I woke up in a dream early yesterday morning, alarmed as my clock. Oh, I know... I know... Nobody is interested in anyone else's dreams, but just give me a sec. I can sum up the dream in one sentence: I was purifying my soul with a wet-dry vac. Ridiculous isn't it?! Well, not really. I think I can explain the meaning of the dream, although I'm not exactly sure why it alarmed me so much.
You see, there are some coffee stains on my carpet, I mean our carpet (That's me sloshing and dripping myself into consciousness each morning). An ashtray or ten has also hit the floor leaving black and blue (okay, mostly gray) bruises on our rose carpet. (That's Joe slopping and dripping and smoking himself out of consciousness with his friends).So anyway, I'm sure you understand now why I was yearning for a wet dry vac. Can't afford one though.
That's not the only reason I had the dream (the dream... the dream... the dream... It's like an echo). You see, most nights Joe and I fall Asleep with the tv on, during the week anyway, after the dinner dishes are clean, after Joe's lust has been banished from our bedroom, after a long hard day and a short hard drink, what else is there to do but watch a rerun of Friends? What strength, what will is left over to keep my hand from that remote? None, I tell you, and there's nothing shameful in that, not at all (although my marijuana, LSD, PCP, FDA addicted hippie of a sister might disagree).
Joe and I have some of our best moments in front of that 21" screen, after he's satiated, after we've spilled our frustrations over the carpet, after the people next door have finished beating each other into submission.. There we sit, and I am Courtney Cox. I tuck the end of my dishtowel over the rim of the drawer next to my kitchen sink, and I close it (the drawer, not the towel) just like Monica does on Friends: firmly, efficiently, gracefully. Just like she does. I am a good housekeeper, except when it comes to the carpet.
Joe is Joey (how appropriate): dumb and sweet and cunning. We banter as we watch. Obviously, Monica and Joey aren't together like me and Joe are. They're different like me and Joe. So we work out our differences in front of that screen and we laugh and we kiss and we cuddle, and we fall asleep with that tv still blaring, flickering, sloshing its black and blue (okay, mostly gray) light over our rose carpet.
We fall asleep "spooning." I never knew there was a name for the way we sleep, for the way Joe tucks his knees up under mine and drapes his arm over my chest, until I saw Paul do the same thing to Jamie on Mad About You, and she, of course, called it spooning, because that's what it's called. So that's how Joe and I fall asleep at night, his right hand clutching my left breast, the tv still talking to us, touching us, tilting our dreams. Yesterday morning, the alarm went off, but i didn't jump right out of bed like I usually do. I was having a delicious dream, a dream good enough to keep me from the coffee maker, from the rose and black and blue and gray carpet, from the routine of laying out Joe's work clothes and making his bagel with cream cheese. I was dreaming that my soul was being purified by a wet dry vac. I didn't want the dream to stop, but I did open my eyes half way.
