I love dreams with clear meanings. Last night, after a startling amount of consumption, I dreamt that I worked at a Mexican radio station that to broadcast you had to use the urinal.
I had to pee. I don't why the brain doesn't just send an emergency tone, or just say, "you have to pee." It's like in your head there's a little flamboyant fellow just dying to showcase his art. But as curators we're pretty lame. I'm thinking it would be fun to communicate to others how your brain does to you in your sleep. At the dinner table you could say, "'Excuse me, gotta go broadcast at a Mexican radio station," and life would be much more fun and colorful.
As far as interpretation goes, I'm not sure about the Mexican part, but I wouldn't mind boning up on my Spanish. And maybe radio's going down the toilet?
The night before I had another dream. In my sleep I ran into my Grandma Colleen, or Grandma Colleens, as there were two. One was older and debilitated by Alzheimer's, and the other was someone I'd nearly forgotten. She was tall and graceful and articulate. She was dressed in a smart pantsuit, much more dignified than whatever an overworked nursing staff can manage to get on her. I asked the more composed grandma if she was getting tired of the other Colleen. She looked at her warped copy, rolled her eyes, and said she was something she had to deal with.
On Thursday we spent time with a woman doing her best to be both Colleens. Her hair has grown out of it's lifetime of curlers. She offered a cordial smile while figuring out how to eat her soup.
Quin was a hit at Sunrise Gardens. I carried him from table to table. Most of the patients in the memory care facility are women. Their husbands long dead of heart attacks, colon and prostate cancer, the ladies finally get a chance to speak their mind. Like Mary, for example, who heckled me during our entire visit. "You're a scaredy-cat," she reminded me.
"Why?" I asked in the friendly and playful but condescending voice mandatory at nursing facilities. She took a look at my CU shirt and said, "because you're dumb enough to stand up for Colorado."
Makes sense to me. And then she challenged my strength. "You can't hold that baby all day. You can't do it."
People were starting to stare, wondering what the one, younger guy, who stuck out like Joey Lawrence on the Golden Girls, was doing to the child to make the lady so upset. I set him on his great-grandma Colleen's lap. She held him tight. Not with the confidence I'm guessing she held her children, or Peter, Laura and I; this time there was trepidation. She doubted herself and so did everybody watching, especially Mary who chided my decision to put down the baby.
Quin could feel it, too. His cooing morphed. His smiling face got all crazy-like and twisted, trumpeting his displeasure. Grandma became even more nervous so I thought I'd distract her for some advice.
I asked her what a mother of three would do for a fussy baby.
"Run away," she replied.
Despite the sage advice Sarah stayed.
After a harried nurse sent me to the store for a diaper run, I picked up Sarah, Quin and Paco, and from Boulder we were off to my sister's place in Loveland. It was boy-a-palooza. Seven-year-old Tyler, six-year-old Tucker and big-little Axell, who just turned 1/2, had Quin's full attention. And I don't know when it happened, but it happened quickly and with great stealth; Sarah and I are now those people torturing children with dorky matching outfits.
To be fair to our waning coolness, our kid is only dressed in the same outfit as his cousin because that's from who he inherited it. Quin will forever be riddled with hand-me-downs, which is a tradition in our family as far back as history can trace. I remember my mom sending me to school in some much older cousin's mammoth pelt.
Kids, football on TV, lots of food and none of it green. Although cousin Annie did bring a fruity marshmallow dish which was referred to as a salad. It was a perfect Thanksgiving. The only casualty other than some brain cells and arterial capacity, was Axell's Tickle Me Elmo. I found him head first in Paco's mouth. I quietly shouted, "Paco!" and he looked back at me like, "dude, he wouldn't shut up!" And when Elmo's in the death grasp of a curious mutt, his cute little comments actually sound like cries for help. I retrieved the terror victim from the dog, but Elmo didn't learn his lesson. He kept on yapping and I had to hold Paco back like a he was a drunk in a bar fight.
In the end, Paco was able to perform some minor surgeries on the Muppet, and it will take some time for it to recover.
I don't have a picture of the Elmo incident. I remember those things going for like 500 bucks.
Now it's Sunday and we're home. The Broncos are winning, and even though Peyton Manning didn't play this weekend, his brother, Eli, had an awful game and that most likely fulfilled the "Peyton must be sad" requirement for a perfect weekend. Adding to the niceties are my wife, the girl I met at a Taco Bell in Durango, and our son playing with Eddie the Elephant. Quin is three months old and doing quite well holding up his big noggin. He's almost to the point where he can smile at the same time.
I never could have dreamt this.
Friday, November 30, 2007 at 09:33PM 
