Discombobulated

          I’m finally starting to remember my dreams again. It’s been two months. I used to write them down first thing in the morning. I’d look outside and check the thermometer on the half-wall that reminded me of a pier. The dark-stained railroad ties had the delicious smell of creosote; and the silty DG (decomposing granite) reminded me of beach sand. It was a comfort. Made me not miss the beach so much.

          Often I’d glace through my dream journal to see if there was a pattern, or if certain people appeared over and over. My favorite part of dreaming is being reunited with old friends. When I packed to move I called Katherine to ask if I should bring my dream journals from 1985  and, because she was driving, Andrew answered her phone and advised me to bring them. “You can always throw things away later,” he said.

          So, because of the two-month gap in dream recollections, I feel like a big part of me is missing. You’d think I’d be happy then, to dream of roller skating. But it’s left me discombobulated.

          In the dream I’m skating over a bumpy, porous surface, a sort of concrete.  I’m enjoying myself but realize that this is only a dream, and that when I wake up I still won’t be able to skate.  I feel as if the message is: just because you think you can do something, you can’t.

          So I woke depressed.  I slogged through the morning.  This whole dog-walking thing has got me down.  Our walks used to be a communion with nature. Today I saw two ladies in long terry-cloth bathrobes fetching their newspapers. The one on the other side of the street, in baby blue, seemed embarrassed to be caught in such private attire, so I averted my gaze and focused on wrenching Walter from whatever he was attempting to ingest.

          But to the woman on my side of the street, in a long brown robe, I said hello. It looked like it might be a struggle for her to reach down for her paper, so I slipped in and handed it to her and saying, “Here I’ll get that for you.”   I wondered how I must look to her, with my Laker hat, big old brown jacket and thread-bare light blue jeans. I should not have worried what she thought of me because she said, “I’ve seen you walking this handsome dog before,” and extended her hand which Walter warily sniffed. 

          I’m surprised how many women have commented on what a good looking dog he is, when to me he’s such a scruffy, disheveled mutt.  Maybe it’s because his muzzle is getting white that he looks distinguished.

          The worst part of the walk of course is the pooping. Because of my  extreme aversion to carrying a bag of warm, redolent poo, as soon as Walter’s done his business, we turn and head for home.  Walks are now 15-20 minutes as opposed to 30-40 “back home.”

          Then there’s the problem of where to store the poop until Saturday, trash day.  I’d been keeping it in a heavy-duty zip-lock bag in the freezer, but, understandably, John nixed this idea. So today I bought a diaper pail.  Supposedly I won’t bowl over when I open the lid to make each deposit because of the special blue plastic bags.  We’ll see.

          The rest of the day was a blur: meeting with teachers and the Principal, about what I’m supposed to start doing next week, left me completely miffed. Thursday I’ll pick up the “rubric” of what they want me to teach to Level 3 kids – ten to twelve 4^th Graders. The goal: get them to Level 4.  Whatever the heck that means! I’ve always designed my own curriculum and often come up with ideas at the last minute.  This will be a big change but if I have enough time to play I hope I’ll be able to supplement with more interesting material, if what’s supplied is boring.

          Tomorrow, Tuesday, I’m to interview a Radiation Oncologist at 9:30 a.m. This time I must keep to the questions the magazine wants me to ask and not get sidetracked.  I better get a good night’s sleep. No discouraging dreams, please!