No More Nachos Before Bedtime....

So I had this weird dream last night. Which isn't weird part, I have weird dreams all the time - my brain is a dangerous neighbourhood and shouldn't be explored alone after dark. Or in a car with really nice hub-cabs. (I once had a dream that blended Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds and The Wizard of Oz and the only thing in colour were the wings on those damn flying monkeys. They were purple. But I digress. )

This particular dream involved an old high school boyfriend, who according to my subconscious, was flying to Calgary to become a rodeo clown. A large group of us from high school had gathered in a pub for the going away party (I am still unsure why we had all traveled to this party - apparently he is a very popular guy.) While the party was in full swing, some drunken patrons decided to pick a fight with the guest of honour - because "clowns need a good beatin' ". Now that I am awake, I am not sure I disagree - but at the time it raised righteous ire in our group and the dream quickly degenerated into some sort of 80's video street gang rumble scene - bad bandanas, stilted choreography and all.

I know he did actually fly to Calgary recently, because Facebook told me so, and Facebook never lies. I sincerely doubt it was to become a rodeo clown. I hope not, at any rate, because clowns are seriously creepy. I am not the only one afraid of the crazy rainbow hair and too large shoes, either. A quick jaunt around Google comes up with dozens of sites devoted to the clown menace. Which made me wonder - were clowns always creepy, even before Stephen King? Did Mr. King tap into some deep seated clown fear that snaked through the North American subconscious or did he just ruin clowns for the rest of us?

(By the way, did you know if you plug subconscious - incorrectly - into the Merriam Webster online dictionary to get the correct spelling you get this as a suggestion. Really? Does that seem close at all?)

Oh How You Break My Heart

One of our fish died today. The medium sized orange platy with the white belly. This is very upsetting. I feel angry and betrayed, as though the poor little fish died just to spite me. See, I had this theory, this superstition if you will - I figured as long as I was diligent about cleaning the tank, re-arranging the rocks and plants so they never tired of their surroundings, and buying them food that cost more than they did, the fish would reward me by living a long and productive life. That dream is now gone and I feel bereft. The little plastic castle will never be the same.

We will miss you Lola...

...or was that Charlie?

The Tradition Continues...

You will be pleased to note on this fine Thanksgiving weekend that although the world may become more modern and complex, lacking the grace and stateliness of our fore bearers that some traditions - institutions, if you will - remain eternal.

My four year old daughter brought home that icon of elementary school artwork, the pinnacle of holiday decor...

... the turkey hand.