Okay, actually I dreamed this nearly a full week before black Friday, but “Before I woke up on Black Friday” makes for a better title than “Before I woke up a Week Before Black Friday.” Anyhow, I dreamt that I had only dreamt that Obama won the 2008 Presidential Election. In this dream within a dream, I awoke to learn that George W. Bush, Jr. was the first ever American President to run for a third term. Under his administration, the American government had accrued more power than at any other point in our nation’s history. It had practically become pre-Revolutionary War England again. Such a circumstance thus allowed W. to break yet another unruly constitutional protection. (Christ, will somebody just bring me a big box of tea already?) But anyway, because the country and government were so fouled and b/c everyone was afraid of the Bushian dynasty, Bush was running unopposed. That is until the power hungry villain from the new James Bond movie stepped up to the plate. He was French, and he wanted a chance to tell the white house head chef the proper way to season freedom fries. Plus, the White House would serve as a heavily protected compound for his internationally entrenched anthrax trade – and without the fuel cell issue plaguing his former Bolivian desert hideaway too. Somehow, in the midst of all the smear campaigning, I was forced by some unidentifiable hand (probably God’s) to run on a third party ticket. It was called the “Nice People’s Republic of Non-Wackedness” party. I didn’t want to do it, but I was sanctioned by cosmic force. I knew it was a mistake, a runaway train wreck that could not be stopped. But some poor shmo had to offer up some damage control here, and apparently the great creator of the universe had picked me. I had to go on national t.v. with Katie Couric. I forgot to wear a slip. You’d have thought I was J-Lo swinging my stack in that see-through, seaweed-green dress at the Oscars. It was scandalous. Then I publicly forgot whether Australia was a country, continent, or a tiny township touting tasty kangaroo burgers. I awoke on Black Friday (really a week before Black Friday) sweating over the fact that the fate of the world was left in the hands of George, Jr., the smarmy villain from Quantum of Solace, or me. God, I felt so screwed that day. Perhaps I should try yoga again.
We Thought it Was a Pot Roast” is merely a structured excuse to sit on the sofa and write something on Saturdays. I run a rural non-profit, so don’t expect to find prolific posting here. I’m too busy trying to fundraise in an economic downturn.
As you may surmise from my posting about first grade playground traumas, I’m one to be more concerned with basic survival than with winning. (Note that though I played tennis for a decade, I still apologize when I win a shot. Admittedly, Pictionary is an exception though. In that arena, I grow bloodthirsty and gloating).
The pen helped me survive recess. In the third grade, I wrote my first story about a red dragon that loved to play Atari, especially the game in which a poorly rendered yet valiant knight must capture a gold chalice from a fire-breathing reptile.
Soon, I began collaborating with my best friend (another recess reject who could produce spot-on Yoda impressions) on adapting our stories for the stage. All of the playground’s prima donnas wanted to be superstars. So, as long as we had a play in the works, we felt protected.
I’ve often allowed every day demands to block me from writing. This is surprising. Considering the mundanity of the everyday demands in my life, one would expect me to use writing to procrastinate, not the other way around. But things have not worked out that way. I now realize the potential for blogging to lend me the focused time & safe outlet I need to reconnect with my keyboard. Perhaps this will help me better navigate the political intrigue and perils I face in the small town non-profit milieu.
Oh, and I also like climbing trees, ghost stories, inner tubing, lemon custard ice cream, and weird human tricks. Oh and otters.