I have been having all sort of gorgeous dreams lately, gorgeous in the sense that they are rich and vivid in meaning, though the events and characters comprising them might not be so pretty. There's been an overweight, grey-haired woman with a pockmarked face who has made several appearances this week, once as a racist, obsessive landlord who keeps leaving me notes and cleaning my apartment when I'm not around; and another time as my dining companion during a meal where I am thirsty, but unable to get water. This afternoon I dreamed that my father was yelling at me for not keeping a clean house. Every dream dictionary I've looked at insists that cleaning in a dream acts as a metaphor for your conscience, that you're worried that you'll engage in an unethical act. This is probably one of my worst fears, that I could slip somehow, engage in a breach of my personal ethics.

***

I talked to Bernie this morning about my forthcoming trip to California, and asked her how her life was up North, since they had just moved out from Los Angeles. She told me that Isa's school is a half hour away from the house, and that she drives her and picks her up every day. So that's two hours of commuting just to get the kid to school and back. But Isa likes the school better, she says. They have a real playground there, and parks, and the teachers are more mellow. (She said they wear clogs and vests, which made me laugh.) I am hoping I would be willing to do the same each day, if I ever have children.

Bernie had seen the movie Thirteen last night, and of course she views these films a little differently than I do. I knew the basic plot, that an innocent girl goes bad when she meets a wilder girl. I also knew that everyone is very attractive in it so I assumed that fact would inevitably glamourize whatever naughty activities took place in the film.

"At the end they made it seem like it had to do with her not having a father around, that that was the problem," said Bernie.

"That's not the problem," I said, thinking of my own secret desire to be the tough single mom who saves the day, though I know it's not as simple as that. "There are plenty of kids out there who do just fine without a dad, though I admit it's probably much easier."

Bernie told me a little bit about what happened in the movie.

"When I was thirteen," I said. "I was a real kid. I mean, I didn't know about anything, sex, drugs, nothing."

And I was, too, this overweight bookworm with no friends. (Yea, I was fighting the boys off.) I had not yet discovered that if I just held on for another two years, all of the weight would redistribute appropriately, and if I listened to indie rock, everything would be fine, that there would be a place for me out there. Thirteen and pierced? Thirteen and drunk? Thirteen and fucking?

I think getting a little flustered by the sex scenes in The World According to Garp was as raunchy as it got for me at that age.

***

I just realized this morning that I haven't had sex in about two months. Where did that time go? I've turned down a couple of guys recently - a lingering ex, the flame of whom I've been trying to extinguish for a while, and a young man I met at a party whose resolute insistence that I suck his dick killed all sexual desire I might have had for him (Boys, seriously, if she says she doesn't want to, she really doesn't want to. Either you do or you don't - it's like that with blowjobs. And why would you want her to if she's not going to enjoy it at all? ) - and it's seemed so easy at the time, like, really obvious, that I should just not do it.

But I'm kind of freaked out that I wasn't really keeping track of what was going on with me. That my life is so busy that I'm losing touch with my sexuality. I mean sure, there was finding a new gig, and the holiday season, and then residency applications, but what the fuck, people? Two months, no action, and I don't even notice?

I think I need like, a Palm Pilot or something.

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