Dance and Research camp sounds fun, doesn’t it?
I went there in my slumber last night.
Evidently the location of this Dance and Research Camp was at a historic site which included not only a massive dance floor out in a field surrounded by trees, but also an Olympic sized pool and a defunct old three-story library full of lovely carved wood tables, musty books and row upon row of card catalogs. We campers were all divided into groups by age, and took turns either dancing, or doing research in the library. Alli was there in a young adult class and my camp buddies, Maya Angelou (wow!) and Larry were helping me do research for a new book project. We were going through books and the card catalog and jotting notes like crazy onto index cards. Larry was very helpful finding facts and figures for me. Maya was her joyful, inspiring self and was encouraging me on this literary project. I kept slipping out to join the young adult dance class, and when Alli saw me she gave me the stink eye, told me to wait for my own dance class, and reminded me that I needed to be working on our book. We were waiting on Laura to arrive. She wasn’t in the young adult or the older adult dance group, so she was only going to do research for us. At the rate we were going, this manuscript was going to be ready within weeks!
I woke from this odd dream with my head buzzing and with a chuckle of delight. I spent half the day trying to decipher it. First off, I am very excited about a book project that Alli, Laura (Alli’s birth mother) and I are working on. (Curious?) We totally have Larry’s support on this. Second, I love dance, research, the wisdom of Maya Angelou (RIP) card catalogs, (I would love to own one, and would use it for paint brush and paint storage.) the great outdoors, books, a good pool and lovely wood work. So, I guess all my loves came together in this dream. Division of age seemed to play a big role. Anyway, its’ so weird. I really can’t make this stuff up.
Neither can I make up some of the ridiculous circumstances I find myself in at times. One day I got on the elevator in the parking garage at work. I was a mess. My wet hair was hanging in my face as I shuffled my purse, my lunch box, an umbrella, a water bottle and two sets of keys in order to press the button to get to the ground floor. Right when I pressed it, I heard a lady’s voice coming from the vicinity of the panel of buttons. I thought I had accidentally pressed the emergency call button, so I leaned down to the knee-high speaker and said in my most mature, slow, audible voice, “I’m sorry. That was an accident. I think my purse must have hit the emergency button.”
The reply came from my pocket.
It was my phone and the Google voice command chick was saying,”I’m sorry, I did not understand your question. Please repeat it.”
Did I mention I was not alone on the elevator? My fellow rider was basically holding herself as to not pee her pants. She was not doing a great job of holding back her laughter, though.
I am the queen of butt calls and voice command failure.
While I’m telling on myself, I find this a great opportunity to tell a story of which I have been given permission to share with you, my dear readers. My friend tells me that I can use her name. I don’t know if I would do that if I were her, but here it goes…
During her younger, more carefree days, Shirley lived in Florida with her boyfriend, D. One evening she received a call that her mother, back home in Nashville was not doing well. She was upset because she could not get home to be with her in her time of need. In order to cheer her up and get her mind off of the situation, D. suggested that they go out for dinner and drinks.
One thing led to another and they found themselves at a lively new bar by the water’s edge in a growing little area of their beach town. You know the type…cute little pastel colored buildings with an ocean view, connected by glowing white sidewalks and sand dunes.
After a few drinks, Shirley was feeling better, but she was in need of a restroom. She was surprised to learn that it was not located in the building, and was instructed to walk down the sidewalk and to the building on the left.
Jelly shoes. All the craze in the 80’s!
Shirley took off alone, walking the short distance in her cute little pink Jelly shoes. She was enjoying the fresh air and the sounds of the ocean when she heard some workers up ahead whistling and yelling, “Hey, lady!” They were relentless. Thinking that they were just being obnoxious and flirting with her, she yelled something back, flipped them off and kept walking.
After the restroom break, she fortunately found her way back to the correct venue and told D. that she was not feeling well and wanted to leave. D. reluctantly took her home. Once there, he put her into bed, fully clothed and with her shoes still on. When she fell asleep, he left to go back to the bar.
Shirley woke a few hours later to the sound of laughter and music. She could hardly walk, so she literally crawled into the living area to find that D. had brought everyone from the bar back to their place. She was not amused but was not in the shape to do anything about it, so crawled back to bed.
The next morning, Shirley woke with an odd sensation. Her feet felt heavy and she couldn’t move them. Much to her horror, she discovered that her cute little pink Jelly shoes were cemented to her feet.
They had evidently just poured that concrete sidewalk she took to the restroom the night before. OH! That’s why the workmen were yelling at her!
D. had to take her to the emergency room to have the shoes and the concrete removed.
I must add that D. was obsessed with his car and the cleanliness of it. Too bad he didn’t know about the wet cement that Shirley tracked in on the ride home from the bar. I doubt that the carpet on the passenger side was ever the same. Neither are Shirley’s feet.
A side note here. D was out of the picture not long after this incident, her mother recovered and Shirley doesn’t drink.
It’s hard to top that story.
It makes my day trip with Larry and my weekend away with my girlfriends seem so tame and uneventful. I’ll save it for another post, but I can warn that it involves a creepy cave, gnomes, monkeys, a film, and lots of crowns and tiaras. Sorry, but no pink Jelly shoes.
Have a great weekend of wonderfully fun and entertaining dreams. If the elevator starts talking to you, don’t answer, and be careful out there. It really is a concrete jungle.
PS I saw what I thought was an ad today on Facebook. It read, “Intimate Escapes – from the Tennessee State Prison.” A new novel? A spa? The prisoners are making a special bath oil? Nah…I just read it wrong. It was actually a news update and we have had another inmate escape.