On Thursday, I momentarily considered having my mom pick up a package at the post office. We decided that she would not make the attempt. She was worried about not having the orange postcard notification thingy.
The package in question was addressed to Genius. We were all busy after school, so I figured it would have to wait until Friday. Mom changed her mind, and popped in later that afternoon.
"I know you probably won't give it to me because I don't have the card...but my daughter wanted me to pick up a package for her today." Mom gave him my name. A woman's name. Not the name on the package address.
The man behind the counter smiled. "Oh, she called." He disappeared into the back room. "Here it is." He handed Mom Genius's package. No request for ID. No signature. Just shoved that package, a fancy schmancy camera lens, across the counter to her.
Let the record show that I most certainly did NOT call the post office. I was working, by cracky. The last time I called a post office was to report kids pooping and wiping their butts on their underwear, and stuffing it into specific mailboxes, and bragging about it. That's a federal offense, you know. And for all my trouble trying to be an upstanding snitch and flag-waving citizen and a concerned villager trying to raise responsible children, I was given the runaround. The post office I called did not want to take a report because the address of the poopy-underwear receivers was served by the post office in the next county. So much for federal offenses.
Anyhoo...that federal employee was flat-out lying. I suppose my mother herself could have called him, and pretended to be me, and described herself, and said that I wanted her to pick up that package.
Here's what irks me. The last time I went to that post office, the dead-mouse-smelling one, and waited until the metal curtain was raised after the lunch shut-down, I was read the riot act. Even though I had my orange postcard notification thingy, and the clerk commented to me that I usually send in my sons to pick up the packages (so obviously she knew me), she told me that I needed identification. Since there was a line, and I had waited ten minutes for lunch to conclude, she did not send me out to the car to get it. But she chastised me in front of that lined-up audience.
I refrained from giving her the "I pay your salary, you are here to serve me" speech. I have public-servanted myself, so I didn't go there. Because I'm classy like that. But she ticked me off. Doubly so, in retrospect, because her colleague, Mr. I Never Met A Stranger I Didn't Hand A Package To, has no qualms about fabricating details to enable potential fraudsters to get their meat-hooks on my mail-order merchandise.
What we're looking at here is a failure to consistently regulate.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Tipping the Right Fantastic
Ah...the conundrum that is the elder generation.
My mother is a giving old gal. She appreciates any little kindness shown to her. If she takes my sister and me out to lunch, she calls later to thank US for a wonderful time. If an old friend offhandedly mentions that she loves my mother's fudge, Mom whips up a batch and drives thirty miles to deliver it. Even though the recipient is not supposed to have fudge. When she has to call me at school about twice a year, she bends over backwards to thank the secretary. Which brings us to today's tale.
Genius was expecting a package to arrive at the post office Thursday. It contained a precious camera lens that he was itching to experiment with. Unfortunately, that was the day of the first meeting of the Academic Team. Genius and The Pony attended. I left school as soon as contractually possible to run errands two towns over. Genius planned to leave the meeting by 4:00, whether it was over or not, in order to dash into the post office before the 4:30 closing time.
I mentioned the predicament to Mom Thursday morning. Sometimes she will pick up packages for us. I knew she had a doctor's appointment that day, but wondered if she could stop by on her way back through our town. Mom was concerned that she did not have time to get the orange package notification card from me. I told her not to worry, that Genius had an alternate plan. Thanks anyway.
Seventh hour, the school secretary called to say that my mom was on the line, and she was transferring the call. Mom had picked up the package, a story for tomorrow's blog, and was planning to drop if off right after the final bell.
Friday morning, Mom told me that she would be running over to school to give the secretary a little gift for being so accommodating. She was fresh out of Chex Mix, the bartering tool of choice, but had a chippy alternative. I told her that was thoughtful, but not necessary. That transferring that call was kind of what the job of school secretary entails. That this employee is paid a plum salary, with benefits, for doing that very thing. All day long. For many people. Not that I begrudge her a special treat. She is pleasant and efficient and very good at her vocation. Fantastic, actually. A better individual we could not possibly find to run that office.
But Mom insisted. She drove over and delivered the treat. The mutual admiration society kicked into high gear, and I heard the details of the exchange separately from both sides. It was a real feel-good story. But here's the thing: Mom will not tip a waitress to subsidize a living wage. No matter how fantastic the service.
Every time we go out, Mom leaves a tip of two dollars. No matter what the establishment. No matter what the service. No matter what the bill. Two dollars. And she thinks she is being kind. Generous. Doing the right thing. I would never tell her that she's not. It would hurt her feelings. Embarrass her. But it would not changer her tipping ways. Two dollars. No matter how much I explain that waitstaff do not even earn minimum wage. That they are expected to garner the difference in tips. And that they have to pay income tax on the minimum wage, even if they don't earn that much.
Mom doesn't understand that, in effect, she is heaping extras upon one individual for simply doing her job, for which she is well-compensated...and neglecting one who does extra, like bringing a plate of pickles to the table for no charge, who skillfully treads the line between hovering and neglect, between friendly banter and smarmy solicitousness, all in hopes of upping her salary to minimum wage status.
The elderly. So generous. Yet so clueless.
My mother is a giving old gal. She appreciates any little kindness shown to her. If she takes my sister and me out to lunch, she calls later to thank US for a wonderful time. If an old friend offhandedly mentions that she loves my mother's fudge, Mom whips up a batch and drives thirty miles to deliver it. Even though the recipient is not supposed to have fudge. When she has to call me at school about twice a year, she bends over backwards to thank the secretary. Which brings us to today's tale.
Genius was expecting a package to arrive at the post office Thursday. It contained a precious camera lens that he was itching to experiment with. Unfortunately, that was the day of the first meeting of the Academic Team. Genius and The Pony attended. I left school as soon as contractually possible to run errands two towns over. Genius planned to leave the meeting by 4:00, whether it was over or not, in order to dash into the post office before the 4:30 closing time.
I mentioned the predicament to Mom Thursday morning. Sometimes she will pick up packages for us. I knew she had a doctor's appointment that day, but wondered if she could stop by on her way back through our town. Mom was concerned that she did not have time to get the orange package notification card from me. I told her not to worry, that Genius had an alternate plan. Thanks anyway.
Seventh hour, the school secretary called to say that my mom was on the line, and she was transferring the call. Mom had picked up the package, a story for tomorrow's blog, and was planning to drop if off right after the final bell.
Friday morning, Mom told me that she would be running over to school to give the secretary a little gift for being so accommodating. She was fresh out of Chex Mix, the bartering tool of choice, but had a chippy alternative. I told her that was thoughtful, but not necessary. That transferring that call was kind of what the job of school secretary entails. That this employee is paid a plum salary, with benefits, for doing that very thing. All day long. For many people. Not that I begrudge her a special treat. She is pleasant and efficient and very good at her vocation. Fantastic, actually. A better individual we could not possibly find to run that office.
But Mom insisted. She drove over and delivered the treat. The mutual admiration society kicked into high gear, and I heard the details of the exchange separately from both sides. It was a real feel-good story. But here's the thing: Mom will not tip a waitress to subsidize a living wage. No matter how fantastic the service.
Every time we go out, Mom leaves a tip of two dollars. No matter what the establishment. No matter what the service. No matter what the bill. Two dollars. And she thinks she is being kind. Generous. Doing the right thing. I would never tell her that she's not. It would hurt her feelings. Embarrass her. But it would not changer her tipping ways. Two dollars. No matter how much I explain that waitstaff do not even earn minimum wage. That they are expected to garner the difference in tips. And that they have to pay income tax on the minimum wage, even if they don't earn that much.
Mom doesn't understand that, in effect, she is heaping extras upon one individual for simply doing her job, for which she is well-compensated...and neglecting one who does extra, like bringing a plate of pickles to the table for no charge, who skillfully treads the line between hovering and neglect, between friendly banter and smarmy solicitousness, all in hopes of upping her salary to minimum wage status.
The elderly. So generous. Yet so clueless.
Friday, September 28, 2012
When Strangers Attract
Good thing I don't wear a watch. The unbridled magnetic force flowing from my pores might gum up the works. I could derail a maglev train. That stands for magnetic levitation, for those of you not in the scientific know. But we're not here to discuss timekeeping gadgets and speeding locomotives. We're here to learn about Val's latest suitor encountered in a retail setting.
No, it was not a woman who stroked my arm and told me I was SO PRETTY. Nor was it a man who tried to hand me a wad of cash at the grocery-bagging counter. Nor a man on the parking lot telling me about his upcoming supper of spaghetti and salad, the ingredients which his brother was gathering from inside the store while my suitor waited in the car.
The location for this illicit tryst was...um...let's just call it Voice of the Village. The convenience store where I sometimes get my 44 oz. Diet Cokes for free, because I have connections. This being Friday, the official start of the weekend, I was treating myself to the magical elixir after a trying day in the trenches, teaching freshmen on school picture day, and shopping at Walmart with every other yayhoo in the dang county.
As I walked to the front door, a spring in my step and a styrofoam cup for refill in my hand, a tall light stranger followed me. I held the door open a smidge after entering. He thanked me. And followed me to the soda-dispensing wall, where he broke the ice. Not literally. That cube dispenser has been inoperable for at least a month. Crushed is the way to go. Small talk ensued upon our mutual fillage, his being a meager 32-ouncer. Lightweight. I could not discern whether he was a lonely, out-of-town stranger looking to pick up a woman for his Friday night, or a friendly gay guy. Let the record show that I go about my daily life unencumbered by my wedding ring, but that I do not look like a dude.
"Gotta have the styrofoam cup here in the summer."
"Yes. I was here every day this summer for a refill."
"I wish I could have been here every day."
"Well, I'm a teacher. So I had the summer off. But I'm paying for it now."
"I live in Webster Groves. But my heart is here. I have a farm and a horse."
"Oh. We just have goats and chickens."
"Are goats hard?"
"No. But they eat everything. Even the bark off the trees."
"You don't have trouble with coyotes eating them?"
"No! They're indestructible. We had one give birth to triplets, and nothing ate them."
"Do they eat cedars?"
"Oh, yeah! They'll eat the bark clean off."
"I have issues with cedars. I was five when I rode my first pony. It wasn't mine. My dad said, "Jump on if you think you can ride it." And I did. And that led to me getting my own horse. I had to clear a field, and build a hay barn. Those cedars are hard to keep out of a field. The conservation department talked my mom and dad into starting a Christmas tree farm, with a plot of cedars. I have thirty acres."
"We have twenty together, and another ten up the road. My grandma and uncle used to have a Scotch Pine Christmas tree farm. My uncle worked for the conservation department. Goats will eat up small cedars, and strip that bark off the bigger ones. Then you can cut them and use them for posts!"
"That sounds like a good idea. I saw some goats grazing from the highway, up by the sawmill."
"They'll clear things out. That's for sure."
My stimulating conversation had to end when the clerk finished up with the old lady ahead of me. She kind of looked like Tweety's grandma. Bluish hair. Tiny thing. After paying, I turned around, and my new suitor had left the line behind me, and was perusing the chip aisle.
I'm not sure what to make of him. He didn't even say goodbye.
No, it was not a woman who stroked my arm and told me I was SO PRETTY. Nor was it a man who tried to hand me a wad of cash at the grocery-bagging counter. Nor a man on the parking lot telling me about his upcoming supper of spaghetti and salad, the ingredients which his brother was gathering from inside the store while my suitor waited in the car.
The location for this illicit tryst was...um...let's just call it Voice of the Village. The convenience store where I sometimes get my 44 oz. Diet Cokes for free, because I have connections. This being Friday, the official start of the weekend, I was treating myself to the magical elixir after a trying day in the trenches, teaching freshmen on school picture day, and shopping at Walmart with every other yayhoo in the dang county.
As I walked to the front door, a spring in my step and a styrofoam cup for refill in my hand, a tall light stranger followed me. I held the door open a smidge after entering. He thanked me. And followed me to the soda-dispensing wall, where he broke the ice. Not literally. That cube dispenser has been inoperable for at least a month. Crushed is the way to go. Small talk ensued upon our mutual fillage, his being a meager 32-ouncer. Lightweight. I could not discern whether he was a lonely, out-of-town stranger looking to pick up a woman for his Friday night, or a friendly gay guy. Let the record show that I go about my daily life unencumbered by my wedding ring, but that I do not look like a dude.
"Gotta have the styrofoam cup here in the summer."
"Yes. I was here every day this summer for a refill."
"I wish I could have been here every day."
"Well, I'm a teacher. So I had the summer off. But I'm paying for it now."
"I live in Webster Groves. But my heart is here. I have a farm and a horse."
"Oh. We just have goats and chickens."
"Are goats hard?"
"No. But they eat everything. Even the bark off the trees."
"You don't have trouble with coyotes eating them?"
"No! They're indestructible. We had one give birth to triplets, and nothing ate them."
"Do they eat cedars?"
"Oh, yeah! They'll eat the bark clean off."
"I have issues with cedars. I was five when I rode my first pony. It wasn't mine. My dad said, "Jump on if you think you can ride it." And I did. And that led to me getting my own horse. I had to clear a field, and build a hay barn. Those cedars are hard to keep out of a field. The conservation department talked my mom and dad into starting a Christmas tree farm, with a plot of cedars. I have thirty acres."
"We have twenty together, and another ten up the road. My grandma and uncle used to have a Scotch Pine Christmas tree farm. My uncle worked for the conservation department. Goats will eat up small cedars, and strip that bark off the bigger ones. Then you can cut them and use them for posts!"
"That sounds like a good idea. I saw some goats grazing from the highway, up by the sawmill."
"They'll clear things out. That's for sure."
My stimulating conversation had to end when the clerk finished up with the old lady ahead of me. She kind of looked like Tweety's grandma. Bluish hair. Tiny thing. After paying, I turned around, and my new suitor had left the line behind me, and was perusing the chip aisle.
I'm not sure what to make of him. He didn't even say goodbye.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
It Was a Dark and Stormy Morn
Wednesday morning, while traveling to school in the black-skied downpour, The Pony and I saw an intriguing sight.
Our route takes us by a cemetery. It abuts the road. There's a part on top of a rolling hill, and a newer part that slopes toward the river, with a mausoleum. Every now and then I drive through, when I'm alone. My dad is buried there. You can't see him from the road.
But what you CAN see from the road is the cemetery office. And what The Pony and I saw on that thunderstormy morning, through intermittent flashes of lightning, was a dark man. He slouched against the door. Like one of those wooden cowboy cutouts. Maybe you don't have them in the city. Dark man silhouettes, or those cowboy cutouts. I'm sure he was just another road-walker, caught in the downpour, looking to avoid the sluicing rainwater for a few minutes. But it was creepy to catch him out the corner of my eye. Of course I called his attention to The Pony. Why should I be the only one with nightmares?
It would have been better if it was a road woman. One who looked like a bent-over, flowered-dress, yard lady flaunting her ample rumpus. She even has a name, you know. Backside Lady. And her measurements are 38, 26, 1/2. She would not have scared me, lurking there in the dark doorway of the cemetery office. Something like that would have given my dad a good laugh. He's the kind of guy who would ask for a Backside Lady to be placed on his cemetery plot. So you COULD see him from the road. And just to make people laugh.
I got my sense of humor, walking that tightrope between socially acceptable and terribly inappropriate, from him. Much to my mom's chagrin.
Our route takes us by a cemetery. It abuts the road. There's a part on top of a rolling hill, and a newer part that slopes toward the river, with a mausoleum. Every now and then I drive through, when I'm alone. My dad is buried there. You can't see him from the road.
But what you CAN see from the road is the cemetery office. And what The Pony and I saw on that thunderstormy morning, through intermittent flashes of lightning, was a dark man. He slouched against the door. Like one of those wooden cowboy cutouts. Maybe you don't have them in the city. Dark man silhouettes, or those cowboy cutouts. I'm sure he was just another road-walker, caught in the downpour, looking to avoid the sluicing rainwater for a few minutes. But it was creepy to catch him out the corner of my eye. Of course I called his attention to The Pony. Why should I be the only one with nightmares?
It would have been better if it was a road woman. One who looked like a bent-over, flowered-dress, yard lady flaunting her ample rumpus. She even has a name, you know. Backside Lady. And her measurements are 38, 26, 1/2. She would not have scared me, lurking there in the dark doorway of the cemetery office. Something like that would have given my dad a good laugh. He's the kind of guy who would ask for a Backside Lady to be placed on his cemetery plot. So you COULD see him from the road. And just to make people laugh.
I got my sense of humor, walking that tightrope between socially acceptable and terribly inappropriate, from him. Much to my mom's chagrin.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
If Nothing Else, I Have a New Routine for My Standup Act
I have just now dried out from a morning drenching.
The Pony and I had to pull over on the way to school because I could not see through the deluge. Lightning darted from sky to ground like a lizard's tongue to a tasty insect. My cold, cold heart melted long enough to pull up to the back door of the school so The Pony could enter without waterlogging. First, I made him get an umbrella out of the back of the Tahoe for me. He leaned over the back seat and grabbed one. Silly me. I didn't look at it until I had driven back down to the end of the row to park.
It was the lesser babka of umbrellas. I have a nice golf-style umbrella that has only been used a handful of times. The oneThe Pony left me was the red and royal blue alternating panel umbrella that no longer shoots open when the button is pushed. You have to shake it, like your fist at an angry mob. Then it slides open on its own sweet time. Oh, and the fabric is ripped from one of the metal spike thingies. So there's a gap in the canopy, and a flapping swatch of nylon.
I bravely opened my car door and put out the umbrella. Pushed the button. Waited for it to unfurl. Rain sluiced down my arm like I was standing at the base of Niagara Falls. I started the long walk to the building. I felt like a cartoon pink hippo in a purple polka dot skirt, pirouetting in ballet slippers while holding a dainty parasol. Let's just say that Chris Farley's "fat man in a little coat" routine had nothing on my "immense woman under a miniscule bumbershoot" routine.
Let the record show that I did not have on a purple polka dot skirt, nor ballet slippers, and that no actual pirouetting was involved.
The Pony and I had to pull over on the way to school because I could not see through the deluge. Lightning darted from sky to ground like a lizard's tongue to a tasty insect. My cold, cold heart melted long enough to pull up to the back door of the school so The Pony could enter without waterlogging. First, I made him get an umbrella out of the back of the Tahoe for me. He leaned over the back seat and grabbed one. Silly me. I didn't look at it until I had driven back down to the end of the row to park.
It was the lesser babka of umbrellas. I have a nice golf-style umbrella that has only been used a handful of times. The oneThe Pony left me was the red and royal blue alternating panel umbrella that no longer shoots open when the button is pushed. You have to shake it, like your fist at an angry mob. Then it slides open on its own sweet time. Oh, and the fabric is ripped from one of the metal spike thingies. So there's a gap in the canopy, and a flapping swatch of nylon.
I bravely opened my car door and put out the umbrella. Pushed the button. Waited for it to unfurl. Rain sluiced down my arm like I was standing at the base of Niagara Falls. I started the long walk to the building. I felt like a cartoon pink hippo in a purple polka dot skirt, pirouetting in ballet slippers while holding a dainty parasol. Let's just say that Chris Farley's "fat man in a little coat" routine had nothing on my "immense woman under a miniscule bumbershoot" routine.
Let the record show that I did not have on a purple polka dot skirt, nor ballet slippers, and that no actual pirouetting was involved.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
The Barest Peace Treaty
Stop the presses! Hold the phone! Mark the calendar! Do you hear that?
It's the sound of brotherly love! Philadelphia ain't got nothin' on Backroads tonight. My boys are playing a game of pool. That's right. The seventeen-year-old is not beating the stuffing out of the fourteen-year-old with his flapping lips and sharp tongue. Any whoopin' to be done will be a thrashing in the sports arena. And I don't mean a Marquis of Queensbury contest.
I am itching to join them. But I won't. I don't want to horn in on the male bonding. On Thursday, they both have to attend the school Academic Team meeting. And I need for Genius to drive The Pony home after it's over. I don't want to spoil the broth of measured indifference that is currently simmering on the front burner.
This lack of animosity has been a long time coming. It seems like only yesterday that Genius was slapping the downy head of The Pony as he practiced his new sitting-up skill, shouting, "Baby Smacky! Baby Smacky!" as The Pony slowly succumbed to gravity and face-planted into the carpet. Or splitting The Pony's head open in a rousing round of tug-o-war over a red terrycloth bathrobe belt four sizes too small.
Ah. Good times. Kids don't stay little long.
The pool tournament has since ended. The Pony whispered to me that he was the actual winner, because Genius sank the 8-ball before its time. He knows better than to gloat.
As far as I can tell, the truce is still in effect.
It's the sound of brotherly love! Philadelphia ain't got nothin' on Backroads tonight. My boys are playing a game of pool. That's right. The seventeen-year-old is not beating the stuffing out of the fourteen-year-old with his flapping lips and sharp tongue. Any whoopin' to be done will be a thrashing in the sports arena. And I don't mean a Marquis of Queensbury contest.
I am itching to join them. But I won't. I don't want to horn in on the male bonding. On Thursday, they both have to attend the school Academic Team meeting. And I need for Genius to drive The Pony home after it's over. I don't want to spoil the broth of measured indifference that is currently simmering on the front burner.
This lack of animosity has been a long time coming. It seems like only yesterday that Genius was slapping the downy head of The Pony as he practiced his new sitting-up skill, shouting, "Baby Smacky! Baby Smacky!" as The Pony slowly succumbed to gravity and face-planted into the carpet. Or splitting The Pony's head open in a rousing round of tug-o-war over a red terrycloth bathrobe belt four sizes too small.
Ah. Good times. Kids don't stay little long.
The pool tournament has since ended. The Pony whispered to me that he was the actual winner, because Genius sank the 8-ball before its time. He knows better than to gloat.
As far as I can tell, the truce is still in effect.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Attn: Mr. Sandman. That's DREAM. Not team.
I usually awake tireder than when I went to bed. Five hours of sleep is about my average during the week. That's plenty. As long as I don't exert myself too much in my dream life.
For the past month, I have been playing Big Brother. The people in my dreams are different than those on the show. But I am still involved in scheming and skullduggery. Now that the finale has aired, my Big Brother dreams have settled down. Fallen by the wayside. Evicted themselves right out of my head. Until next July.
Before those Big Brother dreams, I had the school dreams. I'm sure they will start up again. Many years ago, when I was a coach, and still single, I dreamed that two of my basketball players broke into my townhouse. They banged on the door until they broke it down, ran up the stairs to my bedroom, shook me awake, and demanded, "Who's starting tomorrow night?" It was quite vivid. I could have sworn they were really there. It was probably my crazy neighbor's Navy SEAL son home to visit who made all the thumping noises to start that sleepytime scenario.
Last week, I had a doozy of a dream. I wasn't doing much of anything. Just looking at a diagram. A black and white diagram printed on a fold-out, rectangular piece of paper. It was a schematic drawing of a 1950s style long canister-shaped vacuum cleaner. The schematic did not show all of the attachments. Merely a hose with a standard flat end, a handle on top of the canister, and lines with labels pointing to the main parts.
I tried to Google canister vacuum cleaners. The first image that came up was how my schematic looked. But Google showed way too many parts. And the shape of the vacuum was all wrong. Why would I have a vacuum in my dream? I surely wasn't using it. Am I meant to clean up after Mr. Sandman? Get rid of the dreams before I wake, so I feel refreshed? Or is it something more sinister?
I think, perhaps, my subconscious is trying to tell me that I suck. And I'm old.
For the past month, I have been playing Big Brother. The people in my dreams are different than those on the show. But I am still involved in scheming and skullduggery. Now that the finale has aired, my Big Brother dreams have settled down. Fallen by the wayside. Evicted themselves right out of my head. Until next July.
Before those Big Brother dreams, I had the school dreams. I'm sure they will start up again. Many years ago, when I was a coach, and still single, I dreamed that two of my basketball players broke into my townhouse. They banged on the door until they broke it down, ran up the stairs to my bedroom, shook me awake, and demanded, "Who's starting tomorrow night?" It was quite vivid. I could have sworn they were really there. It was probably my crazy neighbor's Navy SEAL son home to visit who made all the thumping noises to start that sleepytime scenario.
Last week, I had a doozy of a dream. I wasn't doing much of anything. Just looking at a diagram. A black and white diagram printed on a fold-out, rectangular piece of paper. It was a schematic drawing of a 1950s style long canister-shaped vacuum cleaner. The schematic did not show all of the attachments. Merely a hose with a standard flat end, a handle on top of the canister, and lines with labels pointing to the main parts.
I tried to Google canister vacuum cleaners. The first image that came up was how my schematic looked. But Google showed way too many parts. And the shape of the vacuum was all wrong. Why would I have a vacuum in my dream? I surely wasn't using it. Am I meant to clean up after Mr. Sandman? Get rid of the dreams before I wake, so I feel refreshed? Or is it something more sinister?
I think, perhaps, my subconscious is trying to tell me that I suck. And I'm old.
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