I simply must stop reading other people�s AlphaBytes 2004 entries to the absolute exclusion of writing my own. First of all, I don�t want hints on what tack others decide on some words. Secondly, I�ve managed in three days to fall into the trap I have feared since this time last year: I miss a day and tell myself I can whip up three or four entries in a day to catch up. Yeah, right. I�ve been too busy planting cherry tomatoes (Sweet Millions!) and spreading mulch and sowing tea-soaked grass seed and hitting the unwelcome sumac saplings with the reciprocating saw (more power!) to sit down and write anything even vaguely coherent. The good news is I�m getting some exercise, so yay. I might even manage to look presentable to the Legitimate Writers at JournalCon this summer. Look for me pimping the business instead of my journal, because I�m odd like that.

So, the letter D.

(I�m attempting to go in order just like last year if you hadn�t already noticed, most likely because I�m decidedly anal about these things. There will be no flitting back and forth, to and fro a la Stef, although I must admit I enjoy seeing that sort of wild abandon in others).

I had the best dream two nights ago. That�s really saying something, since my dreams are usually the stuff of demons and abject failure and nekkidness. The older I get, the more nighttime turns into showing after showing of really bad cranial �B� movies. The added bonus of all the wacky mayhem is a decidedly crappy night�s sleep, so I�m rapidly turning into a Cranky Old Woman, and I didn�t expect that to happen for another 20 years or so.

In my dream, I entered a door into what turned out to be a very cool restaurant with a tremendous bar. Lined up on the bar stools to the end of the room were either Threewayers or JournalCon attendees. Everyone seemed to be really happy to see me and those I didn�t know took turns standing up and formally introducing themselves. I turned to the bar to catch a break from the attention to find pints and pints of Guinness and Crispy Crunch shooters lined up for me. Just as I was beginning to develop an embarrassing verklempt sensation, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Sara and Pamie, standing in front of me as plain as I�m writing this now. I congratulate Pamie on her engagement and give Sara a hug that threatens to snap vertebrae. They compliment me on my outfit, gently leading me around the room, introducing me to the lion�s share of the journallers on my Bookmark list. I am able to schmooze convincingly, throwing in the occasional timely comment about their lives; I was a hit.

Then it all became too much and I slipped outside for a cigarette to calm my nerves. Why is it I can�t just 'be' in the moment? Why do I overload so quickly? Why am I attempting to dissect my nutbar behavior in a flippin� dream? Oddly enough, though, this foray into the subconscious has allowed me to chill a bit about my trek to Journal Con in August, so that's something.

The fabulous mind movie ended there when Murphy jammed his wet nose into one of my eye sockets, begging to be let out in the middle of the night.
Good dog, poor timing.

Posted at 10:50 a.m.