I've got dreams, too, remember?
I don't have a toaster, so I made my toast the way my dad taught me to make it. The difference is amazing: butter the bread then put it under the broiler so the top is crunchy and buttery but the bottom remains soft. This taste - or perhaps the consistency - just makes me remember so much.
Dad is very specific about how things should be prepared for him. Meal time was a strange service-for-Father that I didn't quite enjoy. As much as I love feeding a hungry man, my dad is the least gratifying and the most demanding of anyone I've cooked for.
The sweet tea, the amount of ice in his glass, the coverage, thickness, and melted-ness of butter on his toast were all non-negotiable.
His honey.
His cheese.
His salad dressing.
Finally I realized he's impossible to please in a daily, living-in situation. Now, today, at this point in my life he is proud and happy and pleased with me. But there's no doubt in my mind that if I lived with him still then I would foul up his meals.
Of course I would: but he's got this perfect way of making you feel like shit.
Of course he does: he's my dad and I used to idolize him.
Of course I did: I'm a normal baby girl.
I clawed myself in my sleep last night. Across my chest. I've also begun to sleep in the nude. This has never been the case with me (seldom) and I believe it's due to my living alone now.
I'm starting to feel that bizarre rotting sensation from not having been touched in a week and a half. My dreams have also been erotic in nature. Likely some combination of craving touch and sleeping unclothed.
But a thought has recently occurred to me. Like, in the last five minutes. So often dreams of the sexual nature involve the house I lived in when I was six and seven.
My memories of this house are primarily based on home-movies and I perfectly recall the layout of the yard. I remember things like the bathroom wallpaper but none of the bedrooms.
There are many reasons why I wouldn't remember this time in my life, but it bothers me because I remember so clearly things that happened previous to it.
Mom got mono, and Dad divorced her. Separate yet simultaneous and traumatic. People came to help take care of us children. Nathanael was a toddler. Muriah was eleven and became a second mother.
But I don't remember 1986.
I do remember clearly, though, one day pulling into the driveway with mom and seeing that Bob - the man who refilled our gas-tank - was present, doing his job. I stared silently and was reluctant to exit the car while mom encouraged me to go visit my "friend", because Bob was an affectionate old man. I stared silently and was reluctant to exit and I told mom I didn't want to talk to him.
She connected with me at that moment in a way I remember very clearly, and she said of course I didn't have to talk to hiim, and I never had to talk to anyone who made me feel uncomfortable; I didn't even have to be polite if someone gave me the creeps, and I didn't have to have a reason.
Muriah was confused as to why I - the outgoing little girl who always chatted with the men - would ignore Bob, especially since he had given me a pretty necklace last time he was there. But she sort of understood, too, I think.
I wonder if I really had anything to fear. I wonder if I just don't remember. But I do dream about that house, and I do have a block in my memory about my life in that house, except for that memory of Bob, the gas man.
I think I've begun to turn into something, and I don't know what it is. But I hope it's good. Perhaps it's just maturing.
I don't mind maturing and life changing, but I very much would like a husband because I really need a constant physical companion.
No one knows the song, though. And yes, I do sincerely, and completely believe that the man I will marry will sing and/or play for me this one song I chose ten years ago.
To this day I haven't even met anyone who knows the song. They may know the artist, or even the album, but never the song. And it's not that obscure.
David Schwimmer mentioned it once in a TV Guide article.
Unfortunately, I never met him. Asit did. But I didn't.
The fact that no man I've ever met can ever refer to the implications of the song on his own accord makes me believe even more strongly that the man I marry will supply this song for me.
Sorry, I can't say what the song is because that's unfair. Of course, the only person who reads this who might know what I'm talking about is satchmo3 because I already checked you other boys out ::wink, wink::
Well, I'm going to go get some icecream.
