There were wasps flying outside the garage, in formation, orange and black. The garage and side doors were open and small lad was running down the driveway towards me. I put my hand up to stop him, my voice frozen, circuits jammed. Husbandly was standing behind me. The wasps flew past the open side door, diverted by something outside. Small lad came into the garage to look at what Dad was holding - a friendly duck wrapped in a towel. The duck was happy to be with us, a smile sensed (since ducks can't smile, can they?), nice and warm inside the towel. As I looked at him I saw the wasp-maggots on his feathers. He was a diversion. I turned to look out the side door again and the wall in front of me disappeared; the walls behind me changed to a deep golden cream colour with a white trim, the wasps outside, four, five, six of them flying straight for me. As the walls changed behind me, the wasps veered away, unable to attack in the reflected golden light; husbandly woke me up to offer me a cup of tea.
We have wasp issues. There is a nest somewhere near the bathroom window and every now and then (okay, it's only twice so far), I've found a wasp in the bath after I've cleaned. Bees don't bother me at all, I'll happily stand still if a bee is crawling on me. I've scored plenty of bee stings, particularly when I was a kid and went barefoot just about everywhere. Wasps, ick. For some reason we keep getting nest attempts on the front door as well - quickly killed off but after ten years of it, it's annoying. I've never been stung by a wasp, which is why I'm creeped out by the whole notion of wasps.
Back to the dreaming, I don't always get the wake up call from husbandly or small lad; if I'm deep enough I go back to sleep and barely remember dreams unless they are somehow important.
In another, I was sprawled on the lounge reading a book while small lad was playing in his room with a friend. For some reason my hackles were up - I didn't know who the other child was - when both boys came out of small lad's room. The unknown boy came first and my stomach went cold and creepy; there was something wrong about him being in our house. He had blue eyes and blonde hair and a gorgeous smile; but he wasn't supposed to be here. Then someone knocked on the door four times (the heartbeat of a Time Lord?) and I was relieved. Thank God, that will be the police, I thought, so I opened the door, ready to welcome them in when the words died and my mouth hung open. At the door was a lady with a scarf over her head, wrapped completely around her head so I couldn't see her face, facing away from me and turning slowly in my direction - I woke up, heart pounding, since I don't want to be anybody's blue-eyed girl, Mrs Death.
While I'm freaked out about the door knocking - it was so clear, so concise somehow, even if Death was shorter than me - no, I'm freaked about that dream. I think I know that child from somewhere, so whatever freaky thing I'm processing in that one, it's freaky. Unlike the last time I dreamed knocking on my door, this one has me unsettled. The vivid patterning on the scarf, the slow turn of her face toward me, ponderous and unstoppable, until I woke up.
I'm at work at the minute and it has been a very quiet night (yes! I said the Q word!). I'm too scared to move near the stock fridge since it keeps hitting 5.5 degrees and therefore setting off nearly every alarm in the place. Or rather, two alarms, and nowhere near as loud as the oxygen depletion alarm from the BMT lab (that's a horror).
I've had a very full five days off. There was housework. There was shopping for birthday presents. There was an appointment with a hairdresser. There was a christening and birthday party. There was more shopping, this time at Ikea. There was building of furniture. Okay I'm going to stop this half-arsed list.
I went home and crashed out completely last Wednesday, having had the wasp dream on Sunday and meaning to put it in here. Ha! After spending Saturday night reading a book, Sunday through to Wednesday morning was amazingly busy. If it wasn't a bleeding patient, it was an antibody, or just volume of work. Come to think of it, the only thing I didn't have was a transfusion reaction.
So! On Wednesday morning I crawl into my bed, thinking of nothing more than picking up small lad from school, then coming straight home to catch some more z's; oops, I'd forgotten his haircut appointment. I manage to stagger around for the afternoon. I think I made it to about seven in the evening and out like a light. I slept until about two, then surprisingly (surprising to me anyway) went back to sleep until six. Oh bliss.
On Thursday there was housework. Enough said. Small lad and I went to get some veggies for dinner after school and, standing in the "food court" (no it isn't), I talked myself into a hair appointment for Friday, because this going to work and coming home and going to work and coming home is getting a bit dull. With some trepidation, because I have never come out of a hairdressers utterly pleased with my haircut. Until last Friday. Talk about awesome. Three hours later, I have a marvellous colour (not blue, maybe next time) and when we got to the end (because I did so much, sitting there, watching everyone else's haircuts, reading my book and blissed out on the head massage), R. (the BEST hairdresser in the WORLD) says "I could straighten it out, or I could do...what I want to do, and give it some body." "Go on," I say, "I'll let you." Am I glad I did? Or rather, he did? You couldn't have wiped the smile off my face with a sandblaster. Or a grinder. What an awful mental image that is. Particularly compared to how wonderful my hair looked. It still does. Although it's not quite so fancy, I find I'm wearing it out rather than tied back and hidden away. Marvellous.
I was so excited by the Amazing Impromptu Haircut, I had to ring an old friend and burble at her about how truly wondrous it was; which was nice for me, but not much chop for her since she was at work and I could hear people wanting to talk to her in the background, but oh well.
For some reason I thought I was shopping some more on Saturday what with the birthday presents and the christening thing (supposedly) on Sunday. Oops again, because all of that was on Saturday, so emergency shopping and run around later we're all enjoying the splashing of Holy Water (well I might find it a hoot, Catholics may differ and I probably have to avoid any of those people if they read this blog) then on to a two-year old's party (the sister of the christen-ee). Small lad had the joys of trampolining, husbandly reconnected with some seldom-seen friends and I did the helping out, the sitting around chatting, the running after kids. The latter might have been a mistake since I wound up under a pile of kids on the trampoline; it did give a couple of adults a chance to have a lend when they told me I had to get back in as minder. Har dee har har.
Again I have the good intentions and intend to start on the blog entry because the wasp-maggot-duck has caught my imagination, but I crash out again Saturday night, waking up again at two. That night I didn't go back to sleep, but read a book instead (Deep Water, Pamela Freeman, book two in the Castings Trilogy, very good).
Confronted with a now-empty Sunday, instead of a day of family fun, I decide to betake myself off to Ikea. Again. I seem to do that a lot. I spent an hour fiddling with the kitchen planning software and harassing the Ikea "coworker". I'd already picked out the furniture I wanted from the net, only to reverse myself midstream and get completely different furniture. And a soap dish. Coming home at midday, I spent the rest of the afternoon building furniture and emptying the fucking ugly hand-me-down-glad-we-had-something-but-yuck-how-awful we've been putting up with for fourteen years. I can finally open my wardrobe door fully without having it clunk against the bedside. Downer note (to wit: fucking ugly etc.) aside, it does look much nicer than it did.
Once again, I opened my fat mouth and fell in while at Ikea. A lady asked the Ikea coworker (*snort* going to run that into the ground? You bet) about parts missing, and muggins here pipes up with "not ever happened". Guess what I found when I got home. Go on, guess. Not only a couple of screws, but an entire side panel of a storage box missing. Bahahaha. The universe loves me. My first thought was "I hope that lady doesn't have any missing parts," before fixing it up. Ikea will post it so no dramas there.
Much nicer five days off than I've had since I started this noo improoved job. Today (meaning Monday, although it is Tuesday morning), I got it into my head to iron clothes. While I'm happy I only have some odd socks left to match, it probably wasn't the brightest choice given it's four in the morning and I need some toothpicks or matchsticks for my eyelids. Because then of course I did the floors. Colour me silly.
Today (meaning Tuesday, since I'm looking forward now and it is, indeed, Tuesday morning) I plan to crash out again so I'm on form to cook something nice for dinner. Or possibly some washing, because we just can't have enough of that in our house.
Are dreams better than newspaper to wipe the mud off your feet? Not really, ephemera leave smears.
