I’ve Always Wanted To Use the Word “Portentous” In A Title

This morning, I checked my bank account balance. It is $444.44. If that doesn’t mean something, then, well, I don’t know what means anything. And yes, I know that last sentence sounded ridiculous.

Last night I had a bizarre dream. I was in rural Canada, driving to pick up a piece of furniture that some strange guy had made for my mom. We took some sort of large van/small truck that also happened to seat people. There were people in it, filling up all the seats. (Where will the furniture go? I also asked that question in the dream. No one answered me.) At some point, I got out and rode my motorcycle, with no helmet and with O2 sitting on the seat in front of me. That would likely be because she and I slept on the recliner last night. It was her that was out of sorts, not me, which caused us to sleep on the recliner. I would have voted for the bed, but we didn’t want to keep DH awake with her crying. But that’s not important. Back to the dream.

It ran very much like a movie, with scenes that cut in and out. When I wasn’t driving the truck or motorcycle, I was in a public library. I was furtively hunting down books and stashing them into my bag. Just when I reached the knitting section, I had a horrible realization.

I can’t check these books out. I don’t have a library card.

This was quickly followed by:

They will never give me a library card. I’m not even from this country.

And then, because I’m a haughty, arrogant, piggish American, I fleetingly considered:

Canada is not a territory. It’s another country. I can’t force them to give me a card.


Since there were no signs suggesting one way or the other, I opted to place my books on a nearby cart, rather than return them to the shelves. That’s the way we were taught in college.

Meanwhile, flash back to the furniture guy. We’re at his house. It’s the middle of the night. He’s about 80 years old and it’s freezing cold outside. He comes out of the house, which appears to be a tan two-story, and walks over to the matching detached garage. My headlights are shining on the overhead door and there’s an eerie mist swirling in the beam. That’s probably exhaust, I tell myself. The old guy pulls on a trucker hat, the kind that old guys wear with lots of mesh in the back and that sit high on the head, making them look like they’ve got cylinders on their shoulders instead of bowling balls. Adjusting his cap, he goes in to the garage. I follow.

At the back of the garage, there’s another overhead garage door. We pick our way around vague piles of clutter to reach it. He presses a button, and it goes up while the outer door goes down. A bunch of lights go on. We are in a spa.

This isn’t a nice, pamper-and-preen American version of a spa. It’s a Canadian-hick-man-who’s-80-and-built-a-spa-in-his-garage style spa. There are shower stalls, bathroom stalls, and a homemade wood box that I’m assuming is some sort of sauna. I ignore the sauna and decide to take a shower, because that’s what you do when you’re a foreigner in Canada picking up furniture from a strange guy’s house in the middle of the night and you’re not able to check out books from the library. Apparently.

Before I grab my shower, we check out the piece of furniture. It’s wood and has four legs, but I have no idea what else it’s supposed to be. It looks sort of like a long box, kind of like my grandpa’s record cabinet did a hundred years ago. It somehow gets shoved into the truck. The people in the truck (who I know, but can’t identify) squish around it and remain there, squished, in the cold, while I go back to take a shower. Finally, clean and refreshed, I hop on my motorbike and we head out. Minutes later, we are at a toll booth. I get my ticket, and then it is suddenly daylight. O2 is on my lap again. She’s squirmy, and I tell her that she has to sit still or she’ll fall off the bike. We nearly run over a lady who’s walking with her stroller right in the middle of the toll booth lane. Why is she there? I have no idea. There are lots of people walking, I notice. Maybe this is my subconscious railing against the price of gasoline, which has about doubled in the US in recent months. At least I’m on a motorcycle. I yell at the woman and she jumps out of the way. O2 and I zoom off into the bright Canadian wilderness.

Suddenly, it’s dark, raining, and cold. Rain + Cold + Canada = Ice. O2 is no longer on my lap, fortunately. I see the truck ahead of me. As it goes down a long, curvy, wet, icy, steep hill, I attempt to tilt my head enough to catch the glare of oncoming headlights on the pavement in a feeble effort to not brake on ice. My head is tilted for quite some time, as it’s a long hill. I don’t wreck, which is nice. However, my neck is sore. I wake up, and realize that I had been sleeping with my head at an angle. O2 is sleeping next to me, instead of on my chest, but she’s there. At least we both made it back safely from Canada.

I still have no idea what the furniture is.

And, hey, since you’ve made it this far, you’re probably the type who would want to play our Guess That Greenery Garden Giveaway. There are still a few days left to guess. No one has guessed all three sprouts yet, so give it a go. You are still allowed to enter multiple times. I haven’t added any rules yet.


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