So I read once in a magazine, I forget which, that if you put a dozen wildflowers under your pillow on midsummer's night, you'll dream of the man you're going to marry. (It was "man" - they assume rightly this is something only a straight chick would do.) Every summer solstice I think about this and this year I decided to do it, largely because I have a lot of time on my hands. They probably weren't all wildflowers, but I strolled around Pasadena looking for flowering shrubs or plants and discreetly deadheading a dozen. The crown jewel was a fading gardenia from outside my window. All of them went under my pillow, and this morning I woke up in a sweat from a nightmare about Nicole Kidman turning out to be a serial killer and chasing me across my parents' backyard with a gun in the belief that I was a paparazzo (-a?) coming to crash her wedding. I don't think I'll try that again.
The man she's marrying does live near my parents in Leiper's Fork, TN, so it could happen.
In other news, I'm still reading this goddamn book, which I've taken to picking up with a snarl of "All right, you." (This happens when you live alone.) For a while there it was picking up. I realized I was basically reading a Spanish gothic pastiche, and I needed to lighten the fuck up. But one of the characters has just stepped into the narrative to inform the reader he has seven days to live, and I have no patience with this sort of hanky-panky. Seven days is too long for these people. I should be finished with this goddamn thing tonight and then we can all get on with our lives.