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My most frequently recurring dream by far is what I refer to as “the packing dream.” These dreams vary widely, but they always involve me having to pack a small bag and leave somewhere very quickly, presumably never to return again. Failure to complete this talk will result in dire consequences, so this dream is always a nightmare, and often causes me to wake sitting bolt upright, sweating in the night.

Last night, I thought I was having this dream, but instead it morphed into something else. Something I’ll call, for lack of a better title, “the packing dream 2.0.” In this dream I was in a house I didn’t recognize, and LCF came bursting in to the room where I was and said he was in trouble and that we had to move to Europe right now. Like, NOW! I didn’t ask any questions, I just stuffed whatever random shit was lying on the floor into a small duffel and headed out with him to the airport. This is the first time ever, having suffered through this dream probably hundreds of times, that I haven’t agonized over what to pack. I honestly didn’t even look at what I was packing. I just grabbed what was within reach, and when the bag was full, I was done.

The dream then fast-forwarded, as mine often do, and I found myself in Europe. No country in particular, just Europe. The first thing LCF and I did when we arrived was go, luggage and all, to a tiki bar where a mostly naked girl was flirting with the male customers, and where our English-speaking waitress was flirting with LCF. Between flirtatious interludes with the waitress, LCF made sure to tell me that I was awesome for leaving with him on such short notice, and told me he couldn’t have done it without me. But all the flirting in the bar was making me feel awkward and ugly and scummy after the long trip, so I told him I was going up to our apartment to change. “Our apartment” was a tiny little tenement room above the tiki bar with a shared bathroom down the hall. I opened my duffel, and realized I had only packed the most useless and embarrassing clothes from my past (I won’t go into detail, but a couple items were procured at the Maryland Renaissance Festival in the early ’90s. ‘Nuff said.) Literally, there was nothing in the whole bag I could use. I was left with only the scummy clothes on my back. I felt tired. Overwhelmed. I went to find the bathroom down the hall and passed an African woman with braids whose kids were roughhousing in front of my room. I found the bathroom, locked myself inside, and looked outside the bathroom window at the dirty, smoggy, nondescript city below. I felt hollow. Empty. My life was now a blank slate and my mind was also a blank. I was about to use the toilet, when I woke up and had to make a dash for the bathroom.

Saturday was a marathon. I hung with Min and Matt and their wee bebes in Central Park, jetted up to Harlem to kick party prep into overdrive, helped Errin throw the party of the century, played drums at the party of the century until the cops came to shut us down (then waited a few minutes for the cops to leave and commenced playing drums again -shhhhhh), witnessed my man’s electrifying return to the stage as he busted out an incredible acoustic mini-set after Royal Pink played, unwittingly caused a cashier to undergo a complete psychotic break at Cosmic Cantina around four am by attempting to order a deluxe veggie burrito to-go even though that item was not officially on “the new menu,” the list goes on and on, till the break of muthafuckin’ day.

But despite all these varied and remarkable experiences, nothing came close to the landmark event I witnessed post-burrito, when LCF actually, truthfully, and without Williamsburgian irony, slipped on a banana peel. For Real. On Third Avenue. Never, have I ever in a million years, considered that the iconic slipping on a banana peel gag would ever make it’s way organically into my everyday life. But there it was! I had to snap the pic above just to prove to myself later that I wasn’t dreaming. Once it was established that LCF and his guitar were unharmed, that shit was hi-LARIOUS! I guess those olde-tymie-comic-cliche-craftspeople really knew what they were doing after all!

This just in from Min, who’s coming up this weekend with the whole gang for some Little Mermaid on Broadway action:

“I printed out a picture of us from your last visit and stuck it on the
fridge, and Simone pointed to it, and said ‘Emily!!!’ (without any
prompting from me). Pretty cool, eh? Totally unexpected.”

Way unexpected! Especially considering I only ever met the precious lil’ Simone just that one time (as documented above in a photo taken by her big sister Audrey). Mighty impressive. I’m sure her first full sentence will be something along the lines of “Wanna see my MENSA card?” I’m psyched to get my mitts on Min & Co. this weekend too. No time like the present to strongarm my way into that coveted Auntie Mame position.

Speaking of Auntie Mame, that broad knew how to party and so do I, (despite what previous posts may have led you to believe). Come see for yourself this weekend as the laydeez of Royal Pink throw our very first Super-Deluxe-House-Party-A-Go-Go!

Because of a weird little health issue, today I had my first introduction to a space-age gadget known as an MRI machine. For anyone who’s never had to have an MRI before, the contraption is a big white plastic thing with a hole cut out of the middle for you to lay in, so when you’re inside, it feels like you’re being abducted by aliens via a weird, white, plastic cocoon. Once you’re in the thing, it makes an impressive variety of super-loud, jarring sounds that require the use of earplugs, and the whole experience takes a surprisingly long time. While I was encased in the latest in medical technology, here were the two things I kept thinking about:

1. My Secret Agent Loverman Errol Morris opened his TV series First Person with the story of Temple Grandin, an Autistic woman who designs humane slaughterhouses. The reason I was thinking about this in the tube, was that at the beginning of the program, she shows how she made a “squeeze machine” designed to contain and calm cows before slaughter. She demonstrated how she tried it out on herself, and explained that something about being immobilized and gently squeezed by the machine (see above), calmed her own sensitivity to external stimuli. I got into thinking about it as I slid further into the tube, realized that it was kind of cozy in there, and started relaxing until my mind wandered to thoughts of being prepared for slaughter. That’s when I forced myself to think of something else, which brings me to…

2. Kingdom Hospital!  Am I the only person who watched that Stephen King series about the haunted hospital? With the amazing Diane Ladd starring as the psychic who keeps faking illness so she can get admitted to the hospital in order to make contact with the restless ghost of a ye olde creepie waife girle? That shit was priceless, and I remember there was a very suspenseful scene involving Diane, an MRI machine, and angry, restless, supernatural activity. Thinking about that episode made me wish I was still thinking about being turned into hamburger, but it was too late. I was already thinking about ghosts. Ghooooooosts.

And that’s when the lab technician’s voice came through some intercom inside the tube asking if I was OK. But I didn’t know there WAS an intercom inside the tube. So I almost soiled my gown. But I didn’t really. I was just startled or whatevs. You get the picture. Stay tuned for more true tales of neurotic tomfoolery as I continue my regional (haunted?) hospital tour.

It’s hard to say exactly why I haven’t posted here in so long. Many exciting things have happened in the last three months. LCF and I went to Paris, where I modeled for Velvet D’Amour and hung out with my beloved pal Rufus, I turned another year older and had a party, I dragged LCF down to VA for his very first Passover with my fam, I finally made it out to Night of 1000 Stevies (The ultimate Stevie Nicks tribute party) with Karen, and I did all the other band and magazine and cooking and just living things that I normally do. But for some reason, I suddenly got shy about documenting my life. Not that I was afraid someone out there on Al Gore’s world-wide Inter-web would read it, but because I didn’t want to read it. I didn’t want to think about it (it being my life), and this shyness started permeating more than just my blog. I haven’t been as excited about going to parties and events. Sometimes even small gatherings with friends make me anxious (my clothes are stupid…what if I say something offensive?). Overall I’ve been quieter. More withdrawn. I’d like to say more introspective, but that would imply some sort of deep, intellectual goings-on that I don’t really feel are warranted. Anyway - today that seemed to lift a little. I started looking at my photos from the last three months and they made me smile, and I thought that maybe writing here again would give me something else to smile about if I decide to look back and read it some time in the future. Maybe in an especially troubling or isolated moment, I’ll be able to read something here and remember all the reasons why it’s a good idea to leave the house sometimes.