I have been avoiding blogging, because my grandma always said that if you didn’t have anything good to say then you shouldn’t say anything at all. Nyuck nyuck. Things have been fine, really, just working really hard but not hard enough and feeling pretty overwhelmed. But instead of yet another “I’m so overwhelmed by all the things I have to do that I feel paralyzed and manage to watch a lot of TV instead” blog, I thought I’d write about something else. Not about having a huge and intimadating project for work work that I might never get finished. Not about the fact that everything has shifted so much at work that I’m not sure I’m not getting phased out. Not about having a 5-7 page paper due Monday that I haven’t started yet. Not about having a 400+ page novel to read and only am on page 66. Not about having to do a web criticism project for my writing class. Not about the gazillion IDP goals I put up on my profile at work and now feel obligated to do. Not about the fact that Saturday is my mom’s (and my mother-in-law’s) birthday and I haven’t shopped yet, plus I’m having my parents over for dinner Saturday and my house is filthy. Not about having a response to write about William Blake. Not about how messy my desk at work is. Not about the article I owe Shell that I really really really want to write but can’t find three more examples to make it a true top ten list.

Nope. Not going to write about any of that stuff. Instead, I’m going to tell you about the dream I had the other night where I was me for half of a dream, but for the first half I was a border collie/terrier mix. Me and my dog (or me and my master who is me, depending on which perspective you want to stick with) live in a lakeside community. The air is fresh, the trees are green, the foliage is verdant and lush. The lake is clean and a lovely shade of whatever color means it’s not polluted. The neighbors are friendly, and we all have tons in common and progressive dinner parties in the spring and fall. I am married, but he’s not in this dream for some reason. He’s Away. For a couple of months or something, while this particiular incident takes place. You see, as idyllic as the setting may be, nothing in this world is perfect. No, Gentle Readers, there is a Menace in Whispering Oaks. That’s the name of the neighborhood. You’d have thought they would have named it something to do with the water, but you’ll have to take that up with the crappy city planners in my dream. Anyway. The Menace happens to be a creature. One of Mythical Proportions and Legendary Ferociousness. Ferocity. Whatever. It’s mean. It’s an AlligatorFishPig, and it’s loose and running wild. The elusive AlligatorFishPig creature is the stuff of tall tales and fairy tales and all kinds of tales (except it doesn’t have tail, because Old Man Winters cut it off in the Winter of 1992 – it hangs on his wall to this day) and is something mean babysitters use to scare their charges. It is mean, and big, and it smells really bad.

During the first part of the dream when I’m the dog I am just really curious and interested in the AlligatorFishPig. I run off chasing it through the woods when I hear it snorting and it always drives my master (me) crazy. Because I’m (the master) always afraid the dog is going to get hurt, but the dog thinks that’s silly, because how could anything that smells so interesting be dangerous? I know, dogs are naive.

I won’t bore you with this any more, but I’ll tell you that there is a twist at the end, and it’s really surprising. And good. And interesting. And I’ll probably forget it before I even hit “publish post”.

Ah. The dangers of preoccupied blogging. Back to Pamela. I’m going to go read the crap out of that book.