Nightmares

I had planned to write tonight about how everyone needs to stop sharing that video of John Cleese complaining about political correctness because straight white guys have just got got got got GOT to stop complaining about "political correctness."  It's not just that it's a poorly-defined term whose primary function is to provide cover for assholes (when I googled the video to make the above link, the first hits were from Fox and The Blaze... you do the math).  But, it's also that it's rich and ripe beyond reason to complain about something that you've literally never ever ever been on the other side of because you are straight and white and male and, therefore, de-fucking-fault.

Also, despite all the pearl clutching over "political correctness", the world is a much better place for comedy now that Eddie Murphy (whom I love) is no longer able to lean on a punch line that is literally only "you faggoty-ass faggot" and Andrew Dice Clay (whom I do not love) is no longer able to book an HBO special on the strength of how he edits nursery rhymes so that they're all about how women have no function beyond spunk receptacle.

And besides all that, for the love of Monty Python (which I do love so very much), surely a man as hilarious and brilliant and effortlessly witty as John Cleese is more than equal to the task of handling an over-sensitive college student. Right?

But then I worried that I would have to spend too much time explaining that despite my opinion on how John Cleese had really oughta shut it when it comes to complaining about political correctness, I love and adore him unconditionally and am almost afraid to even mention him because the looming specter of celebrities I love dying is starting to give me a complex.   But I do love John Cleese.  Here have a John Cleese gif:

I love John Cleese.  And also, I am tired.  I am so tired.  Which is why I just spent several paragraphs writing about how I wasn't going to write about something I'm writing about.  It's the fatigue, guys!  And I am fatigued because Freddy Kruger seems to have taken over a portion of my brain and is just fucking WRECKING my sleep cycle.  Every night around 2:00 am is all like this:

And then I can't get back to sleep.  I mean, there was the bolting out of bed in a fit of screams because I was sure there was a rat about to fall from my ceiling onto my bed on Saturday.  On Sunday,  I dreamed I was a man who was married to Madonna.  That's not not the nightmare.  Although:

Girl, put it away and dial it back because you are leaving a trail of tryhard all over that red carpet and you are a hero of mine from way back and also, please, don't die for at least another 30 years because I cannot take another one!

Anyway, on Sunday, I dreamt I was married to Madonna and I was a man and Madonna ended up slamming her head into a radiator on purpose and bashing in half of her face and then when I went over to stop her I ended up with a glass shard literally through my eye.

WHISKEY TANGO FOXTROT?

There was another one last night - I can't remember it because I'm still too tired from the other two nights. I just know that it was and that I was up in the wee small hours trying to remember that the world is a good and kind place and that sleep is a lovely release.

I am sick to death of whatever is yanking my subconscious from blissful REM sleep to remind me that life is fleeting and there is violence and also, here,  have a surreal and disturbing image or two to carry with you as you stumble into the bathroom because also you have to pee:

(If you find you are suffering from nightmares, maybe don't go searching for "surreal and disturbing gif" because OH MY GOD!!  That one up there is nowhere near the worst.  I'm not going to share the worst one because I love you all!  Not as much as I love John Cleese, but I do love you!)

I'm worried that I am talking myself into nightmares because not only do I suffer from whatever neurotic malady is giving me nightmares,  I also suffer from the uniquely American combo of Catholic guilt + Yankee Can Do-itiveness which means I believe everything is my fault and it would stop if I just tried a little harder.  So, when I go to bed at night I should be able to just convince myself to have pleasant dreams.

This is nonsense, but still I'm going to try it. Tonight I will attempt to lull myself into 8 hours of restive sleep by having something warm and herbal (shut up - I'm talking about tea) before bed and then watching an episode of Andy Griffith because then perhaps I'll dream of sitting on the porch in Mayberry, with a bellyful of Aunt Bee's pie and the dulcet tones of Sheriff Taylor strumming on his guitar which is so peaceful that I'll forget about the kind of horrible and restrictive underwear I'd, as a woman of Mayberry, be wearing. That old underwear is truly the stuff of nightmares.  Girdles and stays OH MY!

Maybe instead of being a woman in Mayberry, I'll dream I'm a man and then I'd only have to worry about obnoxious college students being politically correct.  I'm pretty sure I could sleep right through Threat Level Whatever Oh My God Get Over It.

Wish me luck!

When Laney Was...

When Laney was 2, she sat on my lap in a yellow glider in a lavender room and I read her stories and sang her songs.  I'd put my nose on the top of her head and nothing has ever smelled that good since.

When Laney was 6, I found her standing in the kitchen, weeping over some childhood tragedy.  I picked her up and she wrapped her legs around my waist and nestled her head in my neck and cried until she felt better.

When Laney was 9, she went to a new school and I sat in my car as she walked into the playground, among a hundred kids she didn't know.  I sat in the car and watched and cried and hoped so hard that someone would be her friend (someone was).

When Laney was 12, we drove home from school and she checked her phone to see what had happened in the virtual world that day. She said, more to herself than to me, "Someone just tried to trade me a stupid Pokemon for one of my good Pokemons." I didn't understand what that meant, but was feeling sort of silly, so I said, "I hope you told them they could fuck right off." And then we laughed and laughed.

Sometimes I wish Laney could still fit in my lap and that I could hug her woes and worries away.  But sometimes I'm glad that she's a big kid who laughs and laughs at a strategically-deployed f-bomb.  And both of those sometimes seem to be happening at the same time all the time.

Sorry that was so mushy.  I'm having some feels tonight.  Here's an Archer gif. When Laney is 16 (maybe 17) maybe we can enjoy Archer together.