The Tale of Two Go-Karts

So. A few years ago I went go-karting for the first time. I was with Mr. Hall. We were not married yet, just dating. I had never been go karting so I did my best to listen the announcer's directions. "The left side is the brake", they said. "If there is a spin out, stop." On and on... they went. I always listen to directions.

Little did I know I would be go-karting with 10 year boys who basically have a death wish and treat the track like bumper cars.

I was thrashed and bumped and worse. When I was done I went marching over to Mr. Hall, whining and crying. "I have such a headache! I need advil! I wanna go home!" Then I started really crying, hyperventilating, "THEY JUST DIDN'T STOP!!"

Mr. Hall laughed a little and said, "Aww... you're such a girl". Then he hugged me, which helped.

It took me years before I would go-karting again. Last year in fact. I went the last day in fall. It was misting out. It was just Me, Mr. Hall and Pancake. I went 3 miles and hour around the track and was healed a bit.

THEN THERE WAS YESTERDAY. YESTERDAY. IT.WAS.ON!


I figured out some tricks like, THERE IS NO NEED TO USE THE BRAKE! and The steering wheel is little SO YOU CAN TOTALLY CRANK ON IT AND WHIP AROUND THE TRACK!

Needless to say, I was kicking some serious ass! PASSED A BUNCH OF 10 YEAR OLD PUNKS! I even gave a love tap to another mom type person CAUSE SHE WAS IN MY WAY!

GRRRR!!! RRAAAWWRRR!!!

The best part, Pancake was next to me in the Kart. She was WOOO HOOOING!!! and doing satan fingers!!



So proud of her! SO PROUD!!

and remember... the N in FUN . . . .It stands for 'NO SURVIVORS!'

Christians (a variety pack of)

It's important to have a sense of humor about things, especially religion. Now, let's bow our head and pray, shall we?



So. I've been to three separate churches in our town thus far. Sampling the Christian buffet as it were. The first one was nice. Awesome Sunday School. But, and I can't believe I'm saying this, I think it was too liberal.

There was a HUGE EMPHASIS on making sure that we knew Jesus was Arab and never spoke English. Which is true. There were political undertones to every sermon. HUGE political undertones. Which was fine. But I don't want to be part of a church that mixes politics with religion. I don't want every Sunday service to be a call to arms. Plus the choir was in the back. This bugged me.



Then we tried The Sticky Wicket Church. It was warmer and nice. We didn't try the Sunday school, though I've heard a lot of positive things about it. The music was plentiful, the colors were warm and it made me feel really good to go.

The sermons were a bit high brow. The pastor obviously had a PHD or some such. Intellectuals do not always make the best speakers. I felt the sermons go over my head as I lack basic knowledge of most bible stories. The music was good though.. It just didn't feel right though. Mr. Hall didn't pursue this church and so stopped going.

THEN, last Sunday . . . We went to a very modern church that had a Christian rock band on the stage. offt!!



I was really overwhelmed by the loud. I was all squirmy as I took in the bright, multicolored spot lights twirling about. I felt the drummer's drum thumping away in my chest it was so loud. And everyone sang for a good half an hour, raising their hands like this:



OH.MY.GAH. It's one of those churches people!! Everyone stands and sways.

I was there because I made friends with another mom who goes there. She had been going there for 10 years. Like me, she's a recovering Catholic. She runs the Sunday School. She and her husband are of the plain sort. Much like most of the population around her. They say things like Yah Der Hey and Super Duper. White bread and mayonnaise. They don't let their kids watch South Park or play Zombie killing games. But this Mom likes me and I find her really funny. So we make friends with them and I like that.

Pfft! I think Mr. Hall and I are starting to relax a bit. Because the more we make contact with outside people, the more we begin to crave it. And even though we were both self-conscious, so overwhelmed with the loud, Mr. Hall really perked up during the service. He became down right chatty afterwards. Cracking jokes and jibber jabbering. Then, THEN he filled out the "New Visitor" card, actually putting our real names on it. He chatted with people and lingered. He wants to go next week to the Church Picnic.

I'm still sort of shocked about it. But, the sermon was on my level. It was relate able and explained in English not latin. And I felt welcome there. And this is what I want the church to be. I want to go and learn and feel God's presence and maybe partake in the fellowship aka the picnic. I want Pancake and Mac to know about God, feel personally attached the bigger forces in the universe.

In the end, this is what all this church going is about. I want to know God. I want an active religious life. So, we're going to the church picnic next Sunday. Cause that's a start!

It has been and will continue to be a strange road my friends. Stayed tuned . . .

Fire on Babylon

So. Made a phone call today.

I called a birthing center. I'm exploring my options for the next pregnancy. Which I WILL NOT TELL YOU PEOPLE ABOUT. I'm not pregnant again so just simmer down. We will see in a few weeks if it worked this month, but again, NOT TELLING YOU PEOPLE. Until I am eight months pregnant. :P

Birthing centers are holistic places. Usually staffed by midwives. Midwives are nurses, like me. Advanced practice nurses. Which means they care more. They move slower, get to know their patients and have that whole nursing caring thing about them.

It was a rough phone call. I was polite, intelligent and well spoken. I explained about my daughter's birth a little. Which I don't like telling. I mean, we all know it worked out ok. But I don't like talking about the emergency C-Section. How I had an epidural and her heart rate was dropping. How they decided to section me, put me under general anesthetic and intubated me. So I missed the first 24 hours of my daughter's life because I was really groggy and my throat hurt because of the tube. It took me a good 5 weeks to realize I had given birth, to connect with my daughter in a loving way.

Five weeks old and there we were, in the kitchen. The room was lit with early morning light.I was warming her bottle, it was about 5 am. It was just me and her. I recognized her for the first time. I held her and said, "Your name is Pancake, my name is Momma." And then I sobbed because I felt it to be true.

Try summing THAT UP in a polite 5 minute phone call!

My son's birth was fabulous. FABULOUS with almost no interventions!! Birthed him right and proper. It was fabulous! The pain was fabulous, the joy was fabulous! I can wax poetic about his birth for days on end and still not be done.

TRY SUMMING THAT UP in a polite 5 minute phone call!!

Then, THEN I started summing up the miscarriage. This was easy, i relied on a lot of technical terms. Six weeks, early ultrasound, D&C, had no complications, no spotting. That was easy until the woman on the phone said, "Oh, I'm so sorry to hear about your miscarriage."

It took all my strength to keep it together.

Because midwives care.

But, I held it together, right and proper.

The thing is, I'm scared. I want another birth like my son's. All natural and blood guts and glory. I want to be cared for. And the next pregnancy I will be needy. I will need to be partners with my caregiver, not treat them as my assistants in the process. I need someone to guide me through this.

And I am fucking done with doctors.

SO. Wish me luck on everything. And thank you all for reading this. Getting it all out here does help keep me sane. As sane as I can be anyway.

:)

My Sunday Post Secret.

If you don't know what post secret is, go here. It's awesome.

but, my post secret is this. Now that summer is here, all sorts of kids we didn't know about are coming out of the wood work. LOTS AND LOTS of kids in this neighborhood. All seeking out my daughter, Pancake (age 7).

Some of them are poor, some of them come from broken home, some have poor manners, some are little punks. Some of them are bad influences. Some of their parents grate me with their white trashness.

Especially this morning when two ragamuffins showed up at 8 oclock. Then an hour later the mom shows up. Her kids "got away from her" and was wondering if they were here. The kids are five and three.

But, it doesn't matter at all. I'm nice and polite and friendly and funny. Because . . .

Good Morning Campers!

SO jazzed about today. Kids slept until 9 AM! Feeling all sorts of put together. So many places we can go, so many things we can do. Shall it be the zoo? The park? A quick coffee at the cafe?

Maybe we should run around howling like monkees for a while? Pretend we are a colony of apes. We can built a fort in the forest living room, hiding with flashlights!

Who knows?

:)

I love Saturdays!

I watched Kick-Ass and Slyde asked me what I thought

Slyde will be the next winner of Survivor. He will, you just watch!



When women partake in media, we find it hard to distinguish between the movie and ourselves. This is true when we watch porn. We think about the woman writhing around, their path in life, what they wanted to be when they grew up. We compare their acrylic nails to our own. Then we think some more and then the whole process of enjoying adult entertainment comes crashing down. It's innate and unwavering, this instinct to blur the lines.

What does this have to do with Kick-Ass? Simmer down people, I'm getting there.

This blurring is most prominent when children are on the screen. Especially if the woman watching the movie is a mom. That would be me, all three: Woman, mother, over thinker.

Kick-Ass, the movie, is about several kids. Different ages, all the same task. Each one has, by either default or design, become a superhero. The kid in front is Dave Lizewski, this is him right here.



I have a lot of painful and giggly appreciation for his character's plight. I can see the bone crushing beauty underneath all that curly hair and geek glasses. I feel bad for all 16 year old boys out there. I wonder what it must be like, all that unbridled lust trapped inside, having no clue to procure a vessel to spend it on. Dave learns a trick though. Girls like boys who appear wounded or venerable. Dave pretends he's gay. This fits both criteria. And thus a girl flocks to him.

I can't help but feel a gut twisting when I look at that photo. I think of a sixteen year old Mr. Hall. All dadless and crucified by coke bottle glasses and a terrible 1970's polyester wardrobe. I look at his high school photos and I cannot recognize him. He's there though, underneath it all. What I wouldn't give to go back in time, to be his high school girlfriend. Giving him regular greedy naked love.




But, ehem, back to the film. . . . .

Other, loftier urges trouble Dave. He is a gigantic comic book fan. Super heroes are made of legendary stuff, bullet proof and ten feet tall. But, as his friends discuss, not every super hero is super human. Some are just highly trained and have expensive toys. Dave revels in this idea and creates himself a superhero. His outfit is really a wetsuit.



But he's not the only one with these urges and access to online shopping. There are other characters. One of them is called "Hit Girl." When I first saw the previews for this film, I reacted violently to Hit Girl. I have a girl about the same age. To see Hit Girl swearing and killing just about made me not even watch this movie. Because girls need protecting and time to be children. Not be all cussing killing machines.



When she appears though, the film turns on me. But not in the way I expected.

Why she's tough, why she's a superhero, is that she's being molded by her Dad. Which was a nice spin on female superheroes by the way. Someone is guiding her. However misguided that may be, it's her Dad at the helm. And I must say, Nicholas Cage doesn't fuck it up too bad in this role. It wasn't pleasing, but it wasn't painful either.



All of these elements collide to form an interesting plot course and finishes off the film quite nicely. I'll let you watch it to figure out how it all comes together.



But, let me leave you with this. The world can be a pretty hard place. There is evil and avarice all around us. Kids are not immune to it and we only hope to protect them for a little while. But while we are at it, why not throw in some bad ass teachings. Teach them to toughen and steel themselves of their own free will. That way, when they meet their nemesis, when they come face to face with evil, they can bust out some Kick-Ass moves of their own.

Mr. and Mrs. Hall discuss his pern stash

Mrs. Hall: So, was looking through your "Hmm" folder.

Mr. Hall: Oh? (smiles)

Mrs. Hall: My question is, why do you have so many files, so many images and movies?

Mr. Hall: Well, I haven't had a chance to weed through them lately. But, it takes a lot of looking to find good porn.

Mrs. Hall: What makes good porn for you?

Mr. Hall: Well, it's really a matter of the end result. What the images provoke in terms of fantasies, feelings... I can tell you what I don't like all day . . .but . .

Mrs. Hall: The big fakins is no good. Where the skin is all rippled around the cantaloupes.

Mr. Hall: Yeah, no good. I like the more amateur stuff, less porn-ey that way. Less professional women who make their mouths gape, making that grunting noise, (he grunts, sticking his tongue out-grabs his chest all fake porn actress like)

Mrs. Hall: What's with all the barely legal stuff though?

Mr. Hall: The women haven't had a chance to get all fake and stripper shoes. There's not all that stupid branded tattoos, more geniune. That's what I like, geniune. I like the couple stuff, the amatuer stuff. Where the people look like they're loving each other.

Mrs. Hall: Huh. Well. You have a lot of women produced films, feminist porn and such. And I can be very thankful I didn't find any guy on guy stuff . . . .

Mr. Hall: THERE IS NO WAY MAN ON MAN PORN will be in the pile. Now, GILF stuff . . .

Mrs. Hall: GILF?

(Mr. Hall says nothing, then I sound out the words in my head.)

Mrs. Hall: GROSS!!!!!!

Mr. Hall: NAH! Just kiddin', NOGILF! There are some videos with guys in vinyl masks, whips and donkeys even.

Mrs. Hall: KNOCK IT OFF!! There is not!!

Mr. Hall: I have some hidden midget files.

Mrs. Hall: SHUT UP!!! STOP PLANTING IMAGES IN MY HEAD!!

It's funny . . . .

mmm. nice.

found from A Bird with a Bomb.

Hugs

When my daughter was little, maybe age three, I went in her room to wake her up. She was in her big girl bed, all jammies and smiles. Eyes still closed. "Come hug me Momma!", she said. And I climbed in behind her. Spooning her tiny frame. For the rest of the day I could feel her in my arms.

This morning my son was sitting butt naked on the barstool, parked in front of the breakfast bar. Waiting for his oatmeal to appear. He was shivering a bit and clutching his pooh bear blankie and Thomas the Train engine. He likes takes his jammie bottoms off when he pees in the morning. His socks and shirt too. We don't bother getting him dressed till after breakfast because he gets oatmeal all over his clothes. I lean in for a hug, rubbing his tiny back, trying to warm him. I'm all fancy dressed for work.

"Don't go Momma!", he says, still shivering oh so slightly. "Mommie has to go to work honey.", I say. "Ok, ten hugs!", he demands. I lean in, hugging him tight and give him ten squeezes without breaking the seal. Then I get greedy and kiss him on the cheek. "NOOOO kisses!," he whines, wiping the kiss smudge. I smiled, skipping off to work.

It was rainy today. Mr. Hall brought lunch. Sadly, we had almost nothing to say to each other. We have officially run out of conversation. We need to get hobbies. Or go on vacation. Or email each other less. Save up some of the things we want to say to each other.

We ate and smiled and blinked and smiled and played footsie. Then we finished and stood. We snuggled, arms wrapped round. The top of my head fit under his jaw, my cheek against his warm neck. In the nuk. We held tightly, slightly swaying. Then it was one o'clock and he left me to finish my work day.

Faceplant repercussions

I really want to make this into a well written and well thought out post. But, that would mean I would have to have time to make it so.

So instead you get this.

Faceplant

So, I never thought it possible, but I reached my limit of kid toleration this weekend. It never occurred to me that I would be driven nuts by my own offspring. Yet there it was.

I woke up on Sunday all rubbed raw and oversensitive to the hollers and sirens that are my kids. It was like I was licking a light socket, constantly. It doesn't help that while I'm trying to parent

STOP CLIMBING ON THE SOFA!! STOP BEATING YOUR BROTHER!! STOP THROWING TOYS!! CLEAN UP ALL THIS CRAP ON YOUR BEDROOM FLOOR!! STOP PULLING THE CAT'S TAIL!!

meanwhile . . . .

Mr. Hall is all non chalant.

THAT BUGS ME AND MAKES MY GROWLY EVEN WORSE. Cause he's just sitting there. Blinking and sipping coffee. Headphones on. Playing zombie killing games. Filtering the morning crazy. Meanwhile I am slowly going insane.

Then brunch. Waffles with strawberries. Mac whips his fork around, syrup flies into his hair. Pancake says, "I donlikeredberries!" and pushes her plate away and that's when I lost it.

I yelled, all crazy momlike, "TEN MINUTES AND WE ARE OUT OF HERE!!!!!" Mr. Hall pours his SECOND CUP of coffee, again, all non plussed. Stupid husband with his stupid filters.

"Where are we going babe?", he asks, sipping non-hurriedly.

"I don't know, we are just going!" I spit through clenched teeth.

I strap the kids in the car. We wait because Mr. Hall NEVER HURRIES. He comes out finally and we are off. 40 minutes of driving and we are at a museum. We spent 2.5 hours watching the kids run and be free in an enclosed space. I start to breathe. I actually laugh.

We drive home, poking at Mac so he won't fall asleep. We pull in the driveway. I whip the kids in bed, they are asleep even before I kiss their foreheads. I fall asleep before my head hits the pillow. Seriously, I did a face plant! I have the cheek mark and the sore neck to prove it. I wake two hours later reborn.

All better. All kinds of tolerance and filtering for my holler monkees. I stop yelling at them. And while I am making supper the kids are knocking stuff over and being loud but it doesn't faze me. Doesn't even register!

I discuss the day with Mr. Hall. I let him know the level of distress I was in. And he says, "Babe, why didn't you leave and go somewhere if you were all crazy like that?"

"I can't. I love spending time with them too much."

:)

Five sentence book reviews

Doing some cleaning, under the bed. I found a number of books I've read in the past few months. I tend to read at night (hence the pile under the bed). I'm not a picky reader and will read anything I can buy for under five dollars. I like to read. A lot.

So, without further ado, here is a five sentence review of my latest reading adventures.

Thousands and thousands of years to produce the intricate traditions of the Geisha. Mineko Iwasaki started her training at age three, by choice. Endless hours of practice, endless discipline to become a living work of art who entertained kings and queens. A breathtaking life soaked in cherry blossoms.

This man is from England. He had an active imagination and use to make up plays with his childhood chums. Then he started stripping as a young gay man, gay porn soon followed. It was an airy, fun and fast read. I've forgotten it already.

I've always been a huge fan of This American Life on PBR. David Sedaris is regular contributor. His stories are a riot. This is his latest book. It is a lot of him, in Japan. All while telling stories that are funny as hell.

This book contains lots and lots of stories based on his family. One of the family members objected, stating, "Don't tell my story, it's MINE!!" To which he replied, "But you're not doing anything with it!" Writers tend to be a ruthless bunch, we forget that everything is not a story. And the people around us are not just characters going through their own arcs.

Or maybe that's just my problem as a writer. Either way, this is the book that made him famous. It's the weakest of the entry. Lots of stories about Paris though. Still funny as hell. Anything Sedaris is a win!

My baby sister in law gave me this one. It sat in the back of my car for two months. Then I started reading it. It's like 500 pages of pure awesome fun. Fun like being a teenage girl again, when you lived or died if a certain boy would look your way that day.

Ryan Loomis never did look at me. HIS LOSS!!!

And now I'm stupid effin hooked. Because these books are serving a vital purpose. The more obsessed I get with them, the less obsessed I am with the sadness after I lost the baby. And it's speeding up my healing in a big way. So there's that. :)

I got this in the dollar bin for shits and giggles. Did you realize that this is porn for women? GREAT GOOGELY MOOGELY!!! I'll be picking up more of these because nothing is funner than reading them out loud in bed. And that's pretty much it for this review. May your nights be filled bodice ripping and manhood throbbing fun!

MOTHER'S DAY ALERT: ZOMBIE ATTACK!!

ATTENTION ALL MOTHERS:

SIDEWALK PAINT IS NOW KNOWN TO

CAUSE ANY CHILD UNDER 7

TO TURN INTO A ZOMBIE!!

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!

TAKE HEART

THE CONDITION IS ONLY TEMPORARY, YOUR CHILD

SHOULD RETURN TO NORMAL

WHEN THE PAINT IS WASHED OFF!

THIS WILL ONLY WORK IF YOUR CHILD

WAS NOT A ZOMBIE

IN THE FIRST PLACE!!

(snicker snicker)

I AM BLESSED BEYOND MY WILDEST DREAMS

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY EVERYONE!

Now go! Give a Mom a hug!!!

(maybe even yours ;)

When you wake up tomorrow, will you still feel the same?

Had an awesome night last night. Double date with good friends. Laughing, boozing and eating really fine cuisine. Woke up with my make up still on. Hair still curled and slamming. Got me thinking about this song. Which asks the question"

"When you wake up tomorrow, will you still feel the same?

So? Will you?



THERE'S A VIDEO ON THE ACTUAL SITE OF MRS. HALL THAT DOES NOT APPEAR IN THE READER. SO GET WITH THE CLICKITY CLICK ALREADY!

Big Throbbing Heart

The blog. It stands neglected.

I have so much to say and I just don't have time for graceful posts. So, instead, I'll just spill it all out.

I was at walgreens yesterday. This maybe tmi but, it was me in the aisle of feminine only products because everything is flipping over to normal. Normal I say. That word is just succulant. For the first time since I lost the baby, I actually feel normal. Normal and capable of doing what what a woman's body does. It's like I've been frozen in a hunk of plastic, suspended and dummified. It felt unreal.

This past month is over. I am now in charge of me again. It feels so much better.

And now it's all resetting and oh my god I started to cry in walgreens. I was so overwhelmed. Part of me thought that I just wasn't capable of being a woman, in that way, anymore. Which is irrational but healing from a miscarriage is not a rational process. And then I thought about the word capable. And I realize I've been putting myself through an unspoken ugly. Silently telling myself bad things.

But this wasn't my fault. It just wasn't time. I'm not defective. And this was what I was thinking in walgreens. I'm glad I had my extra dark sunglasses on because I was crying kind of hard by then. Silently though. Ninja like.

And this month we can try again. But the next you will hear of this is a photo of me super preggies. Like 8 months along. :)

Patient's that bug and bother me (on the subject of) (Let's try this again I say)

This was prematurely published last week. I wasn't done yet. :)


That is one slamming office up there.

I've been thinking a lot lately. I want to be better at my job and LEAVE IT THERE. I am in a caring profession and sometimes patients bug and bother me. It's only natural to get caught up in the emotional nature of being a nurse.

But sometimes, I wake up thinking about a certain patient. Or fall asleep thinking about them. Trying to figure out how I can help them best. Like working a Rubik cube in my mind. Trying to figure out the solution.

Only, with certain patients, certain cases, there is no solution.

This does not sit well with the heart or mind of a nurse. Again, for the newbies-I'm a psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner. Which means I have a big heart to listen and a type A, overachiever brain to whip up a detailed plan for the patient, so they can escape from suffering.

But sometimes patients can't escape. Which bugs and bothers me. Sometimes suffering cannot be alleviated. And I have a hard time accepting this AND THE RUBIK CUBE STARTS TURNING IN MY HEAD AGAIN!

So I ask myself,

WHAT CAN I DO TO MAKE IT STOP? AND WHAT IS CAUSING ALL THIS CRAZY INTROSPECTION?

I was sitting in my office eating a Fiber One Bar for lunch on Tuesday. This was the second time I had not gone out to lunch. I love going out to lunch, especially to Subway for lunch. It's where people eat fresh. It's where I get out of my basement office to see actual sunlight.

Only, there was no subway that day. Because I had worked a patient in, scheduled them during my lunch hour. For the second day in a row. They no-showed on Monday. And they no-showed on Tuesday. Didn't show for two days in a row. Despite me calling them each morning to let them know I was working them in.

This was a patient I had fallen asleep/woken up thinking about. Because they were in crisis. Crisis of their own making- but crisis all the same. And as I was eating my sad little Fiber One Bar, it hit me like a big black safe from above.

I have been a nurse for almost 10 years. I have had hundreds of patients I couldn't stop thinking about in my off hours. Hundreds of patients thought about in hundreds of off hours. None of those hours


amounted


to anything




in the way of me helping them.



BIG BLACK SAFE!!!!!


As a nurse, this Rubik cube thinking, this is very common. Our job is heartbreaking. Especially if there are kids involved. I worked very briefly with kids. Almost broke me. Cried every night I came home, sobbed even. That was a dark time. ok . . that's a hole 'nother blog, moving on here ....

But now I work with adults. Adults who, for the most part, have lots of options available to them. They can speak English, read and write and drive to the clinic. Lots of options. Options I can point them to. And it is not my job to make them take them.

So no. no more. No more of this endless thinking. It's not a marker of the quality of my nursing, this think think thinking. No more working in people over my lunch hour. I think this last Tuesday was a breaking point in my professional life. It's scary to think like this. But no more.

It will be hard habit to break, this ruminating on certain patients. But, I only work eight hours during the day. If I can't help them within those eight hours, their pain will have to wait till tomorrow. Because their pain is not mine. Their life is not my life.

In fact, my life is going quite grand. Best to get to it!

Bad mood rising

Yesterday Mac was a Crank and Spank most of the day.

My hope is that he didn't pick it up from me. Because I'm a little cranky.

I don't like having the kids alone. Mr. Hall served two tours in Iraq and I've done more then enough time as a faux single mom. He's been part of the military (national guard) for almost 20 years now. He has eight more months of these weekends left. One more two weeks. It was part of him before we met. But, soon he'll be retiring. We both feel it's time.

So today, I'm going to go places and keep them busy. Because busy keeps the cranky away. Because this day will not be like yesterday. Today is gonna be filled with kisses :)

Figure this dream out, I dare you

Morning all!

All is right here at the House of Hall. We have lights again. Making oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins. And chewing over my dream.

See if you can shed light on the subject:

I had a dream we moved to Indiana. Apologies to Indiana folk and my cousin. But it was backwoods run down neighbor hood, cracked sidewalks, dusty Cadillacs under tarps I was suppose to sell, old house with cracked wood frames , religious bible belt culture, sloooww talking people and i was seeing patients in an old hospital. bad patient interaction too. scary creepy bad. what does it mean? anyone?

:)

good luck!