Bethalou

My latest adventure has been learning to scooba dive.  On Scooba Tuesdays, I don my pink mask, my BCD, my tank, and my fins, and stride out into the Big Blue….swimming pool. And thus I become, dundadah! Scooba Beth. Today we learned how to suck air from a rushing deluge of escaping tank air. Which is to say, we learned to carbonate our very selves.

First two impressions:

1) I feel like I’m in a Willi Wonka movie. I’m being turned into soda pop!

and the seemingly less interesting:

2) I CAN’T BREATH! FOCUS!

I was kidding myself; there is no focusing when your face is pressed up against a pillar of giant bubbles.

I survived. Looking back, I’m glad I survived. I think life is pretty good.

This may become a dream diary because my dreams are so much fun.

I was talking to a friend on a roof. Meredith and I were driving home. After our visit, we head back down I94.  The car breaks down at a wedding. We borrow bikes and resume our journey down I94. Our bicycles break down in Alexandria. We stop at a very nice Bank/Bordello so that I may sell sexual favors so that we may buy more bikes. A Japanese man, presumably a potential customer, begins to take an interest: “Fuck you.” he says, in the most congenial and passive manner. He’s not aware that it’s an insult, but seems to be greeting me. Weirded out, I lean over to sign the consent form (one must always be official while selling one’s flesh), but then I think, “What am I doing? This is foolish!” and begin to yell “I’M A VIRGIN!! I’M A VIRGIN!” This clarifies my concerns to everyone in the room—”Oh! She’s a virgin! Yes, she would be hesitant, yes!” Dith and resume our journey, this time peddling tinytiny bikes taken from tinytiny children. These bikes are frustrating to peddle, our knees jab at our faces, our shoulders are sore from being hunched over, and we begin to despair of ever reaching Moorhead. The bikes, unsurprisingly, break down. Luckily, we stop at a junkyard ran by a man who looks like my uncle Mark. Uncle Mark’s doppleganger leads us through his junkpile; he is sort of creepy and sort of normal. My dad walks out of Mark’s house. He is trying to get his flannel shirt on over his t-shirt, but his shirt is still buttoned. He struggles with the shirt, his arms won’t go in the sleeves correctly, his head pops out the head-hole, and he smiles his “Well isn’t this ridiculous” smile.

And then I woke up.

There is no whining about real things on the internet.

So, I will say some other things, even though I am in a complaining mood.

First, my imagination has been traveling some odd backroads these days, even in the daytime hours I catch myself daydreaming–convincingly. Sometimes I’m an explorer, a ballet dancer, a native of France, a teacher, a really poor student (…uh), a runner… I fantasize about encountering monsters, people-monsters, ghosts, men in tophats, world-figures, grizzlies, historical figures (Jane Goodall), grandmothers (not my own), and mean or odd versions of my teachers. I look down the street and imagine a giant wave of water crashing along towards me and think, “I don’t even have a lifejacket or a surfboard”. In my daydreams I can surf, by the way. It seems from this list that I spend most of my time being anxious, but it’s not so. I mean, it’s all very apathetic, detached daydreaming. Sort of like a “Hmm, well!” reaction.

Moving on, of course I miss home and those at home. That’s as close to whining as I’m going to write here.

Literature classes are like playing in mud puddles. Even driest, most adjectival novel or poem is a treat.

Frickin art, takes my heart, care to fart, but not at Walmart?

Why did I ever get into philosophy?

A little while ago, I moved back to school. Here, I reacquainted myself with a mythology teacher sporting muttonchops and the phrase “Yoo-hoo!” The man is delightful and swankily old. I just wanted to say that because saying it reminds me that there is life ahead of me. I so desperately want to skip middle-age. Minus the whole waiting-for-death-to-come-knockin thing. I just want to be 66 for like fifteen years. Then, I’ve decided I want to be shot in the head by a sniper. It will be painless and unexpected and my children will be told that I died peacefully in my sleep.

Things I’m thinking about:

1) Whenever the time comes to party, I wear black. Why? Black is for mourning and looking sexy. Not at the same time. Still, I must wear black for the bar scene and for parties, even though I don’t know any deceased peeps and well, I have no interest in the sexy-looking. You’ll have to take my word on that. Also, usually I have to borrow something. Otherwise I feel…stagnant. Like an 80-year-old goldfish.

2) Today I wore leggings under a dress. This is wildly unexpected.

3)Yesterday while walking with Meredith, I murmured without thinking: “Thuh ocean.” I was completely fixated on the difference between “Thee ocean” and “Thuh ocean”. It isn’t unusual for me to be daydreaming in this way, but this may be a sign. Get a grip girl, you’re becoming your father. Then again, my father is awesome.

4) Norwegian myth? Fascinating!!

5) I want: a hug from at least three people who are nowhere near me right now.