Blane and I usually start our day talking about what we dreamed the night before. We don’t actually sit down and have coffee, we just sort of meander around the house, bumping into each other occasionally. Mostly him upstairs, me down here. A floor and a balcony separates us, that’s all.
His words spill down and mine waft upwards. We hear each other all day long. Sometimes the same conversation lasts for hours, interrupted by sales and conference calls.
This is the work-at-home life.
But it all starts in the kitchen, face-to-face at the coffee machines.
His is a pop in the pod, easy as 1-2-3 Keurig that takes 60 seconds for a fresh cup.
Mine. Very complicated, but worth the 15 minutes of cranking up the boiler, grinding the beans, measuring, tamping just so…
Sometimes I use his, and rarely, he uses mine.
Today is the usual. I stare at his morning hair, which I completely adore. It looks like the wind blew it and then paused to do something else. It amuses me to no end, but I can’t tell him that first thing in the morning.
His coffee machine is about 55 seconds of warm up and 5 seconds of rushing coffee. That’s when he tells me about his dream in which we got all nasty, but he woke up before the best part. As he drags himself upstairs with his java, he says those dreams never have that special ending. Ever.
Then I tell him about mine, not face to face, but hollering over the balcony.
I was walking Scrappy at the Texas Mexican border and she bolted through a hole in the fence. Straight into Mexico. Some golden grilled thugs took off after her, so I chased after them. A team of customs agents ran after me.
Can you see it? Scrappy, thugs, me, customs agents.
Now throw in some tall buildings. This Mexico looked more like Tokyo because my brain is a fuzzy mess right now and a flat, cowboy movie landscape is no place for my superpower.
I can’t fly in my dreams like Blane can. I am a leaper. I bounce from the tops of buildings looking for my little Scrappy dog. Check every nook and cranny of this maze with my acute vision and, no dog. After I give up and return home, there she is, jumping up and down and happy to see me. Guess she doesn’t like Mexikyo.
Blane flies in his dreams. While this is an awesome skill I wish I had, the downside is he gets tired. I never run out of energy with my leaping. I just run out of things to do.
Over the next hour or so, between business calls we discuss the dreams:
Me: Anytime I star in your dreams we’re either fucking or fighting. Never anything like walking through a field of flowers or having a picnic.
Blane: No, wait, I just don’t tell you about those.
Me: …and you never have dreams where I come in save you.
Blane: Do you have dreams where I save you?
Me: Nah, I’m always saving somebody’s ass or mine. No one comes to the rescue.
Blane: Where were you when the bird people attacked?
[Bird People= four foot tall birds with 3 foot long beaks. They had teeth and were chewing him to shreds. One of my favorite nightmares of his]
Me: Now see, if I was in that dream, I’da put big rubber bands around their beaks, neutralize those bastards instead of trying to outfly ’em.
Some time passes but the convo continues…
Blane: …Fucking and fighting, well at least I’m faithful in my dreams. It’s never anyone but you.
Me: True. But what a waste, you should go for someone like Angelina Jolie.
A half hour passes and I holler up to Blane.
Me: Okay, I’m in all your sexy dreams, but it’s a way way nastier version of me!
Blane: Shhhh. I’m on a conference call!
He tells me they didn’t hear, but I’m sure he’s lying through his teeth.
At night, we discuss the day dreams. We’ve sold off everything, even the coffee makers, and all we own can be carried on our backs.
Tokyo, I’ll write about that later when I can sort thorough the photos, I’ve got some pretty bad hay fever right now and the computer screen makes my eyes burn like fire. That and and a trip to Louisiana for an aunt’s funeral just after Japan have kept me from blogging, but I promise to catch up on everyone’s posts. Miss you all.