On the third night of my Thanksgiving holiday, I had a dream about work--about WORK! As befits a woman of my region of origin and upbringing, it wasn't subtle about it, either. In the dream, I was meeting with someone at work who I was warned had to approached just so, and it turned out the frighteningly prickly person I was approaching was a Pooh-bah in Corporate Communications.
A waxy 30-something Pooh-bah, but a Pooh-bah nonetheless. In Corporate Communications.
Could there be anything sadder? This dream is particularly galling, for I have been reading books on meditation and spirituality ALL WEEKEND, and they all are big on writing down what one sees in dreams. Our dreams offer signs of our past lives, our future, blah-blah-blah.
Well, apparently, I have a future approaching Pooh-bahs in Corporate Communications. Or were past lives involved in the same tepid endeavor?
Wait a minute--I have a PRESENT approaching Pooh-bahs in Corporate communications.
"The horror. The horror."
The good part of the dream was that before I approached the dreaded Pooh-bah, I did a video with the CEO of the company. In a delicious turn of events, it wasn't the actual CEO of my actual place of business, it was--God love 'im--Martin Sheen.
Yes, I dreamt that Martin Sheen was my CEO. He was almost as sharp as Pres. Bartlett on "The West Wing," but the second time we tried to get him to do the video, he got hung up on a bit of jargon on a marketing piece we were waving around. He didn't understand it, and wasn't going to do any more work on the video until he did.
A great number of people leapt forth to explain the term, but no one could appease his CEO-ness. So, the video came to a halt.
In an interesting turn, the marketing piece at issue was printed on purple paper. This, I think, was partially due to the fact that purple is in great favor with me and some of my work cohorts, and partially due to the Blue Letter that featured so prominently in the film, "Hudsucker Proxy."
Saw that film for the first time this weekend, and it was a disappointment. It was obviously going for greatness, but didn't come close--even with that cast (including Paul Newman!).
Alas, these things happen....
Speaking of things happening, this Thanksgiving certainly qualified as memorable. Linda and I were guests at a friend's celebration, to which she and her gal had invited about 20 people. It seemed to all be coming together, and then the oven broke. Even after the best efforts of five handy lesbians, it refused to heat up again.
Hostess nightmare!
After much tearing of hair and so forth, and several suggestions that bordered on insanity, Linda and I managed to talk said hostess into letting us finish the job. We had the nearest working oven and our car wasn't parked in, so we were dispatched with the giant bird and three trays of root vegetables.
We cooked the turkey and veggies, but for safety's sake, I made a call to the Butterball hotline. The bird had cooked for a while, but had not cooked for a while, too, and my dear brudder had salmonella as the result of a cooked/uncooked chicken, so I was worried. (Who wants to play a part in poisoning people on a holiday? Not I!)
Happily, the "home economist" on the line said the turkey had cooked long enough that it was no longer a threat to humanity. (My words, not hers.)
So, we finished cooking everything, wrapped the bird and veggies up in foil, put them carefully in the back of my car, and drove back to our friend's house. We arrived to cheers and much gladness.
The Dykes Who Saved Thanksgiving, is how I like to think of it (with apologies to the Grinch).
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment