Two of the last three nights, I’ve dreamt that the Geriatric Poodle got kidnapped. In the first dream, I took him to the movies (which he will obviously enjoy, what with being blind and deaf). We saw Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day. At the end of the movie, he was gone.
I finally found him tucked inside the coat of some man I didn’t know. I got him back. The man was nonplussed.
When I woke up, I was upset, then I realized that no one would want a blind and deaf geriatric poodle. And that made me sad.
Last night, I dreamt an acquaintance got in trouble at work, and had to offer up Geriatric Poodle to make good on whatever he messed up. I had to go to City Hall to get my dog back.
Makes sense, obviously.
On one hand, the dog is putting on weight and has a spring in his step. On the other, he doesn’t always eat, still doesn’t settle down, and … I’m dreaming about him dying.
There. I said it.
But everything’s fine, because at work? At work, all of the Indian guys have started calling me the wrong name. Consistently. Out loud and via e-mail.
Usually, I’m Char Char and it’s fine. I am too completely inept in all languages but English to throw stones. But lately? Lately, I’ve become Gladys. I will send out an e-mail, sign it “Cha Cha” and include my “Cha Cha, Czarina of Editorial Whoopass” super-impressive e-mail signature footer.
And the replies? “Dear Gladys …”
Someone keeps stealing my dog, my coworkers don’t know my name, and my hair looks like circa-1982 Joyce Dewitt. Huzzah!
Oh. And my boyfriend says he thinks we might want to take a break from each other while I straighten out my life / work balance issues.
So, yeah, there’s that, too.