The scene was a lot worse than this:

I started jamming random things in my bag: two sleeping bags, two pairs of quick-drying travel underwear, two sleeping pads, a handful of pills from unmarked bottles. I knew I was out of control and that I would never get everything into my duffel in time, and that whatever was in there would be all the wrong stuff. Trekking poles instead of a bathing suit.

Someone walked by my room and watched me at work for a second before asking Are you going on that river rafting trip, because your bus just left.

I woke up just as I was trying in panic to negotiate a solution with the woman at the rafting office, a vocal Sarah Palin supporter.

I began: I know it’s my fault, but…

Yes, it is your fault, she confirmed.

Back to reality, where I think Stella has started to suspect I’m leaving her.

I am going to miss her terribly the next seven weeks. I take her to be dogsat in four days.

P.S. Richard suggested I use bigger thumbnails in this blog so I’ve been inching (actually, pixeling) them ever bigger in the last few posts. What do you think of this size?