Remember my car? The beautiful Lemon from Hades? We hadn't had any run-ins for awhile. Fingers and toes have been crossed for a couple months now, as apparently my wayward vehicle had decided to more or less behave. For now. There is no Ford Taur-O-Scope by which to determine what days it's better to drive it and which to jail it in a closed garage.
This day was bright and windy, in the 70s. I got out of the car and pushed the "trunk" button to release the lock. I had to push a couple times...it was jammed. I tugged on the trunk hood. Finally, it gave way. I raised it and leaned in to deposit the junk I'd cleared out of the front seat. Just as I was leaning in, I felt a WHAM as the hood slammed down on the front of my skull, just above my forehead. It happened so fast I just yelped and saw stars and stood there, bent over into the trunk, moaning and holding my head in my hands, waiting to see straight. I was knocked stupid! lol
There wasn't any blood, and I told myself it must have been a freak gust of wind that bounced the trunk hood up and then down hard, but I suspect it was just another of my car's little tantrums.
I went through the rest of the day in a fog. J was working long hours and needed me to take his vehicle in for maintenance later that afternoon. I did, but I was still dazed...or something. My head throbbed and I felt confused and crabby. I took my new copy of "Everything I Want to do is Illegal" by Joel Salatin with me to read in the waiting room while the dealership worked on the truck. There was a long line ahead of my vehicle waiting for service. I settled in.
Finally, the service person came in and explained that they'd finished the oil change. I nodded. She explained that 3 of the tires were bad. I squinted up at her, head throbbing. She explained how they did not recognize the brand of tires because obviously they hadn't been purchased through the dealership, and blah blah blah, a white noise of upsell-speak. I nodded.
After she was done explaining all that, I realized I hadn't registered some of the particulars, so I asked her "So what exactly IS wrong with the tires you say are bad?"
"They're worn out," she replied.
Only I didn't understand her. I saw her lips move and heard noise, but sincerely didn't understand her words. I squinted up at her with more concentration. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" I asked.
"They're worn out," she said more slowly.
I was having a trunk-concussion disconnect. It didnt compute. Her words sounded like the teacher on a Charlie Brown TV special. I was getting embarrassed. How do you explain to a stranger that your car tried to brain you and you're feeling mentally impaired? I tried again. "I'm really sorry, I'm having trouble understanding you. What did you say??"
Now she was standing only 3 feet away. She stared at me soberly with an odd expression, and very slowly enunciated "THEY'RE.........WORN..........OUT???" She waited for me to nod affirmation that I'd finally understood, and then she fled.
Now I can laugh about it, but when I got home I felt awful and went to bed immediately. J was just getting ready for work (he's working nights) and asked how the oil change had gone. "Something about tires, but I really couldnt tell you," I said, and pulled the covers over my head. "Do I need to take you to a doctor?" asked my husband. "It looks like your head is still bothering you."
Visions of medical bills loomed in my mind. Of this being no big deal and my being a wimp with just a bruised lump, and of having to wait most of the night in the ER just to be told to take 2 Tylenol and not to operate heavy equipment for a few hours.
Or visions of some overeager resident wanting to try a new procedure on me. That made me think of tried and true veteran physicians who do what's called for in the moment with no fuss and a That's That efficiency. Then I recalled something I read on a blog once, the CountryDoctorsWife blog...something involving staples and head wounds.
No, I would stay home. There was no blood, no gore...nothing requiring a staple gun.
So I fell asleep. And then I had the most vivid and lifelike dream.
Here's how the it went: I thought I had fallen asleep, and then I heard a knock on the door. Holding my head and wondering who it might be at this hour of the night, I went to open it. I swung the door open and there, in front of the plate glass security door, was Rechelle from CountryDoctorsWife, holding a digital video cam (the light was shining right in my face) and I heard her say, "This is Rechelle from http://www.countrydoctorswife.com/, and I'm here paying you a surprise visit!""Rechelle??" I said, shocked. I couldn't grasp what someone I'd never met would be doing at my front door. (I only recognized her from having seen the home videos on her blog.) I couldn't remember if the house were clean and neat, and all this was being caught on camera, live. I know Rechelle's blog, but I don't know Rechelle, have never met her in person. Or corresponded. I do enjoy her blog a lot, though.
"Well, GOSH...hi! What are you doing here??" I didn't know what to say. Offer her a muffin? Did I have any muffins? On second thought, were my dishes washed and was my refrigerator a mine field? Sheesh, I wondered how I looked just out of bed.
Invite her in? Of course...I can't NOT invite her in! My head was still fuzzy. I invited her in.
Rechelle was animated, funny, and with camera running was busy giving a witty commentary about my unswept entryway, my untrimmed shrubs, and the plate glass security door. She navigated it with no bodily trauma.
She had a suitcase and after some friendly chat, still in the doorway, she asked to be directed to the guest house.
(We have a guest house??)
She seemed to know that we now had one and where it was, and of course at this point in the dream, everything morphed into unrecognizable detached other-worldliness, as if I were in someone else's dream.
I followed Rechelle to the back yard and to...a guest house. My guest house, I suppose. I was thinking to myself "my gosh, I don't remember having a guest house...I wonder if I put out any clean sheets?"
Rechelle was talking and laughing and videoing the whole thing. We chatted some more and I looked around the guest house interior. It was a studio efficiency with one fold out bed. I was fixated on figuring out if I had any clean sheets on the bed ...of the guest house I didnt know I had. We said goodnight and finally I asked if there were clean sheets on the bed. Then I heard a voice, and looked, and her husband, The Country Doctor, poked his head out from under the covers of the fold out bed, seeing what all the commotion was about.
I apologized for my confusion and told them if they needed anything, I'd be at the house. I simply didn't remember they were coming for a visit, or if I'd left them any food or stocked the bathroom with plenty of T.P. for their stay. I told them I'd slammed the trunk hood on my head. Then I remembered the staple gun incident.
And I said goodnight. And fled!
(end of dream)