Fur Locker

I have these really screwed up dreams. Although there was more to it, I'll share a bit of the dream I woke from this morning:

I was a waitress and a man came in to the bar/restaurant with a black dog and sat down. I asked for his order and he replied "a ferlacher." (I'm guessing on the spelling, it could have been "fur locker") So I went to the bartender (which is another wacky story) and asked her if she knew how to make a ferlacher. She said she did and told me to ask him how he liked the fruit in it. Okay. I went back to him, asked him how he liked it, and he said, "lots of grapes and no anchovies."

For kicks, I googled ferlacher today. Apparently, there is a Ferlacher horn in Austria.

Anybody?

God

Monday, I drove back home from my Grandma's and it gave me plenty of thinking time. Grandpa died two weeks ago and since I didn't make it to the funeral, I went for a visit after everyone had left.

Grandpa's funeral was the day after my grandparents' 62nd wedding anniversary. That blows my mind! I don't think I'll know anyone for 62 years, but to be truly and deeply committed to one person for that long? And to have it gone in a poof. I kept Grandma company, watching golf all day with her. Did you know that nearly every commercial during golf tournaments, is for either erectile dysfunction pills or financial planning?

We went to the graveyard to visit. The dirt was still cool and soft and the name plaque had not been put in place yet. Grandma was very upset because she wanted to put flowers in the little cup, but the cup is coming with the plaque. So I got down on my knees and dug a hole with my hands and planted the flowers. My tears dropped into the dirt and I felt sick. This was Grandpa's dirt and now it was stuck in my nails and the knees of my pants.

We tried to keep ourselves together for the rest of the weekend. I busied myself in her garden, I cleaned out Grandpa's truck. It smelled like skunk. Probably from the ranch, Grandpa loved that goddamn ranch and that's the place that led to all this. The morning I left, I lost it. I cried so hard, my grandma sobbed and we hugged tight for a long time. Grandma doesn't show much emotion so this was strange. Plus, she sure has shrunk. She had packed me a lunch (grandma's are awesome that way) and the 8 hour drive began.

Plenty of crying moments came and went, but there was one defining moment. There was an area that had chain controls. So here I am, driving 30 mph through the snow with chains on my tires. It was a nice distraction from my thoughts. Eventually, I took the chains off, and was driving in sunny weather surrounded by snow. A mom let her kid out on the side of the road to make a snow angel and I couldn't help it. A few yards down I pulled over so I could make one too.
As I laid on my back in the cold snow, I stared up to the sky and wondered if this is why people believed in God. When you imagine the dead, living on somewhere nice, it is strangely comforting. I tried to imagine how different I would be feeling if I believed in God. Would it hurt this bad? Would I feel this disconnected? The cold air was building up and starting to sting my tear-soaked cheeks. So I got up, dusted the snow off, and was back to driving.

My va-j-j has a first name...

A few days back, I was unable to get a line from a movie out of my head. I think it was a movie, anyway. I can't, for the life of me, remember which movie it was. All I know, is there was a 'mentally challenged' boy that loved a girl, named Julie, and at one point, in his crooked-jaw language, said "mah joo-lee." That kept playing over and over again in my head.

Once I really thought about it, I realized how pure, true, innocent, and intense retard love is. And you know what? That's how I feel about my kitty. So my vagina is now named Julie. Because my love for her is pure and true.

I just wish I could remember the movie! Maybe I'm confusing Forrest Gump's Jenny with something else. Jenny. Julie. Whatever.

I look at it now and lovingly holler, "mah joo-lee!"

I guess I could tell you my bummyhole is Alejandro. No reason for that, but that I like to say "Alejandro is muy caliente."

Longing

Too early in the morning. I have no cream for my coffee. I guess it's a quick run to the market.

Cream in hand, I head for the produce section. Why must I live in a place that lacks interesting, exotic produce? for some strange reason, I head for the yams. I don't eat much of the 'yam.' What am I...

I take a yam and wonder what the difference is, really, between a yam and a sweet potato. Fondle, fondle...Whoa! Like a hot fleshy slap, I am filled with thoughts of a certain boy. Sweaty, salty, throat-heating thoughts. My logical side (is it the 'right brain' you psych-lovers call it?) thinks I'm nuts. Honestly Nikki, a curvy, rusty tuber reminds you of...him?!?!

Perhaps it's the weight of it in my hand. It certainly isn't the shape. But it's comfortable, it's stirring. The produce guy says something, I give some auto-response and he turns away. I bring the yam to my face and breathe deep through my nostrils. Under the bright glare of the market lights, with my eyes closed, I absorb his musk. I find myself to be a silly girl right now. No, he does not smell like a yam, but somehow his scent is here. It's strong. The heat rises, the skin on my face tightens.

Quit it. Get some coffee, you've gone bananas. You're caressing a yam! It's not even a cucumber! Or a zucchini!! Get home. Dork.

I bought the yam. It's sitting on the kitchen counter and if I look at it through squinted eyes, it looks like a dead rat. I sigh then turn my gaze to the snow outside, wondering how I should cook the damn yam.