Actually, I do know the supervisor password

No. I still haven't packed. I'm proud of the esteemed probate judge though. She's resisted the urge to ask me for nigh on a week. That she wasn't here 2 of those days and I was doing 'field work' yesterday is beside the point. Furthermore, to mention that after 8 hours a day M-F, I make it a priority of every weekend to avoid any/all contact with her probably would just be splitting hairs. So let's just I'm proud of her. Which, I suppose, I already did.

But this morning, under the combined weight of her extreme fear of silence, routine, desire to see me test my eye-rolling skills and, perhaps, a smidgen of actual, genuine interest, she caved. Said weight so crushing, her interrogative was barely above a whisper. I responded in kind. It was a touching moment in an otherwise humdrum start to the workday.

I did, however, have a dream about that very subject last night. Packing for the trip, that is. Not the esteemed probate judge. That would just be weird. One of my fave Built To Spill songs says "No one wants to hear what you dreamt about/Unless you dreamt about them." Fair enough. The lyric goes on to say "Don't let that stop you/Tell them anyway and you can make it up as you go." Sorry blogosphere, Dug's given me permission.

Herewith a recap. It's all true except for the parts that are not. As is the previous sentence. The time/location of the following would be the trip to Hartsfield prior to departure.

I spent countless hours putting thousands of songs I'll never listen to on my ipod. When not doing that it was French lessons with Rosetta Stone, each subsequent lesson reminding me just how much trouble we wuz in if I'm the liaison:

French Custom Dude: Quel est le but de votre visite?/What
is the purpose of your visit?

Me to Andy/Daddy: He wants to know why we're here.

Me to FCD: Bonjour, FCD. Nous voulons acheter une échelle et des jeans
bleus. Elle est triste./We want to buy a ladder and blue jeans. She is
sad.

FCD: Sont tous les Américains aussi muet que vous trois?/Are all Americans as dumb as you three?

Me to A/D: I think he says all Americans are awesome but particularly us three.

So anyway we're bebopping along toward the airport and it suddenly occurs to me that I have brought nothing along. No bag, no ipod or perrier. Nor did the thought cross my mind to pack. So in a mild state of panic we decide Andy should continue the journey. I call Merisol to come pick up me and my Dad post-haste and figure I'll throw all my stuff quickly in a bag. If the timing works out right we should be OK. We pull over and Andy leaves us on the side of the interstate. We did not find this cruel or particularly odd. For reasons known only the dream weaver, there happens to be a whole bunch of other people milling around apparently waiting for something as well. Godot or the Supernatural Anesthetist, I presume. Maybe even the man though I didn't see Lou Reed.

Tiring of making references one or two people will get I tell my traveling companion we should just go home now. And after a brief scene in a Dairy Queen with Jerry Lewis playing Dean Martin that is unexplainable even for a dream and irrelevant, we are immediately back home. I throw some stuff in a bag and we're back off, driving a choice ride from our vast fleet. After acknowledging to someone (I've no idea whom, make up someone on yr own) that I will be driving at a constant, but nevertheless rapid, velocity, we set off. And suddenly I'm on a plane that may or may not be going to Paris.

Though I can place most of the particulars from my actual day yesterday, there seemed to be no purpose.

Much like this post.

P.S. That was my actual dream. No really. That's as good as it got. I had nothing to write about and thought the dream would be more interesting. I was wrong. Perhaps you can reread the above and put in the occasional explosion or shootout. Maybe even a dude on fire running by and jumping through a plate glass window for no apparent reason. Consider this homework.