The hellish Arizona sun rises earlier and earlier these days. By mid-summer, it will begin blazing into our bedroom at 4:30, a time very non-conducive to sleeping in or holding off the heat of the day.
This morning, it startled me awake in the midst of one of those watchabeensmokin’ dreams. We lived in a large house in the country, one of those big antebellum homes with white paint and green-black shutters that I have always wanted to move into and resurrect, and we had an enormous lawn framing the largest trampoline, as in half a football field large, I have ever seen. On this gianormous trampoline were Tom Brokaw and his wife, ballroom dancing and occasionally executing a flip or two.
Apparently, we were having a party. People milled about in every room, nook, and cranny of the house, some welcome and some not. Some yahoos, looking every bit like the characters on the Appalachian Emergency Room skits on Saturday Night Live, pulled their rusty old pickup truck into the yard and were sitting on the back making cat calls and drinking moonshine out of ceramic jugs. You see, Britney Spears was there, glued to my side and being all chummy. Everyone in town was trying to get a look at her. I, being 44 and having weathered years of gravity, sun damage, and child rearing was feeling insecure in her presence so suddenly excused myself to have a bikini wax and find the most flattering bathing suit I owned along with a matching sarong.
Rushing back to the party, I found that, instead of wanting to be my buddy, Britney had been using me to get close to David the Husband and he was twitterpated. She’d brush her body against him ever so slightly when she sauntered by him and he began responding with not-so-subtle cheap feels in the boob area. Next thing I knew, they were no where in sight and when I went to look for them, found them making out in the bathroom.
And this is why I woke up grumpy, that along with a broken spinning wheel, out of control and non-chore-finishing teenaged twin boys, and the Arizona sun/heat which I endured during unusually taxing farm chores.
By the way, when I told him about my dream, David the Husband said Britney has been too screwed up lately and he wouldn’t touch her with a ten foot pole. When I asked what would happen if she got her sh*t together, he paused and said, “Maybe.” Oh, joy.
I guess it’s a good thing the sun will wake me up earlier, if only to stop me from remembering my watchabeensmokin’ dreams.