Even though my insomnia seems to have mostly disappeared in recent months, I still have incredibly restless sleep plagued by increasingly strange and unnerving dreams.  They’re recurring too, which you’d think would make it easy for my subconscious to recognize what’s going on and remind me that it’s not real, but instead that fact seems to make it worse, because I know exactly what is going to happen and I can’t stop it.  It’s inevitable – at least once a week, I am going to be trapped in an elevator inexplicably plummeting to the bottom of the elevator shaft over and over again, with the passengers crashing first into the ceiling and then into the floor as the elevator comes to a screeching halt.  Lather rinse repeat, until I wake up, my freshly conscious mind awash with a smooth blend of relief and panic.  (Sidebar:  I don’t have the first clue what a dream like this could mean.  Is the elevator a metaphor for life?  Am I feeling jerked about by circumstances I can’t control?  Am I watching too many episodes of Fringe before bed?)  (Sidebar to the sidebar:  Am I the only one who has to watch that show with her hands over her eyes, shrieking at her husband to tell me WHAT’S HAPPENING and OH MY GOSH IS THE GIANT SLUG GONE YET?  I am?  Okay then.) 

I think I woke up more than half a dozen times last night between when I turned off the light and when I crawled groggily back out from between the sheets, feeling completely unrested.  I am trying, about half-successfully, to shake the raging case of the Mondays I seem to have contracted as a result.  I got up and the house was cold.  I put on a sweater and socks.  Still cold.  I emailed Mike to complain about how cold I was.  In a rather shocking turn of events, that did absolutely nothing to warm up the house.  Eventually I turned on the heat for a few minutes and grumbled a bit, wondering what is WRONG with this COUNTRY that it is only 14 degrees in JULY.  I mean COME ON.  SERIOUSLY, CANADA?! And SO FORTH.

Amish friendship bread hasn’t helped.  Billy Joel’s Greatest Hits hasn’t helped.  The soup I had for lunch had peas in it, so that certainly didn’t help. I’m drinking tea, wearing track pants, blogging, looking at bread recipes on the internet, and rubbing the generous belly of my furry orange feline friend, and NOTHING’S WORKING, although typing that all out makes me feel a bit better and more than a little chuffed at my unparalleled ability to multi-task.

I think at this point, the only measures left are the drastic ones.  Chocolate cake, maybe, or possibly a nap or a quick sweaty run around the hood, all of which I have found in the past to pale in comparison to this video, which just might be the funniest video I’ve ever seen in the Small Monkeys Having Bad Days genre, and which even managed to put a smile on my face on the third morning of our Australian vacation last fall, when I awoke in our Sydney hotel with what I was convinced at the time was strep throat.  (So, you know, use with caution.  You may want to avoid it if you’re already in a Friday afternoon sort of mood.  And please don’t hold me responsible if you’re NOT having a Friday afternoon sort of afternoon and you still need chocolate cake after viewing.  Those aren’t MAGIC marmosets, people.)