evany's extended cake mix
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Tuesday, Oct. 28, 2003 | link
As usual, I woke at 4:20 this morning, i.e., the Pot Hour, the PM version of which being the exact time selected for the official opening of the famous, in my head at least, "Glassy Knoll" blown-glass bong shop up the street from Tim's house in Austin, where I first, and last, heard someone (the owner of the Glassy Knoll, actually) say, "the gates of heaven part when I open my legs," a quote that just continues to give and give.
Anyway, my regular appointment with 4:20 has nothing to do with kind buds. Usually I just blink around for a few minutes, the cat meows and tears up a magazine insert or two, and then the both of us wander our ways back to sleep. But this morning, possibly because of the heat?, I couldn't find the way back. Eventually I gave up and snapped on the light to read the last hunk of Augusten Burrough's Dry, which I finished, with great satisfaction and maybe even a few tears, just as my alarm went off at 7AM.
I fell back to sleep to the tune of NPR's report about the horrible fires down South (by which I mean the greater Los Angeles area and not some sort of extremely personal infection) and dreamed of sixteen-year-old me moving to a new town with my parents, into a condo with depressed particle board cupboards, and being utterly unable to pick out an outfit for my first day at a new high school. In the dream, my clawing through the closet was inhibited dramatically by the vibrator I held in each hand, and ... [ENTIRE WORLD COLLAPSES WITH BOREDOM.]
I'm sorry. I know better, really. The heated fascination we feel for our own dreams is always inversely proportionate to the shriveled interest everyone else has in hearing about it. Other people's dreams are only interesting if they feature YOU (where YOU=me), and even then, hearing about them takes way too much time to be even vaguely worth it. As the teller "oh and!"s his way through each leaden detail, your rictus smile spreads ever thinner and each second stretches like an American dollar converted to Canadian. The only thing worse than listening to a dream blow-by-blow is a report about a Saturday Night Live skit.
Anyway, when I sobbed myself awake from the outfit-bereft dream, it was 9 and I was latelatelate. I scrambled through a shower and a teeth brushing only to have things come to a complete screeching halt in my closet, where I found myself utterly unable to put together an outfit! Just like the dream! So basically I am a total soothsayer now.
More proof: Last week, as I was driving home from a stirring dinner at Liz and Ben's in Fairfax, traffic came to a mysterious and dead stop right at the base of the Richmond Bridge. As I inched along, the temperature gauge started to creep up and I just got this feeling, a strong urge to bail out and head over to my mom and Frank's house for the night. As the last-possible-second exit neared, I debated with myself: how nice it would be at home in my bed versus how terrible it would be for my car overheat right on the bridge, especially with the breakdown lane all eaten up as it was by construction. What finally tipped the scales was how extra stupid I would feel if my car broke down and I'd actually had the opportunity to avoid it -- I could have lived with myself had it simply never occurred to me, but once the idea birthed into my head, the irony pump was too well primed to ignore.
So I peeled off the freeway and camped out on my parent's couch for the night. In the morning, Frank took a look at the car and it turns out I would have never made it over the bridge. There was a leak in my radiator, which I knew about but didn't realize the extent of, AND I was low on oil. If forced to sit in un-pull-overable traffic, my whole engine would have melted. The end!
See how I have The Sense? Not the sense to keep my oil topped off or to take a close look at my radiator leaks, no. I'm talking about an eerie, magical, sixth-type Sense.
And right now? I see fantASStic thai food in my near, dear, asap future. Love you later, sweet meats.