monday creeps up my shoulder like a huge spider with evil eyes which I smash with fist only to leave a streak mark on the sleeve of my new shirt
Unlike previous vacations, this one did not fly by. In fact, I feel like I've been off of work for about a year, and that year was spent working on a chain gang or holding my breath underwater.
It's not the kids - though having them home 24-7 meant huge amounts of dishes in the sink - it's the lack of routine. I am a slave to the routine. The more days in a row I spend without one, the lazier and more disoriented I become. It got to the point that I didn't even know what day it was. After that, I reached the point of no return - I didn't even care what day it was. I fell into a drooling, mumbling stupor, surrounded by piles of laundry, days worth of mail and the GameCube controller gripped tight in my hand.
It all goes back to normal today. Up early, out of the house by 7:30, in my office until 4, home, gym, home. Sweet relief. I know what I'm doing every second of the day and that's all I ask. I don't like to live my life in free fall. Give me the safety of a clock and a parachute every time.
So I've been having post-apocalyptic dreams again. Well, they start out pre-apocalyptic, with black helicopters and darkened skies and lots of screaming and sirens. Like a Paul Verhoeven movie but without all the costlly special effects. That's the great thing about my dreams - I can outdo any action movie without having to resort to CGI. I do my own stunts, too.
Remember those disaster films of the 70's? It was a very popular genre; Earthquake, Towering Inferno, Posieden Adventure. They can't make movies like that anymore because someone, somewhere would be so upset at the imagery and the emotional pain it causes them that they would organize an internet-based grass roots group to boycott the film and any company that was thinking of putting a product placement in the film. Then Pat Robertson or one of the Family Media Overlord guys would get involved, as well as the ACLU and well, that idea is shot to hell. No disaster movies for you!
Anyhow, the dream. I was writing a novel while the world was falling apart around me. It was a damn good novel, too and I was reading out loud as I wrote to a very captive audience of people who had obviously been dipping into the post-nuclear war pool of radioactive bliss. They weren't so much people as torsos and heads growing out of the ground. Mary, Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow? With heads and faces of all races and pretty kids all in a row. I think I may have even watered them once or twice to see if they would grow.
So, I wrote this novel as the world went to hell around me. I think I yawned once or twice. Apparently, my dreams are getting repetitive. I think every time there's a new bin Laden tape I have a post apocalyptic dream, only now, my subconcious sees it as a big joke and just goes through the motions. Yadda, yadda. Explosions, helicopters, screaming children. Can we get back to the dreams about Jon Stewart, please?
So I slept about a total of three hours last night and most of that three hours was spent writing a novel and battling an invading army, so I woke up, looked at the clock and immediately calculated the hours until I could get back into bed again. Sleep is a long way away, folks. The Mother of all Mondays looms ahead, what with trying to get the kids up at this hour once again and the avalanche of work that awaits me and the whole damn Monday thing including, but not limited to, bad hair, bags under my eyes and the knowledge that it's 2004 and I'm still not teleporting to work, damn it.
But ah, the routine. Bless the routine. It may be a long day ahead of me, but at least it has a planned schedule. Unless, of course, the black helicopters come.
[Now that I think about it, last night's episodes of Aqua Teen Hunger Force and Sealab might have something to do with the people-garden in last night's dream.]