A more apt title would be: There would be 50 more posts on here, if my memory didn't suck and/or I wasn't opposed to having blog posts temporarily tattooed to my body.
Once again, Lawyer Jim & I were having some discussion that started out perfectly normal and straight forward, only to have it make a severe left turn, followed by a complete 360, double somersault, and triple toe loop, and inevitably, doing the splits instead of sticking the landing. Invariably, one of us will say, that should definitely go on the blog. I make a mental note so I can write about it later--because we are usually in the car or about to pass out for a few hours sleep when this happens--and move on to what's for supper or snoring.
Then by the next day, I get on my computer and realize that once again I am suffering from temporal amnesia. Rarely do I remember what the serious conversation was about. Even when I do, I can no longer remember what happened to make it so hysterically funny that either of us thought it was blog worthy.
It's been happening so often lately, that I started wondering if I was just dreaming this stuff up.
You know when you have some dream about going to take your final exam in a class that was crucial to you graduating, only to find out the professor--who in real life was your 3rd grade teacher--has declared that the exam is only worth 10% of your grade and the rest is based on attendance. Which sucks because you haven't been to class all semester since you already knew how to color inside the lines, do basic addition/subtraction, and read above a first grade level--for those of you who can't follow my dream, this is what the syllabus you got on the first day said would be covered in your world history course--so you never went to class since you knew you would ace the final exam. Also, you realize you're going to flunk the final exam, because apparently your World History professor covered differential equations, advanced spanish grammar, and geospatial imaging in order to properly teach the course.
Then you wake up in a cold sweat, looking around to see everyone's disapproving stares, only to realize it was just a silly dream, because you didn't sign up for World History this semester. Never mind the kindergarten level syllabus, the 3rd grade teacher that just happens to become your college professor, the random mix of upper level subjects thrown into a World History exam, or the fact that you haven't take a college course in over a decade that should indicate to you this was a dream. It's the fact that you specifically remember choosing to take Latin American History instead of World History.
What? You only have dreams about unicorns pooping gold? Well, screw you. Not all of us can have rich, fanciful dreams in this economy.
Anyway, the point is. I thought maybe I was dreaming up these blog worthy conversations and didn't realize they were dreams because the absurd parts of a dream obviously don't register in my brain as possible indicators of dream versus reality. Plus, since the real conversation part is factually correct, my brain wouldn't say: "That was obviously a dream, because you are actually filthy rich, so there's no reason for you to be having a conversation about whether you should A. go to the dentist or B. take one of the three pets, that are well overdue for vaccinations, to the vet this month. You're swimming in money after all, so go get titanium dental implants and a new stupidly inbred toy poodle and donate your old pets and teeth to the poor."
Instead, my brain says: "Sorry, that dentist versus vet thing was total reality. You're so poor, that you should be glad they don't have debtor's prison anymore. However, I noted your anxiety disorder was kicking into overdrive again when you realized the answer was neither this month, again, since images of toothless Lawyer Jim in court and worm infested dogs and cats were coming in faster than I could delete them. So, for your own good, I created a brain distraction, so you didn't overload, and when you were sleeping I removed the whole conversation from the files. So, that's why you can't remember that conversation, but no it wasn't a dream. You're welcome. Oh, and before you start thinking about the dentist versus vet thing too much again...a giant metal chicken, a weasel, and a monkey with a leprousy snout knock on Lawyer Jim's door and invite him to buy into their Tardis timeshare, which only costs four new sets of towels a year." (Ok, if you didn't get that joke, you obviously still haven't discovered The Bloggess. Shame on you, because that joke was fucking hilarious!)
However, I don't trust my brain to tell me the truth these days though, so I asked Lawyer Jim about it. He also remembers the words, "that is definitely going in the blog," being uttered. However, he also seems to be suffering from temporal amnesia. Probably, because when you've been married for almost 15 years you develop this wireless link between processors, I mean brains. It's good most of the time, because you often don't have to verbally communicate with each other, however, if one of you gets a malicious brain virus (most humans refer to it as a stress induced panic attack), then the other is in danger of getting it too.
I'm also realizing this whole posts is not going to make sense to anyone but me and possibly Lawyer Jim. If you do understand it, then be afraid. Be very afraid. Also, have you're brain scanned for malicious viruses, stress, anxiety, faulty wiring, old age, etc.
Oh, yeah. The temporary tattoo thing. As the Insanity Wrangler, I have a strict policy against ME having tattoos, especially ones that have more than one word. First, because it'd hurt like hell, and I'm a wimp when it comes to pain. Secondly, temporary or permanent tattoos of a blog nature would freak me out all the time, because I would forget that I had them. Then invariably I would get all self-conscious and freak out when people stared for extended lengths of time at specific parts of my body up close like they were examining some hideous mole with a long hair coming out of it, all because I forgot that I had to write in very fine print to fit the entire post on my left b...um, bicep.
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