So, I wonder things this day. Having just responded to yesterday’s comments on strange dreams, I got to thinking about how much, as children, our perspective is janked.

Analyze this:

• When I was, oh, 5 or 6 years old, my mom bought some Bible stories on 33 RPM records. They came complete with sound effects and dramatic readings. I only remember one tale from the collection, and only because it terrified me. It was the story of the Passion. At the point where Roman soldiers came to Gethsemane to arrest Jesus, the narrator’s voice took on a dark, sinister tone, and he said something like, “Then the soldiers came to take him away.” Starting very softly and growing into this horrible crescendo came the sound of marching boots (did they even have boots back then?). Closer and closer, louder and louder. I was positively terrorized by that sound, as if they were coming to get me. Honestly, I can reproduce the sound in my mind right now, like it was 1964 all over again.
• Suzanne’s comment about having a recurring nightmare where giant pins chased her reminded me of this weirdness from my own childhood. Sometime in elementary school, I learned about Abraham Lincoln’s assassination, via filmstrip. (Remember filmstrips, with the accompanying records for narration with the little beep tones that told you when to flip to the next frame? I loved being chosen to be the flipper.) At some point, it showed that old cartoon drawing of Booth shooting Lincoln. Again: terrorized. I had never ever in my life seen anyone in print or on television point a gun at someone’s head. And for some bizarre, unknown reason, I developed a fear that lasted for years afterward: Abraham Lincoln was lying underneath my bed, ready to grab my feet as I got in or out. So I’d turn off my bedroom light, get a running start, and perform the Olympic long jump into bed. I mean I made it from five feet away. Silver medal style. I did that for years. True confession: I still get ooky standing next to a bed.
• Remember when you thought your house was really big? This past summer, the Thriller and I took a nostalgic trip to my childhood home in Milwaukee. I remember how huge my front yard looked to me, after Dad had the sod laid down. It was like a meadow. Seeing it 37 years later? Not so much. But it was enormous, I know it was…

Hey, it’s Finkday! FINALLY.

…when I couldn’t sleep at 3 a.m.?

And now I’ve smoked every level in every world in all three games (Angry Birds, AB Seasons and AB Rio), getting every secret banana, watermelon, coconut, egg, mango…what to do now?

Ah, right. Work. Oi. But hey, the weekend’s coming, and in between writing rhythm section and horn parts and rehearsing, it’s time for another test drive on a cake. This time it’s carrot cake with cream cheese filling & icing. The Thriller is all too happy to be my taste-tester.

Rehearsals this past week have been, well…interesting. Hey, here’s an awesome non sequitur: I hardly ever remember my dreams/nightmares. Only rarely. Well before I forget it, I have to tell you about the nightmare that woke me up at 3:00 this morning.

I was driving on the interstate in a strange SUV with people I didn’t know. Cut to scene: I’m in the ladies’ room at a rest stop, and some woman keeps trying to open the bathroom stall door and expose me to all & sundry. I keep asking her to knock it off. Cut to scene: I’m sitting in some court room. Seems I cold-cocked the gal and she sued me. Who’s my lawyer? Saul Goodman from Breaking Bad. HAAAA. I keep telling him that I have absolutely no recollection of striking the woman. He says, “Hey, you gotta tell the judge.” I no sooner get the words out of my mouth than the judge says, “Remand her to custody.” As I plead with the strangers I was driving with to save me, I jar awake and look at the clock — 3:04.

Fantastic. What could it all mean? I consulted Dream Doctor and shook the 8-ball. The closest explanation I could find was this:

 If a dreamer searches for a bathroom but cannot find a private location (all the shower stalls are exposed, or strangers are present causing the dreamer to be uncomfortable), the dream may indicate fear of expressing one’s “private behaviors” in public.

Erm…

So hey, tell me the weirdest dream you’ve ever had. I shall interpret.

Fink of many colors (and secrets, apparently)

And after the summer Ohio has had, a welcome one, too.

Friday night, after an especially stressful week, the Thriller and I picked up the grandsons for a sleepover, for what could be the last time until November. (I originally commented here, “Stupid rehearsals.” That was unfair. My rehearsals aren’t stupid — I actually enjoy them, most of the time — I just wish there were more hours in the day, that’s all.) It was a fantastic time, albeit too short.

We went to BFF Kay and Bob’s house (the gorgeous Thistlefink Gardens) for pizza and relaxation. We had great conversation over dinner, while Kay and the Thriller alternately handled face-cleaning duties as a result of the Js dipping their pizza slices in marinara — a dandy trick their Grammie taught them. That was a photo op in itself, but of course, I was too busy chowing down to grab my phone.

After dinner, the four boys disappeared outside, looking for some trouble to get into. We found them down by the creek:

Bob threw down the gauntlet by tossing some leaves at Jake. And then, it was, as they say, on.

Too bad the weekend’s almost gone. Time to get busy writing parts for pit players, planting tulips, daffodils and hyacinths, and hitting Mansfield for some necessaries. We’re going to try and squeeze in a matinee of Ides of March, then maybe tonight I’ll get a chance to watch another episode of The Borgias (yes, we broke down and added Showtime) before the season finale of Breaking Bad.

Happy Sumday to you — if you’re in my neck of the woods, enjoy that summer-like weather. Come January, we’re going to wish it was back.

FO

…of which you speak?

Last week, an intern was brought on board for one of my web clients. And lemme tell you something, fiends: webmasters are worse than sopranos and toddlers. As soon as her name was announced, I began to think selfish thoughts. Is she here to take over? Are they making me share my toys? Thinking about replacing me? Firing me? Giving me the old heave-ho, because a younger, prettier version was found?

They comes in and wants to take the Preciousssssssss — wicked, tricksy, false

*SmAcK* I really just need to learn to delegate. Those of you who know me know I’m terrible at it. I’m convinced it comes from a long history of self-doubt and fear of rejection. I’m a big fat neurosis smorgasbord, that’s what I am. As the Thriller is wont to say, it’s enough to pi$$ off the Pope.

How do you handle it? How do you relinquish your iron hold on things? I know there are people around me who are plenty capable of doing what I do — ain’t nobody irreplaceable. But it’s the initial releasing of the death grip…just…can’t…do it…ARRRG

Of course, I don’t know anyone else with this problem *coughCOUNTRYMOUSEcoughBANDOcough*, so I guess I’m in this ocean all by meself; lonely, no one to talk to, miserable.

Filthy little hobbitses…

I noticed on my WP dashboard this morning that we’ve been quite chatty over the past 3 years and 8 months:

Wow. Six thousand, six hundred sixty. And that is precisely why I embarked on this little Odyssey. If you’ll notice, there are no sidebar ads screaming at you. Most 3rd-party blogs — that is, WordPress blogs that run on individual servers like finkweb.org, as opposed to the free service that WordPress.com offers — are overrun with ads. They blog for money.

I blog for love. Comment love.

So, regulars and lurkers (ask me how I know you’re out there), let’s begin: What’s been a major highlight for you this week? I look forward to responding to your comment love with comment love.

I’ll start. My major highlight begins tonight, when I have dinner with baby boy Lars, and continues tomorrow night when the Js come for a quick sleepover visit. Delight.

OK, commence with the snappy repartee. Crow. Brag. Celebrate. Honk. Ready, steady, go.