That One Time We Fled for Our Lives.

Yesterday was National Margarita Day.

I did not partake. But if I were inclined to celebrate things in that way, I might have had a couple because yesterday was also the twentieth anniversary of the day I escaped THAT MAN.

I remember it well. I had waited three months for the perfect moment, and when it finally came along, I took it.

I had four babies, two diaper bags, and a tank full of gas.

We've come a long way.

So cheers  to us.

Dream: Treasure

We ran into the trees, eyes forward, as fast as we could carry ourselves. We couldn't hold on to one another for fear it would slow our progress, but I listened for his heavy breathing and his footfalls to be sure he didn't fall too far behind. I listened also for those who chased us to be sure we were getting some distance between us.

Eventually, the angry shouts gave way to the eerie silence of the forest. We slowed ourselves until we were almost tiptoe-ing across the forest floor. The full, bright moon hovered low in the sky, playing sentry to our little scene. Perhaps it was recording facts and memorizing names. Who knows to what higher authority it reports. The Sun, maybe? They meet twice a day at dawn and dusk to compare notes. I wonder what they have to say about us.

We hid from the moon under the thick canopy of trees. Random moonbeams shot down between branches and formed puddles of light against the detritus. Those were the spots we avoided, just in case. We kept to the shadows, slinking between tree trunks until the clouds rolled overhead. A flash of bright lightning was overpowered by the grumbling thunder. The rapid tattoo of raindrops  on the treetops filled our minds like buzzing bees. I covered one ear and pressed the other against his warm chest until all I could hear was his heartbeat.

"What's that?"  he asked, nodding toward the thick dead leaves covering the ground. Something was there, out of place, winking up at us. I brushed the leaves away, dug into the soil and came back with a handful of coins and dollar bills.

"Nothing," I whispered as I let it fall back to the ground. "Only money."

He wiped the residual dirt from my hand, kissed my palm, and held me close. We began to move once again, this time holding on to one another.

There's an Empty Hotel/Sanitarium Room with My Name on the Door

I'm pretty much at my limit as far as stress goes this week. I'm scheduled to take a vacation from work next week, and this morning I got a phone call suggesting that the dynamics at work might change.
I might be transferred.
I don't want to be transferred, and I haven't done anything lately to warrant being plucked from my rightful throne. Somebody else is being plucked. And they want to switch us. Move us around. Flip us over each other.
Not a promotion.
Not a raise.
No incentive to make me think it's a desirable move.
I don't want to go.
My vote is a big, loud, resounding "HECK NO!"
But ultimately, it's not up to me, and I'll just have to deal with it.
Just Deal.

And of course, if this happens, there's the possibilty that I won't get my vacation next week.
I need this vacation.
I've tried to take a vacation a few times in the past few months, and something always happens that makes it impossible to go.
Somebody gets fired.
Somebody quits.
Somebody tranfers.
Somebody gets hospitalized.

I understand the significance of each of these events. I don't want to sound self-righteous, as if my issues are so much more important than somebody else's particular problem, but enough is enough people. It's long past my turn for a little respite care! If I don't get this vacation, I might actually explode.
I'm going to equate the emotional stress to the kind of agony you feel when your grandma dies, or your house burns down, or your boyfriend tells you he's leaving you for an older, uglier woman.

Add that stress to the actual stress I'll feel trying to adjust to a new boss, a new store, a new schedule, and I'll be carrying around a live grenade that could escape my control at any given point.

Have you ever read Firestarter by Stephen King? At the end, where the little girl is so pissed off that everthing around her starts to catch on fire, things start to explode, the lake boils...

That will be me.
.
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