It is finally cool and breezy and overcast here, rather than hot and steamy and overcast. I’m sure this is bad news for all the folks who fled here from the convention crazies in Boston — it’s not exactly a beach day — but it is highly pleasing to me. It means:
1. I can turn my air conditioning off, which I’m sure in the last few days has generated an electric bill fit for a cardiac arrest when it arrives;
2. I won’t get covered in quite such mucky sweat when I go out for my jog today, attracting all manner of buzzing, taunting deer flies swirling around my head and dive-bombing my sweaty hairline (they are SO mocking me, and I won’t hear opinions to the contrary);
3. I finally had a lovely night of uninterrupted sweet slumber, in which I had many dreams worth remembering;
And one snippet worth re-telling.
In one of my best epic chase-scene dreams (I have these all the time, running from spies and other nefarious would-be-captors, instead of being scary, they are usually exhilarating, and sometimes I can fly). In this case, I was rescued by a superhero-type guy named Victor, who was very Viking-looking with his red beard braided into two six-inch-long braids.
He had all sorts of enchanted flying things that he used to fly at various times, like horse-carts and boats and shoes, and at one point I asked him if the things themselves were magic, or if he had to be in them for the magic to happen.
He leaned in toward me, waggling his eyebrows, and replied, “Oh yeah, all sorts of magical things happen when I’m inside…” wink wink.
And the hilarity of a viking superhero coming on to me in such a bar scene kind of way woke me up snorting with laughter, startling the cats.