Man in the Moon

Put me in a dark cave for a month, and I can tell you with 99.9999% accuracy when it's a full moon.

We lovely ladies of 600 N. State always got a chuckle over the proven fact that the crazies came out at WallyMart on full moon nights, but I kid you not--the Man in the Moon has a physiological effect on me. (And no, I am not one of the WallyMart full moon crazies.)

Every month, right on schedule, the Man in the Moon generously endows me with the most vivid, lucid, all-out bizarre dreams...and very little restful sleep.

Last night it was all about running. I had a big race, but suddenly couldn't find my shoes. Enter hyperventilating anxiety attack. Then I found them ... in the tidal beds by an island. With big waves and the tide coming in fast.

Mom and our old dog were with me as I frantically pulled them out of the water, only to find that they had already become home to all kinds of sea creatures: barnacles, urchins, mussels, sea snails ....

I pulled and scratched, but I couldn't get those suckers out (it would help if I could ever stop biting my nails, of course). Then Lucky ripped my shoe out of my hand ... and started eating it. I gave up. It was a loss. No shoes, no race, no way to run. 'Til he kindly regurgitated my shoe ... with all sea creatures removed.

Never mind the rest; I don't remember it now anyhow, but I'll be darned if I didn't wake up a full hour before my (real) 6AM alarm so anxious to run now that I had my shoes (!) that I actually DID get out of bed. And run. At 5:30AM. In the dark. (Crazy? Who said crazy?)

T.G.F.M.W.I.O. (Thank goodness full moon week is over). I need some sleep.

Dear voyeur...

To the gardener who watches me from the rooftop garden at the hospital every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday morning:

YOU ARE A SLEAZY LITTLE PIECE OF SLIME!

Perhaps you are attracted to my abundant terrace gardens (the only ones in my building) and thus think we perhaps have something in common, but let me assure you, we do not.

While you seem to find great pleasure in watching me in the mornings, I detest you and, correspondingly, I now detest Monday, Tuesday and Thursday mornings. I remember our "first encounter", when the weather finally turned summer-like and I blissfully settled in to have breakfast on the balcony in my pajamas, only to find you blatantly staring at me.

I thought perhaps I was imagining things; you surely wouldn't be so lame as to watch people's every morning move, are you? Apparently you are.

Yes, I see you duck behind the bushes when I look over my shoulder. And yes, I am slamming the curtain shut because of you. Yes, I notice how you make sure to be "pruning" the bushes directly in front of my apartment at the same time every day. Can the same bush possibly need pruning every day?? I think not.

Because of you, dear voyeur, I cannot enjoy breakfast on my sunny, flowery balcony. Because of you, I cannot enjoy getting ready in the morning with the windows and curtains open, letting in fresh air and the first morning rays of sunshine; not because I am in an "indecent" state, but because it gives me the creeps knowing that you are watching my every move.

When Marcel is here, he makes a point to linger around the windows and eat breakfast on the balcony ... anything to suggest to you that I am not available to you as your suckling prey. Oddly enough, I don't see you on these days. Is it because he scares you off, or have our offensive tactics merely been poorly timed on days when you are not around?

Whatever the case, BUG the *%"?! OFF. The dozens of other people who use the rooftop gardens daily seem to be able to enjoy their beauty without depriving me of my ability to enjoy my peace and quiet ... it's about damn time that you learn to do the same.