Last night, I dreamed I was stranded in the Sahara Desert.
A barren wasteland of sand.
And then I dreamed that a camel licked my face and sat on me.
Although that might have been Nate trying to get frisky.
But I was still in the desert.
Covered with a film of sand.
Sand in my hair.
In my eyes.
Up my nose.
In my ears.
Between my teeth.
On my tongue.
In my bra.
Between my toes.
In my armpits.
In my undies.
In every orifice I own.
And a few I didn’t know I even had.
And then I woke up.
And realized it wasn’t a dream.
It was reality.
Except that instead of sand, it was sawdust.
And instead of the Saraha, it was a little residential neighborhood in upstate New York that I affectionately refer to as Ripping Up Your Stair Runner In A Freak Moment Of Spontaneous Lunacy And Then Refinishing Your Stairs All By Yourselves Which Involves Sanding The Utter Shit Out Of Everything Thirty-Seven Thousand Times And Then Refusing To Vacuum Ever Again Because Unless They Invent Something That Can Suck Up The Universe, It’s Just An Exercise In Useless Stupid Since Sawdust Breeds Like Porno Bunnies Jacked Up On Viagra And This Compels You to Cry Big, Fat Buckets Because You Probably Won’t Be Able To Decorate For Christmas Next Weekend Like You Had Planned Since December 26, 2008 So Out Of Bitterness And Frustration And A Slight Hormonal Imbalance, You Demand That Your Husband Take You Out To Panera For Baked Potato Soup On An Hourly Basis Because Eating Like A Termite Is Not As Awesome As It Sounds And It Doesn’t Matter That Sawdust Probably Has Zero Goddamn Weight Watcher Points Because It Still Tastes Like Crap Even With A Whipped Cream Chaser. And It’s Itchy.
But at least there are no horny camels.