Last night, I had a rather disturbing dream.

I dreamt I was pregnant.

Not just a little pregnant, I was about six months along and as big as a house. The weird thing about the dream is that I had been hiding my pregnancy from Mr. Demonic. He had just started to notice me getting a bit pudgy around the middle.

It was such a disturbing dream that I immediately woke up in a cold sweat.

**A late disclaimer: Mr. D had his plumbing snipped about ten years ago, and I’m (*YEAH! YEAH!*) just a pinky length beyond menopause. This woman is not birthin’ any babies.

Taking a page from Mr. Random’s book, I have decided to list ten things that are wrong with me. There are likely scores more things that are wrong with me, but I’m just wasting some time right now while I wait for a lady to call me to finish up a catalog I’m doing. So I don’t have time to list the other 90, not yet, anyway.

1. I really like to spend money. This is a bad thing, especially with the current economic meltdown looming over us like a huge toxic cloud. I don’t spend money on extravagant things though. Here’s a sub-list of the things I like to spend money on:

• Good food. I’d rather eat good food than substandard food, and I don’t mind paying for it.
• Friends. If someone is in need, then I am a friend indeed. Ask anyone who knows me.
• My kids. Yeah, they are hardly worth it, but I’m a typical mother. I’ll do without if it means they will have something worthwhile, but that doesn’t mean I’ll give anything up for stupid stuff. (Ask them.) I’ll spend anything, as long as it deals with their education.

2. I am a hot head. Yes, this little package (getting bigger all the time) will usually lose the top of her head at least three times a week. Usually, it has to do with employees. Occasionally, it has to do with my daughter, Ms. MiniD. Sometimes, my son catches my ire. Very rarely, my husband. Mr. Demonic knows better than to cross this lady.

3. I am lazy. That’s right, I’m lazy. There are days when I just lie in my bed and look at the ceiling fan spinning round and round, when I know I should be pulling weeds out in the garden, or adding a couple thousand words to my novel, or doing the wash. I blame this on a comfortable bedroom. Sometimes, I lie in bed and look out the window to the sky and think, “I love my bedroom!”

4. I am not musically inclined. Sure, I wish I was musically inclined. I even play the violin, although I do so quite badly. I practice, and I try to read notes, but I struggle. Music doesn’t come to me in an instant flash like it does with Mr. D Jr., and I sometimes am frustrated and pissed off about it.

5. I am not artistically inclined. See #4. This was bad, especially since I was an art major. After the second year, when I ran out of money, I came to realize that I am not especially talented when it came to painting or drawing. Or clay or intaglio. Or sculpture. So I took up other things, like sewing and jewelry. I’m not especially talented there either. Hmm…

6. I am a food snob. Yes. I am. I can’t eat at pot luck dinners, because I would have to respectfully decline food that is ill prepared, or shows little or no imagination, or is high with processed ingredients and low in freshness. I only shop at certain stores because of my food snobbishness. I know I should give those other places a try, but I find I can’t lower my standards or my expectations.

7. I am generous to a fault. I find it very peculiar that as a person (not even counting Mr. Demonic) I have donated more money, time and goods to charity than has our Democratic Vice Presidential pick, Senator Joe Biden. I know Good Time Joe makes a ton more money than the Demonic clan, too. Perhaps I should use his standard as my own. (Nah…)

8. I’m fat. A direct result of #3.

9. I probably have ADHD. Where else would Ms. MiniD get it from? (Mr. D is ADD, because he’s hyperactive all the time.) This would explain my laziness and inability to get anything done. This might also explain my inclination to NOT be artistic or musically inclined.

10. I have a rapier tongue. I didn’t say that, Mr. Demonic said that. I just think I have a razor sharp sense of humor. Actually, before him, my mother said that when I was in high school. I wrote for the school paper and had some of my editorials published in the local newspaper and in national magazines. My mother always chided me about it. “Why do you have to write where you make people mad?” If I hadn’t been that way, I couldn’t have used it for #10.

I’m not even going to remind people where the world has been in the last week. It’s just too depressing. However, I knew things were bad when Mr. Demonic came in from work last night and told me HE was depressed.

Mr. Demonic is never depressed about anything. If he has a fault at all (well, I guess he has a few) it is that he tends to look on the cheery and positive side. Me, I’m a cynic. My kids had trouble in school. I had a feeling they were learning disabled. He thought they would grow out of it. We buy a business in Funkytown. I think we’re going to be stuck in a morass of corruption in a poor area of town. He sees a business opportunity.

In fact, he’s extremely optimistic when it comes to business. It could be because he’s had an uncanny knack for success. On the other hand, I’m always looking for Plan B because I’m not sure when the bottom is going to fall out. I grew up poor and started out my adult life that way. I know what it is to have nothing.

Perhaps I’m a Gloomy Gus, or it could be cynicism honed from years of let down.

So when he came in and started kicking himself over not selling our portfolio earlier (or at least paring it down), I was alarmed. It’s my job to be the Weather Girl and proclaim when skies are sunny or not, not his. I found myself in the weird position of telling him not to panic. Talk about role reversals.

Ever since the kids went to college, we’ve been nesting for the poor house. I’ve said this elsewhere, but my husband is a very smart man. He foresaw all of this financial mayhem long ago. I think he first started telling me about it just after the turn of the century. I thought he was nuts. Back in the Dot Com days, we were millionaires on paper, but when it turned sour and we were middle class again on paper, he started doing research and found it was going to get worse. Still, we’ve managed to live a fairly comfortable, yet frugal life.

We don’t go out to eat a lot. Part of it is that I’m a really good cook and I can barely stomach fast food. I can do restaurant food, but I’m fussy. If I can make it at home, it’s probably better. Plus, it’s so much cheaper.

We don’t have outrageous spending habits either. We both pay our charges in full at the end of the month, although I’m not sure how long that’s going to last given the current situation. We never took out a home equity, sub-prime loan to splurge on additions or remodeling, instead waiting until we had the cash to do it. We own a lot of worthless property, but only have two mortgages, thank the Lord. I’m the master of getting stuff for 50% off or more, especially if it comes to clothes.

When the babies were born, we started saving for college. Both the kids have college funds, although this week they’re probably not worth much. My son, Mr. D. Jr., is a spendthrift like his dad. He’s lived in one of the most expensive cities in the world for the last three and a half years, and for the most part all we foot is the rent money. He knows where to find adequate Chinese food for less than $5 including drink, and can make it last for two days. Now the other one, she’s another case. The hard reality of penny pinching is about to bite her in the rear end.

I’ve been eBaying. I told my close friend who used to clean my house every two weeks to only come every six. (I feel badly for her too. She’s a new grandma, and a lot of her clients are scaling back. She needs the money.) I mowed my own lawn this year, as well as the gardening. I grow my own fruits and vegetables. I learned how to can the vegetables and soup for use later. I’ll probably drive my car until it falls apart. I know we’ll have to live here because the house isn’t worth anything anymore. And I know I’ll probably have to work until I die, which will unfortunately be until I’m 110.

In another way, I know I’m lucky. I have a great family, and lots of good friends, both in the flesh and online. I have my health. I have some minor talents and things I can do that give me pleasure. I give back when I can, but it’s getting tighter and harder to do so.

We can’t put the world back together. I’m not sure what the government is doing will help at all. All I know is that I have to keep my own house in order, and not spend more than I make and take care not to waste a thing.

Something happened to me a month ago.

I picked up some beads, and after that my entire world changed.

Some people have crack habits, others smoke cigarettes or drink. Me, I go to Michael’s and my eyes glaze over in the bead section.

Last weekend, I went to another bead show. It was that fiendish bead show at the beginning of September that caused all the problems for me. If you’ve never been to an auditorium filled with colorful rocks from all over the globe, I’m warning you now. Don’t go. You’ll be sucked into the vortex like a hapless space traveler.

Last weekend’s show concentrated on actual beadwork. You know, beaded handbags and such. I’m still in the jewelry making mode, and the intricate designs looked daunting. There were charming handmade clay beads, and cha cha bracelets that looked too fun. I was actually looking for sterling silver and semi-precious stones like tiger eye and turquoise, but somehow found myself buying hearts of many types. (My designs tend to gravitate towards hearts and crosses right now.)

During NaNoWriMo (in November, not far off), I plan on putting my Pandemonic blog on the back burner. I think I’ll be putting my beads back there too, along with house cleaning, Christmas shopping, learning Japanese and playing Scramble on Facebook. When I’m able, I’ll just post photos of my beads.

So if you don’t hear from me, I’ll be in one of two places. Hopefully, not in Michael’s again…

The Demonics have been toying with the idea of adopting a dog. Well, that would be THIS Demonic.

I don’t want a big dog, or one that that needs a lot of attention. In reality, I’m a cat person, but Mr. Demonic has stolen my cat! Well… Maxx wasn’t really my cat, he was my daughter’s. Now he likes Mr. D the best.

My thought is that we need some more fur in the house. Plus, another animal would keep the cat entertained. He needs something to do during the day, because right now he sleeps all day and keeps us up all night.

It’s also important to find good homes for homeless animals. Maxx was a shelter cat, and I rescued him. And look at him now… Fat and sassy, living the high life. My brother-in-law runs a shelter for German shorthair pointers in LA. Their house always has a full contingent of foster dogs. I like that rescues try to find suitable homes for throwaway animals. It’s hard to believe, but a lot of people think of their pets as interchangeable as a pair of shoes. A lot of rescue animals came from puppy mills, discarded after their years as a breeder were over.

My sister has two Boston terriers. I like how her dogs are well behaved, friendly, and don’t bark or shed a lot. They’re also compact and don’t take much space. So I did some research, starting back about six months ago. I went on the web site and filled out an application, and waited.

The Boston terrier people are fanatical about their dogs. I had to go through an application process, where I listed all of my references. They asked me how I felt about fencing and crating, discipline and training. They then would decide whether or not I was good enough to be a Boston parent.

This week, I made an appointment for a home visit. This is where one of the rescue workers comes over to check out my house and make sure I wasn’t going to use the dog to fight professionally or pull my sled in the winter.

Yesterday, a very nice dog came for a visit, along with his foster mom. His name is Henry. You can see what he looks like here. He’s really a handsome little dog.

Maxx was non-committal, but Henry wanted to play with him. Then Henry found Maxx’s big fleece ball and started playing with that. Maxx was a little upset. Mr. Demonic was non-committal too, but he was doing the dishes, and heaven help us if I interrupt that.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about Henry ever since.

I wonder what that means…

It’s called the Brickyard, and it’s super cool. You start out somewhere outside the race track, and in the middle, several holes are right inside the center of the track. It’s a popular place, and it was busy that day.

The course is really nice. Lush grass, well tended. The carts had GPS. It’s a tough course too, but Mr. Demonic’s friend is a good golfer, who likes nice, tough courses. Me, I could putz around on a city course, and I’d be just as happy.

I was amazed at how big the place was. The track seems to go on forever, and there are plenty of boxes lined along the way. Likewise, the inside of the track is massive. I’m not much for racing, so I wasn’t aware.

Friday, there were several cars racing. Why, I don’t know. I always thought they only raced the 500, but obviously they use the track all year long. When we crossed over to the inside of the track, we could watch them as they sped around.

Now, for updates on my golf game:

1. The weather was very nice, so I couldn’t use that as an excuse.

2. My back wasn’t hurting, so I couldn’t use that excuse.

3. I have a great set of golf clubs (Lady Callaways), so I couldn’t use that excuse.

4. I had Arby’s for lunch, so I couldn’t use the excuse that I was hungry. It was a junior sandwich, so I couldn’t use the excuse that I was overfull.

5. I had plenty of drugs (Benadryl and Motrin), so I couldn’t use that excuse.

Let’s just say that I hit some good shots, but I hit more bad ones than good. I always feel guilty when I golf on a nice course with thick grass, such as the Brickyard. That is because I tend to hack up the course.

Perhaps I should get out on the course more than once every two months.

I just opened my Gmail account (something I might do once in a blue moon). I only have it for this blog, as I have other accounts as myself, the real person behind Pandemonic.

Gmail is great, because it normally stops SPAM cold. I spend most of my day with my real email just deleting junk. Gmail was so good, that I had not received any letters from Nigerian businessmen begging for checks and, especially nice, no come-ons to make my penis bigger. Thank goodness for the latter, because I don’t have a penis and if I did, I would be trying to hide it, not make it bigger.

I was happy and spamless. Until today.

A glaring email that stuck out amid all of my WordPress notifications said “Quit Your Boring Job! Work for Google!”

I’d love to quit my boring job (actually, it’s not boring, anything but, but I’ve had a snoot full over the last ten years or so), but I don’t think that Google is going to save me.

If it were that easy, I would have sent them a resume years ago.

Last Friday, Mr. Demonic and I decided to meet some friends of ours for a golf weekend. Since we live in the upper Midwest and they live in the South, we mutually agreed to hook up midway. For last weekend, the halfway point was Indianapolis.

I had only been through Indiana on my way to somewhere else. If you’ve never been there, you haven’t missed much. If you have been there (or God forbid, are currently living there), my deepest condolences. My own area is no prizewinner, but Indiana… sheesh.

We decided to take my car instead of the dear Mr. Demonic’s. My car is a Toyota Prius. My car is roomy, and you can’t beat the gas mileage with a stick. It’s also clean; I keep it that way. On the other hand, Mr. Demonic drives a used training car. It has over 180,000 miles on it, and has been rear-ended several times. (He tends to fall asleep at stop lights.) Mr. D does not have a briefcase. Instead, he uses the tops of paper cases and carries his stuff around in cardboard boxes. That’s a handy reuse of cardboard, but as soon as he makes a sharp turn, everything tumbles out, and so the entire car is covered in scraps of paper.

In addition, Mr. D spills his coffee on a daily basis. The passenger side is stained and smells of stale cups of Joe.

Mr. D didn’t like that I was driving, but heck, when have I ever done anything where he actually liked it? And in return, he does plenty to piss me off, but I won’t go there in this post.

We set off into a bright and sunny Friday, missing all of the morning rush hour. This was a good thing, because I tend to drive like a snail. I haven’t gotten a speeding ticket in years, and I certainly wasn’t going to get one last week. (Come to think of it, the last ticket I got was a direct result of Mr. D urging me to drive faster so he wouldn’t miss the Buick Open on TV.)

When we arrived in northeastern Indiana, I found I had the need to fill up the gas tank. That doesn’t happen often. It was also nearing noon, and Mr. D was getting hungry. (Me, I can take food or leave it, especially at noon.) If you have been to that part of Indiana, you’d know that the pickin’s are pretty slim when it comes to food choices. It’s not Napa Valley, where you can get a damned good, nearly gourmet sandwich from the gas station. My choices were fast food and more fast food. I would have preferred a homey country diner, but no such luck.

I don’t do fast food. Well, I will amend that. I will eat it, but only sparingly. Our choices that day were McDonald’s (NO), Burger King (DOUBLE NO), Subway (maybe… but they’re so big!), or Arby’s. I chose Arby’s, because they offer a petite roast beef sandwich (which tastes nothing like roast beef), but since at the time I was craving mustard, I thought would be good to relieve that craving. Arby’s personnel usually crinkle their noses at the request of mustard packets, but that’s half the fun of going there.

After getting our food, we set out on the road again. Unbeknownst to me, Mr. D had picked up a local real estate guide from the lobby at the Arby’s. While I drove, he serenaded me with real estate listings.

“Holy cow. A three bedroom house for $92K? They’re practically giving them away here…”

“Uh huh…” I was driving, so I tried to ignore him.

“Look at this one!” he would shout, shoving the book under my nose. “Four bedrooms, two baths, three car garage, lakefront. $325K! That’s practically a steal!”

I tried to keep the car on the interstate as I glanced over. “Yeah, nice.” I was noncommittal.

A few minutes later… “Look here! Forty acre hobby farm, old farmhouse completely redone with granite kitchen, pole barn, and a river runs through it. $200K. Are they nuts?”

“Why are you looking at that? We already have more houses than we can handle.” That’s true. In fact, the condo up north is up for sale, and so is the lot in Colorado. The other little house, we’re keeping because we have a reliable renter, otherwise that would be on the chopping block too. We’d sell our own house, but in this market, I doubt we could get anything for it.

“Look at this one. It’s commercial property. RV park with home. 500K. We could run an RV place!”

“Why are you looking at that? We already have a place to live and a business.”

“I’m thinking I could be a farmer.”

That was ridiculous. He doesn’t even mow the grass, I do. “You hate vegetables, remember?”

“Yeah, but we could live here. I could live here, especially if I had a nice house with a river running through it. Just think, I could go fishing!”

“You hate fishing!” It’s true. When the kids were little, they wanted to go and he never took them.

“I’d like fishing if there was a river right next to me. Besides, you said you’d move anywhere.”

I considered it. I really hate where we are now. It’s depressing and cold. I looked at the scenery. Indiana is not unlike southern Illinois or Kansas or Iowa. It was flat, miles and miles of spent corn and dry, brown soybeans cooking in the sun. There were miles and miles between exits and even more between houses. While the houses were cheap, I couldn’t imagine myself living there.

“I don’t think so. No, I couldn’t live here. Think of somewhere else.”

Thank God the skyline of Indianapolis came into view. Mr. D threw the real estate guide into the back seat where it lay until just now, when I took it out to throw it away.

I have had many adventures, but right now I am reading my favorite people. I’ll post something new tomorrow. I swear, it will be worth the wait.

I’m going to be gone this weekend.

Golfing. It’s supposed to be restful.

I stink at golf. I am prepared to be most frustrated.

Oh, well. Someone has to be in the bunker…