I don't know if you've had this experience, but I woke up with an attitude. It doesn't happen often, but it does—especially after one of those dreams. If you've been here before, you probably know exactly what I mean.
The attitude I woke up with wasn't one of those hot, explosive moods; it was the kind that makes me not care one way or the other. It's the attitude that keeps asking, "Why bother? What difference does it make?" That's how my day started—and you'd probably feel something similar if you had my dream.
This particular dream was directly connected to the podcast editing I've been doing over the past few days. If you read my recent post about Ms. Wonder's upcoming photography exhibit in New York, you know that I'm staging a series of podcasts for auto-publishing so I can clear a week to attend the show.
In the dream, I was recording an ad for one of the podcast's sponsors. Of course, in our ordinary four-dimensional reality, the podcast doesn't have sponsors at all. But in the dream dimension, I'd somehow landed a lucrative partnership:
"And now, a word of shameless self-promotion…
I manage a tech media empire—blogs, podcasts, articles, and documentaries. Technology is constantly changing, but I don't worry about it, because I'm partnered with Squirrel Socks. Their on-demand learning platform offers hands-on, expert-led courses that help me master new skills fast and stay ahead of the curve. With Squirrel Socks, I don't fear what's next—I chase it. SquirrelSocks, the wild neural network in my backyard.
Now, back to the podcast…"
Yes, Squirrel Socks. Because my subconscious thinks woodland creatures are the future of tech education and it has something to do with their footwear. When I woke up, I spent a solid five minutes wondering if SquirrelSocks.com was actually available as a domain name. (Spoiler: I didn't check. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.)
When newcomers hear about my dreams, they often start leaving messages of condolence in the comments. They're kind, but not necessary, and I'd rather not read them. So if you feel moved to write one, consider reading the featured post instead—it's usually more upbeat and doesn't tug at the heartstrings.
Oops—I've let myself get derailed again. Let's get back to the blog post, where, if you recall, I'd just asked Wonder why we were leaving so early.
"I thought it would be best to get there early to find a parking space, and then we can have coffee at Bespoke before heading to the courthouse."
Her answer tied me in knots. I wanted to ask why we were going to the courthouse and why we'd have trouble finding parking downtown on a weekday, but I let both questions go. Instead, I said, "Oh, cool! I haven't had coffee at Folks Cafe in ages."
"You have—you just don't remember," she said, and I felt as though I were in an episode of The Kominsky Method.
It turned out that the main event planned for the day was a show of support for the river tour operators, who were being harassed by the homeowners' association of a high-rise condo overlooking the Riverwalk. Because nothing says "community spirit" quite like wealthy condo owners versus hardworking tour boat captains. I could already sense this was going to be peak entertainment.
The coffee took the edge off my mood, and I started looking forward to revisiting Folks Cafe. But no. A few minutes after we parked downtown, I realized Wonder had actually said "Bespoke Cafe," not "Folks Cafe." My dream-addled brain had apparently decided to engage in a little creative interpretation. At this rate, I'd be lucky to remember my own name by lunchtime.
I kept my cool until we left the cafe headed uptown toward the courthouse. The pedestrian signal changed, we stepped into the street, and the crosswalk was immediately blocked by a county sheriff's SUV that pulled to a stop at the curb. We slipped behind it and crossed the street, which left me mulling over the fact that a police officer had just encouraged us to jaywalk. For someone nursing a dream hangover featuring imaginary sock-wearing squirrels, it was a lot to take in.
As I slipped around the car, I gave it a slap with my open hand, already armed with a perfectly reasonable excuse in case the officer thought I was being impertinent: I'm cautious to a fault about Ms. Wonder's safety. "Damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead," I thought.
Naturally, it was impertinent to smack the back of the vehicle. Still, it was a small joy, and I felt I'd earned it, given how the day was unfolding. Plus, if Squirrel Socks could exist in my dreamscape, surely I could tap a sheriff's SUV in broad daylight.
While we were waiting outside the courtroom, we found out an early-morning bomb threat had delayed the schedule. We remained in the hallway, where we were repeatedly reminded to keep the noise down. Because nothing pairs better with a bomb threat than stern librarian energy from the bailiff.
I was beginning to feel better about the day—especially about the courtroom proceedings. In the evenings at home, we were watching reruns of Franklin & Bash, where courtroom drama was more courtroom comedy, and I hoped to find blogging inspiration watching the judge, the bailiff, and opposing counsel. I envisioned witty repartee, dramatic reveals, maybe even a tasteful objection or two delivered with perfect timing.
Alas. Isn't it often the case that our little hearts are disappointed to learn that life isn't always what we hopped for?
The first to speak, after the bailiff's call to order, was the attorney for the good guys. He looked like Barney Fife, and I was ready for a good show. I regretted not being allowed to use my phone to take notes. It became a moot point when the lawyer rambled on for over an hour, even though he had only three points of argument. Three points. One hour. That's twenty minutes per point, which is either dedication to thoroughness or a masterclass in verbal padding.
I wondered why he deliberately chose to risk alienating the judge by repeating himself a half-dozen times. Then I considered that having possession of the floor might be a strategy similar to having possession of the ball in sports contests; something to research later.
At last, the speaker sat down, and the judge called on the lawyer for the dark side of the force. He was worse, my friend—far, far worse. The night before, I'd watched an episode of Emily in Paris where the main characters pelted each other with baguettes, and I began to wish for one of those perfectly hand-sized baked missiles. From my seat in the gallery, I was certain I could bounce one off the back of the counselor's head.
The whole affair was nothing like Franklin & Bash. I left the courtroom wondering why anyone would attend a legal hearing for entertainment. I suppose my dad had his finger on the nub when he said, "It takes all kinds." Rem acu tetigesti, like the dickens, baby.
After spending two hours listening to Mutt and Jeff swap 'he said, she saids,' the judge finally commented on the arguments. His "verdict" was that he wasn't sure he had jurisdiction to rule. What now? Two hours of legal theater, a bomb threat, an SUV-assisted jaywalking adventure, and a caffeinated case of mistaken identity—all leading to "Sorry, not my job."
All in all, I'd call it a textbook case for The Circular Journey. Don't you agree? I know tht somewhere in the wild neural network of my backyard, the squirrels are definitely laughing and pulling up their socks with a smirk.
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