Pale to the Ale

It's a rare occasion that I spend the night alone these days. My roomate isn't one to travel a lot, and when he does leave the house for an evening out, it's not an all-night event. In fact, in the year and a half that I've lived with Neil, I've spent one weekend alone in the apartment. The quiet isn't something I'm accustomed to here, and it's certainly not something I'm comfortable with.

Last night, I came home from Sunday Funday festivities to find a pristinely clean apartment, a to-do list that was completely checked off, and a silence I wasn't sure what to do with. I tried to take advantage - blasted my chick music, cooked breakfast for dinner and settled in on my couch to some peaceful and much needed reading. I was overdue to finish "The Help" for a book club meeting that had already met last week.

Approximately 20 minutes into my alone time, and the darkness hit. The clicking in Neil's bedroom had my ears perked up and my mind shifted from the civil rights era to the era of crazies and psychos that was right now. Was that one of those circular glass cutting machines that spies used to break windows quietly? Calm down, RB. It's his blinds rubbing up against each other when the fan hits them just right.

Back to the book; it was really getting good. POP from the kitchen. WHAT WAS THAT NOISE? I snapped my feet up from the floor in case rats came rushing out from the banging source. Silence. More clicking from Neil's bedroom. It's just the blinds. It's time to get some sleep, you maniac. It took a serious pep talk to get up from the couch, but a half hour later I was on my feet, sprinting into my bedroom.

I practically dove into my bed and the silence didn't let up. Booze, I need booze. I dashed into the kitchen to grab a glass of wine, bringing it back to bed with me. My sheets felt like silk and finally, it felt good to let myself collapse into the comfort of my own safe haven of a bed. Safety.

And silence. More silence.

What is that ominous shadow in my closet? I was carefully peeking over my covers, and there was something hook-like, swaying in my walk-in closet. Squinting my eyes closed, I commanded my mind to think of normal, peaceful things. Carebears. My Little Ponies. My outfit for work tomorrow. I had to wear red, cause we were taking a picture for the intern. The red team. I dozed off to sleep in a terror-striken state.

5:00am and I sprung up from a nightmare. My heart was pounding and I was sweating so intensely I was literally stuck to my sheets. Shadows circled my room, and the creeks from outside my room I was now certain were going to kill me. This is it. I could try and run, but the man under my bed will swipe my feet. I'll just hide under my sweat-drenched sheets. Praying for salvation from the nonexistant murderer in my third-story apartment, I drifted off again into a troubled slumber.

When I awoke the next morning, my head throbbed. It felt like I had gone on a familiar whiskey binge, but in the light of day, everything looked different. The robe that was my killer hung loosely on the hook, and my pathetic air conditioner clicked on and off in a losing battle against the Arizona heat. I was safe. I was alive.

What was it about the silence, the absence of another individual that had me convinced I was literally going to die? I can be a drama queen - sure - but the feeling of sincere danger I felt in my bones, that was real. And timely as all get out, I was recently considering the option of living alone. Well, that is simply unrealistic. I made it through one night, but who's to say I will be so lucky the next time?

There's nothing more terrifying than the silence. There's nothing more powerful than your own mind. Nothing that is, except massive amount of pale ale. I'm going to need to invest in a case of that stuff.

The Last Laugh?

I certainly think of myself as the type of person who likes to lighten most situations, and with that, when my presence fills a room, my laugh is not generally far behind. Some might add that on top of my louder than average demeanor, my laugh rarely takes the back seat. I laugh loudly. Sue me.

This week, my first full work week post-trial, I had three people separately approach me about their dreams. Not terribly unusual, as most people understand my interest in digging deeper into the meaning of the subconscious in our sleeping state. But what was odd, wasn't that I was a character in each of these individuals' dreams, but that the star of the dreams...was my laugh.

I'm trying to wrap my arms around this. Each person recounted their dream in which I was laughing at others. Let me elaborate:

In the first, I was hurling my exercise ball (which I use for my chair, so this is not a small ball) towards each coworker, and then walking through the office laughing, congratulating myself with each whack. The next dream, I was dissuading a friend from getting a tattoo, and then proceeded to cut off one of her pigtails with a set of raw scissors. That, I again found hilarious, and as she was forced to cut her other pigtail off, I threw my head back in a second roar of laughter. The final dream was brought to me from an intern in my office. She dreamt of the staff and myself in the lunch room. As this girl went to join us, she could hear my cackle of laughter floating into the foyer. Instead of coming and dining with us, she turned around and ate at her desk.

What does this laugh symbolize? And why is it such a seemingly cruel laugh? It seems I'm being viewed as some sort of a bully...but I can't help but wonder why...


As a disclaimer for my Possum Hunter followers: while the trial is done, the details of the case are not those that I find acceptable nor entertaining for this forum. My jury was hung...so the case will be retried in 90 days. When a conviction is made, I might oblige in more detail for the curious at heart, like myself. But until then, bear with me.