Wednesday
Sep282016

more odd dreams of erotic near-misses

Just recently, my mortgage broker friend began sending me information about properties for sale that are actually in my price range. Traditionally, home sales slow down in the autumn, and buyers also tend to put the brakes on a purchase decision when a national election looms. So I began wondering if I could find a smaller version of the house I sold last winter and still missed.

I think this is why I dreamed about my old house last night.

Of course the dream was chock full of nonsensical elements as they almost always are. In my dream, the house hadn't been demolished. Instead, the builder who bought it had actually expanded it. Now it was a huge old two-story house with a fascinating roof that I couldn't stop admiring. He had added several chimneys and some whimsical Art Nouveau features, and it didn't have regular shingles. Instead it was made of big square tiles with stonework replacing the gutters. 

I can't remember why I'm visiting, but I'm thinking this is probably because I still hear from the new owner, a builder who razed the old property and built his own two-story home at the site. He is actually a nice young man, tall but a bit balding. In this dream he's more attractive.

Before I leave, I realize I need to change clothes as I'm headed to the opera later that afternoon(real-life plans - more later). I wander off to where I think I'm alone and change from frumpy lingerie to some Marlies Dekkers. I'm standing in front of a small room with a big, dark wood door frame that dwarfs the room itself. This is when I feel something around my neck.

I realize that my builder friend has slipped a white silk ribbon around my neck and is pulling me back towards him. He's so gentle that it doesn't hurt at all. In a few seconds, our bodies are touching. My back is against his chest. He doesn't attempt to undress me or even reach toward me. Instead, he keeps me in place with the ribbon. We say nothing; it's as if we're waiting to see what the other's next move will be. 

I woke up feeling quite aroused by this scenario, but wondering why I was dreaming about sex. It was the second time in just a few days, and right after Darren* had visited. I had been my usual drained self by the time he departed, as I usually am. So these dreams aren't making much sense. 

Today, I spotted an article in Time magazine that described how politically incorrect sex such as the type the Cub and I pursued caused altered mental states. While it didn't explain my dreams, it's still reasonably interesting.

* See The Usual Suspects.

Monday
Sep262016

a public service announcement

This blog is mostly nonsense, but it will contain no mention of any presidential debates. Ever. (No, I didn't watch it.)

Sunday
Sep252016

The doctor was in the house, sorta

Last night I dreamed I was visiting the small East Texas town where I unhappily attended high school for two years, before I departed for the big city and a private school I liked much better. 

Part of this dream is based on truth, and here's the background: one of the small town's veterinarians had purchased around six acres to build his veterinary clinic, a small home and a barn. He was well-liked and had a menagerie of three-legged animals - victims of leghold traps - living in his clinic. I took our cats to him, and my dog (a black shepherd mix named Daniel) when my brother inadvertently backed out over him. Daniel was, believe it or not, unhurt except for some soreness. One would think a two-ton Chevrolet would do more damage.

Eventually I left the US and departed for the UK, but when in town visiting my mother, I would always drop by and say hello to the vet.  He was also a fellow gearhead and loved older cars, and later enjoyed showing off a 1950s vintage Thunderbird he'd purchased.

The doctor eventually became rich as the folks in Bentonville, Arkansas decided to build a huge Wal-Mart that encroached his property, so he sold his six acres to Sam Walton for an enormous profit and relocated his office. 

In this dream, I'm visiting him at a large ranch house as he's invited me to see his horses. He brings out a thoroughbred mare that looks pretty much like this, except a couple of hands taller.

I'm keen to take the mare out for a ride, so the doctor fits her up with an English saddle and I take her out for about an hour. The mare has perfect gaits so the ride is no less than a thrill. (I haven't ridden for decades, but some horse are pleasant to take for a gallop while others are not.) Eventually I take her back and help him clean her up and walk her to her stable. 

Afterwards, the doctor and I go indoors and share a scotch or two.We get into a bit of a snogfest and work our way towards the bedroom. Things were getting interesting but then the front door opens and the doc panics, saying that the wife is home early. I'm half-dressed but manage to get all of my clothes back on pretty quickly. Then they both enter the bedroom and I act like there's absolutely nothing odd about where I am. And the wife buys it. 

As usual, I have no idea why I dreamed this ... or do I? Was I somehow remembering my mischief with the Cub*? But one depressingly reliable facet of my erotic dreams featured. I get into a compromising position, but I never actually get laid. Sigh.

* See The Usual Suspects

Friday
Sep232016

the benefits of vows of silence

I've always considered myself fortunate in the hormone department.

I've never suffered from the homicidal form of PMS; instead, I would occasionally become clumsy. My first husband was always amused by this, as he could determine this during dinner preparation. When Flag Day approached, I would spend half my time dropping various pots and pans, so an increase in kitchen noise meant that my hormones were running amok.

His favorite hormonal incident is when I realized I'd forgotten to turn on the stove, and when my steak and kidney pie wasn't done on schedule, I yanked the oven door open and screamed "Hurry up!". He teased me about it for days afterwards.

Although clumsiness was my main symptom, it wasn't the only one. I could get a bit odd and emotional at times. But I was so used to the temporary over-emotional phase that gradually managed it by avoiding serious converfsations. It never lasted long anyway.

These days, my only problem is that even though I've reached what my doctor refers to as perimenopause, I occasionally go into fullblown estrogen havoc. This happened a couple of days ago. 

Tuesday I began to suspect something as my face broke out slightly.  Nothing major-league, but nothing else causes it. Then I began dropping things. 

Wednesday, the Cub* invited me for a sleepover as he was in town for a day of meetings/interviews. While the sex was still as intense as ever - I'd brought some Pour la Victorie cage pumps I'd recently purchased - I felt oddly emotional the next morning. Usually I don't suffer from post-coital tristresse, but I'd had a strange dream that took me a while to decipher.

The result of all this is that I temporarily became concerned about the state of affairs between us. This made no sense as nothing had changed, but hormones and logic are not remotely related; instead, they battle nonstop. And even I'd identified what was causing my weirdness, I wasn't completely able to keep my mouth shut.

Shortly before we parted ways, I blurted out that I just wanted him to be happy as a result of our get-togethers. In hindsight it doesn't sound that bad, especially as it's true, but I was embarrassed about it for the rest of the morning.

I'm not sure if I should tell him about the PMS situation. On one hand I'm sure he's more than familiar with its effects, but on the other hand, I suspect he's already forgotten about it. I just hope it wasn't as obvious as I think it was. 

* See The Usual Suspects.

 

Monday
Sep192016

a gradual conversion to Der alte Zauberer

During the first half of my life, I always countered discussions of Richard Wagner's music with Mark Twain's alleged observation: "I hear it's better than it sounds". Eventually I discovered that this was not Twain's quote, but one from humorist Edgar Wilson Nye. Twain mentioned Nye's observation when writing his autobiography and a misappropriated quote was born.

However, my resistance to Wagner began to fade when I was in my 30s. Although I never had the opportunity to attend any Wagner operatic performance, I began to listen to selections without prejudice. I still suspect I would never last through a five-hour Wagner performance, which is the average length of his operas. Instead, I would most probably find myself sharing Twain's view:

 

“I have seen and greatly enjoyed the first act of everything Wagner created, but the effect on me has always been so powerful that one act was quite sufficient; after two acts I have gone away physically exhausted." 

 

 More recently, I actually found myself seeking out Wagner, after portions of one of his operas were utilized as a soundtrack to a Lars von Trier movie, Melancholia. In particular, the beginning Prelude to Tristan and Isolde drew me in. Among other things, I realized that I'd finally found some music that would be ideal to play in the background during sexual congress. It's more than ironic that, in Melancholia, it is literally the soundtrack for the end of the world.

During my years of piano study, I never came upon a musical signature that suggested that I play a piece as Wagner's direction for the Prelude: Langsam und schmachtend, or Slow and yearning.

I found a reasonable performance of the Prelude on YouTube, conducted by Zubin Mehta. Turn off the lights, clear your mind and enjoy.