Message to the goat lady

Last night I dreamed I had the eyes of a goat – horizontal stripes, bright yellow orbs, stubby eyelashes and all. The rest of me was me, but the eyes were just plain weird.

What was the message behind the dream –  that I should do something about my facial hair before I grow a goatee? That I’m becoming more noticeably old and cantankerous? Or perhaps that I should stop eating tin cans (or the contents at least)?

I asked my husband, sure his answer would be honest but couched in kindness.

“Well,” he said. “Just before we have this conversation – have you had coffee yet?”

I nodded.

“Great, so you’re not going to go off like a firework.”

I shook my head, took another sip of coffee and bit my tongue.

“Maybe it’s just more crazy stuff your brain comes up with to alleviate boredom.”

“Okay. I needn’t worry then?”

“I didn’t exactly say that,” he said. “Toast. I feel like toast. You feel like toast? Have you had breakfast? I’m making toast.”

As he was making his escape, I clocked myself in the mirror. An enormous hair, snaking out like a serpent from my chin. I mean enormous. As long and thick as a pig bristle. If the pig had been cultivating the hair for twelve years. And dipped it in radioactive waste. And rubbed in some hair-growing cream.

“Holy cow! How long’s that been there?”

He took another step toward the door and laughed nervously. “Ah, a couple weeks.”

“And you didn’t tell me? You didn’t tell me! I can’t believe it! You’re supposed to tell me these things!”

I plucked the hair, stormed to the pantry and scoffed a can of pudding.

Dreams aren’t all about me? Tell that to the cantankerous tin-eating goat lady.

But only after I’ve had my coffee.


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