My career as a kept woman seems like a lifetime ago.
This is the dress I became a kept woman in
Last Tuesday, it started to snow in the middle of the night. I woke up at 4 something to do my yoga practice and I didn’t notice anything on the ground. While I was practicing, I still didn’t notice any snow falling down.At 6:35, I noticed a message on my phone from my co-worker. I was delighted surprised to learn that the school board had cancelled school and we had the whole day off.
What an excellent opportunity to catch up on my writing and translation studies. Instead I killed the day napping, sneezing, and masturbating on the internet. I had a mediocre cold, due to the fact that the children I work with have a great deal of snot inside of them. They sneeze a lot, and as Eco-Yogini accurately points out in this wonderful Green Phone Booth Post about pre-schoolers and their parents, it is unrealistic for young children to figure out how to sneeze into their elbows. They have only had elbows and sneezes for a limited amount of time. Our expectations are too high.
Anyways, the most interesting part of my Snow Day was possibly my nap. It was the deepest nap in the world, the kind that you stir from only briefly and think, “How do I ever manage to be awake?” I thought that I would sleep forever. Towards the end, I remembered dreaming that I was masturbating with a plastic pink coat hanger. When it occurred to me during my dream that I might try to get on with my day and do something else, I had the distinct thought, “But how will I ever manage to do anything else?” In case you are wondering, my technique did not involve the hanger’s pointy end, or any sort of penetration. Still, when I told the Boatman about my afternoon, he invented a new word in honour of the coat hanger experience: "Masturbortion."
And my great big nap he called, “Napsturbation.”
|Pink Plastic Coat Hanger|
The night before the snow day, I dreamed I miscarried a delicate pink baby fetus. It was in the shape of a perfect miniature baby which I’m pretty sure doesn’t happen when you actually miscarry. Then the contours of the pink baby crumbled like thin frail pieces of pink plastic that revealed the baby’s hollow centre. A little plasticky spine had also be miscarried/urinated out, but the spine was separate from the rest of the baby. It wasn’t on the inside. I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works either. The outside of the baby disintegrated entirely, and I was sad because then the only proof of my miscarriage that I could show the Boatman was the unconvincing plasticky spine which resembled a child’s toy. (Or in the Montessori world, a child’s work material...) No one would ever believe there’d been a baby inside of me. In any case, I awoke before I could show the Boatman our broken, unborn child.
|Pink Plastic Fetus. This one is all in one piece. The one from my dream was not|
I told him about it and he wasn’t that disappointed. He is still luxuriating in his newly invented words.
This morning I woke up and recalled no dreams. And I’m pretty sure I’m not pregnant.
|A pink baby carriage, not to be missed.|
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