Dreaming of Katmandu
I’ve been remembering more of my dreams as of late and one in particular I’ve just realized is a reoccurring dream. A few days ago I dreamed of being back in high school in Wisconsin. The dream differs on occasion, but the heart of the subject matter stays the same. I am at my locker, having returned to it for the first time in quite some time. Sometimes my locker neighbors – Travis and Kara -- (who incidentally were the same through my entire junior and high school years) are at their respective lockers next to mine. I stand there, ready to open the locker and I’ve forgotten the combination. I may try several times on my own to open it and sometimes I am panicked because the break between classes is ticking away. Sometimes I wake before I get to open it and sometimes I go down to the main office and have someone look it up for me. I can’t ever recall if I’ve actually opened the locker, but it being a recurring dream I’m sure the locker must symbolize something.

Last night I dreamed of my maternal grandmother; an odd but sweet reunion. She was with a friend, who I never wholly recognized because I never took note of her face. My grandmother’s personality was the same – lively, feisty and dominant – but her body was different. She looked younger and in fact, at our first meeting she asked if I recognized her when she realized I was hesitant to hug her. She had shed her leg brace that I’ve never known her without, from the Polio that took the functionality of her leg at an early age. In fact, she was wearing high heeled, open toed sandals and wearing red – a color I don’t ever remember seeing her in. I take all of this as a symbol that she’s escaped her deteriorated and partially crippled body and is now in a much more flexible one. In any case, it’s these reunions that are so bittersweet – they make me happy to be with her and at the same time they leave me with the inexplicable sadness of missing her.

I’m always intrigued by those people who claim that they don’t dream. Everyone dreams. Well, not everyone. There is one (and only one) documented case of an individual who actively went about destroying the part of his brain responsible for dreaming – and if I recall correctly, he regrets it. For those who don’t believe that they dream, it’s just a matter of remembering them. And so if I were you, I’d start asking myself what it is that your conscious mind doesn’t want to hear from your subconscious.

Recently, someone told me that “your subconscious knows what the dream means so don’t bother pondering it.” Well of course it does. Your subconscious is the one mostly responsible for manifesting its thoughts in dreams. It’s one of the only ways that your subconscious can communicate with your conscious and making it realize what it’s probably denying, fearful of or angry about (as well as the whole spectrum of emotions). Deciphering that message consciously allows us to move on in life, learning from what’s behind us. What’s more is that dreams don’t always need to be a message. They can be entertaining, a release of emotion and a formulation of great idea. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to deny themselves of those things.

posted by paula 10:36 AM

The Victoria’s Secret Fashion show is tonight on CBS and while I was in the salon today there was a little yip-yap about the upcoming show. NOW has spoken out against the show, saying it’s soft-core porn, but CBS is choosing to air it anyway. And after a comment like that, why wouldn’t they? After all, I think sexy and scandalous is what VS is going for – opposition only fuels the fire. Granted, I’m not exactly impressed by the new VS as opposed to the old when I was growing up. While everything must change, I find their new image strikingly bold, obnoxiously loud and a stone’s throw away from becoming Fredrick’s of Hollywood. The VS I remember in my teens was a floral, wall papered room where women were demure and classy, not the loud, black suited women you see today that are busy shouting the sales across the room at you like some sloppy back-road diner waitress bellowing the specials of the day. As my sister and mother shopped, I sat in an antique looking chair, upholstered in pink satin and painted white. Although I hated the décor, it was much easier being in the environment when you’re surrounded by secret vixens; those that dressed like librarians but were wrapped in unimaginable lacy delights. They were beautiful, poised women who I wanted to not only dress like, but be. But I digress.
The woman sitting next to my colorist and I (yes, I now admit that I color, considering that my hair is two different, distinct shades. Possibly three. Colors like that aren’t found naturally in nature) broke her conversation about art to talk about the fashion show this evening. Of course, she related the show to art, since it seems that this woman wants to be seen as anything artsy. If it is art, she is there. But that’s neither here nor there.
Said woman made comments about how she wasn’t going to watch it to critique the models since she didn’t want to have to diet for months afterwards, trying to achieve “the impossible.” Meanwhile, her two wheat germ looking shakes, apple and salt free pita chips were getting warm on the counter in front of her.
Her most interesting comment came when she complained that Victoria’s Secret shouldn’t put their lingerie on supermodels and that they should use more realistic people; people of color, skinny women, plus size women, short women, average looking people, etc. She said that VS would “sell more that way.” I disagree.
Women buy lingerie because it’s on the likes of Tyra Banks and not the likes of Anna Nicole Smith. I pick her because she was a model and actually, is a person with attractive features regardless of her weight gain in recent years. You don’t put a Versace sweater on Danny DeVito and think it’s going to sell like hotcakes, do you? For the same reason you don’t put Bombay in plastic cup and you don’t model a Porche in a parking garage in the Bronx. I’d even venture to say that women by VS lingerie because they want to be like Stephanie Seymour. Not that it’s a conscious effort, but that subconsciously it’s better than the alternative.

Whatever the case, I’m finding myself thinking that my hair could be a little more dramatic and that I’m not all too pleased with the results. Oh well. Next time.

posted by paula 6:27 PM

Yesterday was Friday’s annual vaccination visit to the vet and while we’re quite thankful that since his surgery our vet visits are few and far between, every time I think that having a dog isn’t some small step towards having children, I’m proven wrong.
Despite whatever pain we might have inflicted or still inflict at the vet, our visits to the doggie doctor are much different from the mainstream. I’m not quite sure if the word ‘vet’ is in Friday’s vocabulary, as I’m constantly amazed at how he’s ‘learning’ new words and even beginning to spell. When he would whine at the faint mention of the word ‘outside’ we shortened it to ‘out’ until we got the same response. Then we started spelling and the whiz kid now knows that o-u-t-s-i-d-e means that he’ll soon be free to run as far as his leash will let him. But back to the vet.
Yesterday’s visit was like most. Friday had discovered where we were off to and he couldn’t seem to get there fast enough. He whined all the way there, dragged us into the building and proceeded to get so excited until he urinated all over the floor, leaving an apologetic us looking for paper towel under the scorn of the yuppie English couple who owned matching Staffordshire Bull Terriers. I felt like the parent of the child who just knocked down a display of fruit in the grocery store.
But yesterday was also an exception. Our dog, our roommate, our baby, our irresistible, undeniable lump of love was called ‘fat’ by the vet yesterday. Despite the fact that he was still a growing puppy, she seems to think that Friday could stand to shed a few pounds because he’s gained eight of them in the last year.
Of course I shudder to think what might happen if the word ‘fat’ was in Friday’s vocabulary. Would he suffer from self-esteem issues? Would we have to tell him that he’s just ‘big boned’? Would he constantly glance at his rear end every time he passed a mirror?

posted by paula 10:43 PM

Don the Grocery Guy.
We live across the street from what is known here as the ‘ritzy’ grocery store. Never before have I lived in a place where grocery stores are not only abundant, but they’re class-conscious grocery stores, much like fuel grades, with the best ones being carpeted and charging the highest prices.
There’s a massive chain grocery store around the corner from us, but we’ve had bad luck with produce and chicken there, with several trips ending in moldy green peppers and slimy chicken breasts. So we shop at the ‘mid-grade’ grocery store most of the time, justifying it to people like our Goliath chain-shopping co-workers with phrases like “But their produce is better” and “We get our dry goods from the big chain grocery store.” It’s still tempting to cross the street to the luxury grocery store because of the ease of it all and we do so often, not without reward.
The store is smaller and more intimate than large stores, making the ‘get in and get out’ trips much easier than most places. I suspect that because of its pricey reputation and smaller selection it’s frequented less than other stores, so the lines are never more than a person deep. But what’s the most rewarding about the experience is the people.
Gretchen is the night manager, a friendly, speak easy kind of woman who makes lively conversation on the occasion that she might check or bag your groceries. There is Nichol, a petite early twenty-something blonde who we just recently found out is married to a young man who works in the meat market down the street from us. Nichol is your typical bubbly-but-never-obnoxious type, who is easy to laugh at even the slightest joke. Her looks are deceiving though, since until this past week we both thought that she was probably a freshman in college. There is also Superman, who we’re unfamiliar with personally, but we’ve named so because he frequents our gym, exposing the tattoo on his arm that is his namesake. But the most captivating individual is a nightshift cashier named Don.
If I had to guess, Don is a sixty-something man who lives on his own since the multitude of short stories he tells never includes a wife or pet of any sort. In our five minute meetings together, Don manages to conjure up a story with no particular ending or beginning, but is no doubt fueled by a history that I like to imagine most people are never fortunate enough to experience. As far as I know, this history may only be in my imagination, but nevertheless, Don makes it seems real.
He is a tall, grayed, weathered, almost poetic looking man, but more in the sense of W.H. Auden than Jack Kerouac. His poetry is woven in short stories, usually with humor and random details. He loves peanuts. He has a child (or two), which infers that he at one time or still does love a person of the female persuasion. He works the nightshift because he likes the slower pace and the sometimes-eccentric people. And he smokes. On occasion you’re apt to see him outside smoking, sitting by himself, not in any apparent hurry to rush through a good cigarette. If you said hello he would wave as you passed, but if not he might just offer a nod and a smile. If moved to do so, he’s not above starting conversation but I like to imagine that he’s thoroughly enjoying his cigarette while contemplating or reminiscing so interrupting might just ruin that thought process.
I’m sure a few people find Don to be eccentric. I imagine the younger generations regard him as a crazy old man while the older women might think he’s trying to get fresh with them. But to us, Don’s what makes going to the grocery store so interesting.

posted by paula 9:57 PM

This is the kind of card that a girl like me, with a shoe collection like mine, gives to the best guy in the world. Of course, a card like this is somewhat like getting one of those t-shirts that say, “My girlfriend went to Paris/Rome/Iowa and all I got was this stupid t-shirt.” In any case, I think he gets the point. And despite the fact that I think he’s subconsciously trying to convince me that Moulin Rouge is actually a good movie, I love him anyway.

Remember when I wrote about greeting cards the other day? Well, I finally found the right ones that say just the right thing. Although Squibnocket's website is not fully functional yet, you may find a smattering of their cards here.

On a completely unrelated note: Welcome back Layne. Hope you had a wonderful trip.

That’s it, folks. Not much to talk about here, except for Michael Jackson’s nose. Sweet Dreams.

posted by paula 10:51 PM