I just surfaced from another trip an hour ago, and I don’t mean the one to
I really hate to admit this, but I became a litterer on this latest trip. When our deluxe coach passed by some roadside “sculpture,” mini-castles made exclusively of sandwich-sized Styrofoam containers, the tour guide said it was an inside joke in response to some political shenanigans that had been on their television recently, and she encouraged me to add my piece. My contribution turned out to be a Styrofoam plate bent into the shape of a triangular face, with two eyes punched in it.
When I went to photograph it, the batteries in my camera were exhausted and I found I had forgotten to bring new ones. Our next stop on the trip was a ballet performance on ice skates. The second act had the dancers performing a chest operation on Bobby Kennedy. That involved using humongous bearing pullers and C clamps like the ones my husband used when he was working on heavy equipment.
Fortunately, the guide gave us the high sign before they balleted Bobby’s chest open, and I was able to make a quick stop at the small concession stand in the lobby in my search for AA batteries. I found one lone pair and decided to make sure they fit before I purchased them for $28. That’s when monumental dropsy and fumble-itis set in, and things started popping out of my camera. Eventually I got the new batteries inserted and received an error notice on the camera’s LCD screen for my efforts.
I decided to pay for them anyway, thinking that if I got all the popped-out parts reinserted correctly, they would work. Then came the money thing. The clerk said they only cost $4.95 instead of the $28 I’d been told previously, so I handed her a twenty. She punched it into her cash register, which immediately quit working. Ten anxious minutes and one annoyed tour guide later, she handed me a sheaf of receipts and a plastic card with credit for future purchases at the stand in lieu of change.
I woke up in the heat of the discussion that ensued.
I lay in bed for an hour dissecting and analyzing this latest dream, which was much better than the ones I had during sleep hours 14 through 18, let me tell you. Here are its roots:
1. The battery thing. I took three cameras with me to
2. The ballet. Maybe I’m feeling some guilt about not going to the ballet at the Hermitage Theater in
3. Bobby’s chest operation. Took me a while to figure this one out. Then I remembered that beneath the precarious stack of books on my bedside nightstand, there was a Time magazine with a portion of Teddy Kennedy’s face peeking out. No idea why I selected Bobby for the chest-spreading operation, except he always was a skinny, weak-looking guy.
4. The littering. I was distressed about this, litter Nazi that I am. I saw little litter in
5. The dropsy and fumble-itis. On one particular day, my shipboard roommate Marie said, “You don’t feel very well, do you?” When I verified her suspicion, she said, “I can tell because your side of the room is a mess and you aren’t like that!” Right again, and that’s what I noticed about this Russian cold. I couldn’t do anything without dropping something or fumbling around trying to get it right. I whined and sniveled about it often.
I love it when all the pieces of a dream or nightmare can be traced back to their roots.