"A Dream Inside a Dream" A short story by Julianna Rowe

 "A Dream Inside a Dream" by Julianna Rowe

“No wonder there was a man disguised as all my troubles lying in my bed. Even in my dreams, life's worries found their way beneath the covers. But for one glorious moment, in a beautiful white room overlooking the lights of New York City, I had danced. And nobody could take that moment away from me.”

I had the strangest dream. Not simply a dream, but a dream in which I watched myself dreaming. I was both the woman living the story and the woman watching it unfold. Stranger still, I was writing the story as it happened, and somehow the words became a world I could step inside. It began in an ordinary room, with an ordinary frustration. Someone was concerned that people could see through the bedroom blinds. I assured him they couldn't because the slats were turned upward, allowing just enough daylight to slip between them without revealing anything inside. But he wouldn't listen. I remember feeling terribly frustrated by such a silly disagreement and deciding I would rather write a story than continue the conversation. I left the room, sat down at my computer and began to type. I would write about a woman who could go anywhere she pleased, with all the money she could possibly need. But where would I send her? New York City, of course! I have always dreamed of going toward the big-city lights, those magnificent skylines illuminated against the darkness, thousands of windows glowing like stars brought down to earth. And then something extraordinary happened. As I wrote, I began to live the words appearing on my screen. Yet somehow, I was also watching myself live them. I could see the woman in the story making decisions, moving through rooms, and enjoying experiences I was creating for her. I was the author, the character, and the audience, all at once. I found myself in one of New York City's grandest hotels, an enormous, elegant establishment that truly belonged to the city.  My suite was breathtaking. Everything was white, but not the cold, sterile white of a hospital. It was the soft, luxurious white of clouds floating across a summer sky. The carpeting was thick as freshly fallen snow and the furniture was upholstered in creamy fabrics that seemed almost weightless. The enormous bed was covered with a billowing comforter that looked as though someone had gathered a cloud from heaven and laid it across the mattress. Even the curtains fell in graceful folds, like wisps of morning mist.

But the windows! Oh, those glorious windows! Beyond them stretched the Hudson River and the magnificent New York City skyline. Thousands upon thousands of lights glittered against the night, reflecting upon the dark water like diamonds scattered across black velvet. Far below, streams of traffic wound through the streets, their headlights and taillights weaving ribbons of white and red between the towering buildings. I could have sat there forever, watching a city that seemed to hold a million secrets behind its illuminated windows. And I was rich! Wonderfully, ridiculously rich. I had no worries, no responsibilities tugging at my sleeve, and no reason to deny myself anything. Naturally, I went shopping. I wandered through elegant stores, buying beautiful things simply because I could. Lovely clothes, expensive treasures, packages wrapped in tissue paper and tied with ribbons. And then, for reasons known only to the peculiar workings of my sleeping brain, I purchased a pair of hiking boots. Hiking boots! And, P.S. I don' hike!  I remember asking myself why on earth I needed them. Perhaps I would take a walk in the country, I decided, although I knew perfectly well that I wouldn't. I hadn't come to New York to climb hills. I had come for the city lights! Nevertheless, I bought the boots and happily returned to my magnificent hotel room. There I was, surrounded by beautiful purchases, with the Hudson River shimmering beyond my windows and the soft white furnishings making me feel as though I were living inside a cloud. I was happy. Not excited or overwhelmed, but peacefully, wonderfully happy. For once, there was nothing I needed to do and nowhere I needed to be.

Then came a knock at the door. I opened it, and there stood the man from the room where my dream had begun. I hadn't invited him. In fact, I had written this entire story to get away from him! Yet there he was, standing in the doorway of my beautiful imaginary world, apparently expecting to be welcomed. He came inside and began talking. I busied myself with my purchases, hoping he would understand that I wished to be alone. I tried ignoring him, tried wishing him away, but neither seemed to work. How peculiar that I could dream myself into a magnificent New York City hotel with unlimited money, yet couldn't make one unwanted visitor disappear! And then, without knowing quite why, I began to dance. There was no music playing, but I could hear a gentle melody somewhere inside me. I wrapped my arms around myself. I moved slowly, swaying and turning through my beautiful white room.

"What are you doing?" he asked.  

I didn't answer. I continued dancing, my arms holding myself, my feet moving to music only I could hear.

"What are you doing?" he asked again.

"I'm dancing," I replied, turning my face away.

He stood watching, apparently unable to understand why a woman would dance alone.

"What are you doing?" he asked once more.

This time I looked directly into his eyes.

"I'm dancing with myself."

Something in my answer seemed to reach him. Perhaps he finally understood that I wanted nothing more than to be left alone with my peace. I watched him from the corner of my eye as he slowly backed toward the doorway, uncertain what to make of a woman who had no need of his company, and then he was gone.

It took a little while for my peace to return. I sat beside the window, watching the city lights dance across the Hudson River. My shopping bags sitting nearby, including those ridiculous hiking boots. I had my beautiful room, my magnificent city, and the wonderful freedom of doing absolutely nothing. I decided to prepare for bed. Even the powder room was extraordinary, enormous and softly illuminated, with pale surfaces that seemed almost as delicate as rabbit fur. I washed my face, brushed my hair, and imagined how wonderful it would feel to slip beneath that enormous white comforter. I would turn off the lights and lie awake watching the city sparkle beyond my windows. No curtains drawn, no worries, no interruptions. Just me and New York City, sharing the night. 

I walked into the bedroom and stopped. There, beneath my beautiful white comforter, lay the man, sound asleep. I stared at him in disbelief. He had left! I had watched him go yet somehow, while I was away preparing for bed, he had returned and made himself perfectly comfortable. He was sleeping beneath my dreams. And suddenly, as I stood watching myself standing in that beautiful room, I understood. The man wasn't real. He wasn't someone I knew or someone I had loved. He was every worry, every obligation, every disappointment, and every unfinished problem that followed me through life. I had given my troubles a face, and somehow "they" had followed me into the very story I had written to escape them. I had wished myself rich. I had traveled to the city I had always dreamed of visiting. I had surrounded myself with beauty, luxury, and peace. I had even danced alone to show that I needed nothing more. But while I wasn't looking, my troubles had slipped back into my imagination and made themselves comfortable. I stood there for a long moment, looking at the sleeping figure beneath the comforter. 

Then I glanced toward the windows. The blinds were nearly closed now, their slats turned upward just enough to allow a little light to enter. Just as they had been when my dream began. Somewhere beyond them, the glorious lights of New York City were still shining. I eased myself into bed beside the troubles I couldn't seem to escape, closed my eyes, and hoped for another dream.

Perhaps tonight I will go to Italy, where I can wander along ancient cobblestone streets beneath the warm glow of streetlamps. I believe I will hear a violin playing somewhere in the distance and find myself dancing beneath the stars, alone, of course. 

And this time, I will remember to lock the door... of my mind.  

The End  The Happy News Lady 💛

My Dash Cam Instructions! ......by Julianna Rowe

My Dash Cam Instructions ........by Julianna Rowe 

I bought a dash cam. I don't remember exactly what possessed me to decide that my life needed one more piece of technology, but apparently, I looked around at the computers, phones, televisions, printers and assorted electronic devices already requiring supervision and thought, you know what this household needs? A camera stuck to the windshield. It came with instructions, of course. I use the word “instructions” generously. They appeared to have been translated from Chinese to German to Swahili and finally into English by a squirrel person with a head injury. I looked at the dash cam, the instructions, then back at the dash cam with its buttons, cords, settings, and warning labels. It needed Wi-Fi. Why does everything need Wi-Fi? I am waiting for the day my refrigerator sends me a text saying the mayonnaise has expired and my toaster requests the password so it can update its operating system. 

The problem with technology is that I actually like it. That's how I keep getting into these situations. I am curious but not that patient. I will complain the entire time I'm learning it, threaten to throw it out the window and accuse Bill Gates of personally rearranging my computer while I sleep, but I keep learning. I've figured out websites, blogs, social media, music programs, video programs, phones and enough other electronic nonsense to qualify for some sort of honorary degree. Back to the Dash Cam with it's black-on-black instructions.  Who does the design like that? Have you ever noticed how many remotes are also black on black. I'ts like trying to read braille when you can see.The internet instructions say: To read hard-to-see black-on-black embossed or printed instructions on a small dash cam, shine a bright flashlight or your smartphone's light at an angle against the surface to create shadows that reveal the text.

Yes, I searched the internet for the rest of the instructions, opened seventeen websites, watched three videos made by men who assumed I already understood what they were talking about, accidentally clicked an advertisement for auto insurance and eventually shoved the dash cam back into the box, only to take it out and try again later. 

I don't think it's just me. Somewhere right now a perfectly intelligent human being is staring at a new television remote wondering why it needs forty-three buttons when all they want to do is watch Netflix. I have discovered that learning something new usually involves patience. The important thing is not to give up and I have found that once I understand it, I'm fine. I simply can't go too fast or click quickly or everything disappears. I usually blame Bill Gates for anything that goes wrong technically.

Eventually the dash cam ceased being an object of international concern and became another gadget I managed to figure out. Civilization survived. The squirrel human who wrote the instruction manual was presumably reassigned. But the toaster still worries me. The minute that thing asks for the Wi-Fi password, I'm unplugging it.

The Happy News Lady 💛

"Bob and Me" by Julianna Rowe

           "Bob and Me" by Julianna Rowe

Bob and I went for a walk today. Well, calling it a walk might be stretching things a bit. I carried him outside, and I carried him back in. Bob did the walking in between, and only as much as he wanted to. I guess I should mention here that Bob is slowly passing from my life and the world with liver disease.  He weights less than 7 lbs. but is hanging in there. I used to take him outside a lot and today I decided we should do it again.

Outside my apartment are bushes filled with finches. Not one or two finches. A LOT of finches. Apparently they have an entire neighborhood watch program, because the minute Bob appeared, they were on guard. Every one of them seemed to know there was a CAT in their territory. But I will add how much I love finches.  They are the sweetest little creatures.  In fact my clients save me their dogs hair after brushing and I put it out for their nests and they take it.  I can watch them carry it away from my porch. 

Back to the finches who live in the bushes outside my apartment. By the way, Bob couldn't have cared less.  He had more important things to do like eating grass then throwing up the grass. Some things apparently don't change with age. He walked around a little more and eventually found himself a nice spot in the grass. Then he lay down, nestled into it and relaxed. And I watched him. 

Bob is old now. His body doesn't work the way it once did, and lately I have been painfully aware of that. Things that used to be nothing can take a lot out of him. When we came back inside, he walked only about five feet before lying down under the chair. Our little adventure had worn him out, even though he had enjoyed it and that's what mattered.

There was something about watching my old friend lying there in the grass that made the rest of the world disappear for a little while. No work, no family problems, no politics, no surgeries, and no wondering about tomorrow. Just Bob and me.

Maybe that's one of the things animals teach us that humans have such a hard time learning. Bob wasn't worrying about how old he was. He wasn't thinking about what he could do last year that he couldn't do today and he wasn't worrying about tomorrow. He was lying in the grass enjoying life for a bit. So I sat there and let him. 

The finches remained on high alert and Bob remained completely unimpressed.

And for a little while on an ordinary afternoon outside an ordinary apartment, an old cat and his person had ourselves a pretty good day.

The Happy News Lady 💛😻

🎃 Autumn: Nature’s Most Beautiful Mess......by Julianna Rowe

 "Autumn, Nature's Most Beautiful Mess"  by Julianna Rowe

Think about it. In spring, if your yard were covered in dead plant material, you'd clean it up. In October, we drive around saying, “Ohhhh, look at the colors!” Then tiy all go home and rake the dead stuff into enormous piles. And just when you're finished, the neighbor's tree sends over reinforcements.

Then there's the whole pumpkin situation. Somewhere along the way, in our good old USA, from September through November, everything must taste or smell like a pumpkin. Coffee, bread, cookies, cereal, cream cheese, candles, and air freshener. Probably motor oil by now. I like autumn too, but I don't necessarily need my house, my breakfast and my armpits smelling like pumpkin spice. Yes I do!     

And the decorating! We go to a store and pay money for fake leaves while approximately eleven billion real ones are lying outside for free. We buy decorative sticks. Think about that. We purchase sticks. Then you put them in a vase and call them “fall branches.” The dog could drag the same thing through the door and you'd yell at him.

Then there are decorative pumpkins. Not the useful kind, the

tiny ones, the lumpy ones, the white ones, the velvet ones, and the wooden ones. Pumpkins that have apparently been to charm school and no longer wish to associate with pie. Don't forget the pink ones.

And autumn clothing deserves its own paragraph. Every advertisement shows some woman wandering happily through leaves wearing a beautiful sweater, scarf and boots all in oranges, browns, deep greens, and burgandys. Her hair is blowing gently in the cool crisp breeze, holding a steaming mug. Where is her coat? Because in Wisconsin, autumn lasts approximately eleven minutes. You leave the house at 8:00 wearing a sweater because it's 52 degrees, by noon it's 76, and at 5:00 somebody says there's a chance of frost.

But hey, I love Autumn.  The crisp clean smell of the air. The trees giving themselves another go round at life.  Shedding the old and birthing the new come Spring.  And I love carving pumpkins.  Getting my fingers inside that gooey mess, washing the seeds then baking them to a crisp crunch.  (Actually I hate putting my fingers inside that goo.) So I paint mine. These were painted about twenty five years ago, hopefully I have improved. One is Liza Minelli, and another is some famous football player.  Autumn is also football weather.... I can still remember those Friday Night Football years. Bright lights and everyone screaming for those young man-boys running down the field. Most every one of them dreaming of becoming a famous athlete.  And the Homecoming games! 

I love the Mums.  Mums everywhere. Golds, burgundys, oranges, purples, and so big and heavy you needed a cart to get them home to set as a welcome on either side of the entrance to your home.  Why, they only lasted a month or two but it was worth it. 

So I love it all.  The rotten leaves, the smell of pumpkin pies, coffee, lotion, and heck I bet there is a toilet paper infused with pumpkin essential oils.  Guess it couldn't hurt. Or could it?  There are some things even I do not wish to investigate. Okay back to the dead leaves in the yard.  Every season has its mess, but my favorite mess is Autumn. I suppose it's all in how you look at it.  Is my yard half empty or half full?   

 Be safe and be kind to one another. 

The Happy News Lady🎃

My Executive Order $$$$$$$$$$.......... by Julianna Rowe

 My Executive Order J$$$$$$$$$$.......by Julianna Rowe

Somewhere along the way, politics changed my signature. I realize that sounds like a sentence requiring further explanation, but because I have noticed Donald Trump’s signature, which to me appeared to consist mostly of tall, dramatic spikes marching across the page. Whatever anyone thinks of the man politically, and apparently everyone thinks something, I found the signature hilarious. There seemed to be an actual letter at the beginning and then the pen simply took off for the mountains. So I started doing it too.    

My name begins with a J, so now I make the J reasonably recognizable before abandoning the alphabet altogether. After that it is basically Jllllllllllllll Up, down, up, down, a row of aggressive little spikes that could represent my name, an executive order, or the results of an EKG performed during an argument. And it will bring in the flow of the gold and cash.  Its energy is all!

I openly tell people I sign like Trump now. My reasoning, entirely tongue-in-cheek, is that the man has spent a lifetime surrounded by controversy, made an enormous amount of money, and repeatedly emerged from situations that would have flattened an ordinary person. I am not making a political endorsement with my pen. I am trying to get some of that apparent Teflon quality into my checking account.

Someone told me I sign as though I were about to slap a gold-plated executive order on somebody’s kitchen counter. That did not discourage me. If anything, it made the signature permanent.

Politics is one of those subjects where half the room can hear a joke and laugh while the other half begins preparing a rebuttal. I have no desire to tell anyone how to vote, what to believe, or which politician deserves their admiration. There are plenty of people willing to do that already. I merely reserve the right to observe the circus, steal a signature style when it amuses me, and continue on with my day. Besides, after years of signing my name the ordinary way, the spikes are considerably more entertaining.

The only real danger is that someday I will get overly enthusiastic at the bottom of a legal document and accidentally purchase Wisconsin.    PLEASE.....all in good humor.

   Jllllllllllll

The Happy News Lady 💛

God, Gods, No God....by Julianna Rowe

God, Gods, No God and Somehow We Keep Coming Back to Kindness by Julianna Rowe

I thought about writing something political today and then I thought, Are you nuts?

People are already upset, everybody is yelling, and voting is coming. Families and friends are arguing. Complete strangers are arguing with other complete strangers on Facebook as though somebody is going to suddenly type, “You know what? After reading your comment in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS, I have completely changed my mind.”

So I decided to stay away from controversy.

Let's talk about religion.

Good thinking, right? Okay bad joke. But, really, I started wondering about all the different religions in the world and what each one actually teaches at its core. Not every rule, ceremony, holiday or theological argument. We'd be here until Easter. Or Hanukkah. Or Ramadan. Or possibly my next reincarnation. Just the basics.

Christianity centers on Jesus Christ and teaches love of God and neighbor, forgiveness, mercy and caring for others. Judaism centers on one God, the Torah, covenant, community and living responsibly through God's commandments, with a strong emphasis on justice and charity. Islam teaches belief in one God, prayer, charity, fasting, moral responsibility and living according to the guidance of the Qur'an.

Hinduism includes many different traditions, but important ideas include dharma, living rightly, karma, rebirth and ultimately liberation from the cycle of rebirth. Buddhism focuses heavily on understanding suffering and overcoming it. Compassion, wisdom, self-discipline and avoiding harm are important parts of the path. Sikhism teaches belief in one God, equality among people, honest living, sharing with others and service to humanity.

Jainism puts extraordinary emphasis on nonviolence, avoiding harm to living things, along with truth, compassion and self-discipline. Taoism teaches living in harmony with the Tao, or “the Way,” emphasizing balance, simplicity and not forcing our way through life. Shinto emphasizes reverence for nature, ancestors and kami, along with ritual, purity and community. The Baháʼí Faith teaches one God, the unity of humanity, equality and the idea that the world's great religions are connected parts of humanity's spiritual development.

And then there are atheists, who don't believe in a god or gods. Atheism itself isn't a religion and doesn't come with one set of moral rules. Many atheists, including secular humanists, base their ethics on reason, empathy, human welfare and our responsibility to one another.

I sat there looking at all of that and thought...We certainly don't agree about everything. We don't agree about God, about how many lives we get, about heaven, salvation, scripture, prophets, worship or what happens when this whole earthly adventure is over. But look at how often certain ideas keep showing up. Don't hurt people, help somebody who needs it, tell the truth,c ontrol the worst parts of yourself, have compassion, and think about somebody besides yourself.

Maybe kindness doesn't belong to any one religion. Maybe it doesn't belong to religion at all. Maybe it's simply one of those things human beings, over thousands of years and across thousands of miles, keep discovering over and over again. We may never agree about what happens after we die. But surely we can do a little better at agreeing on how we treat each other while we're here.

And look at that. I avoided politics.

Barely.

The Happy News Lady 💗  p.s. of course I asked AI for these definitions. 😉

"90 Pills Are Easier Than One Dime in Public"..... by Julianna Rowe

"90 Pills Are Easier Than One Dime in Public"  by Julianna Rowe

I was opening my lilttle bottle of amolodipine pills last evening and it slipped out of my hands.  There I stood, staring at about 90 TINY pills scattered all over the kitchen floor. My first thought was that the kitchen floor really wasn't that clean.  My second thought was my back, and the third was, who could I call? OMG, no one! I stood there staring at them knowing I also could not call the pharmacy for another bottle due to my insurance company (you know, BIG PHARMA)  not giving a hoot that I have back issues and gathering up all those TINY pills was going to be a real deal. Of course it was a new bottle and even though they may no longer have been suitable for human consumption. I considered the broom and dustpan for about three seconds.  But then I started thinking about everything that has ever been swept up with that broom, and God only knows what I might eventually ingest along with those pills.

So, I was standing there staring at the floor contemplating my next move when I looked over at Bob, my cat, sitting on the counter staring at me staring at the TINY pills. 

Important detail: I had recently gotten my nails done so as most people, women, may have experienced, if you drop a dime or any change on the floor at the grocery check out, with people in line behind you, you just have to leave it beause there is no picking it up with GelX nails.  First you look around to see if anyone noticed. Next, you stoop down and push that dime all around the floor trying to get a grip on it. Obviously, that's why you pretend you didn't know it fell in the first place!

Back to the TINY pills which by the way I am supposed to cut in half and by the time I do that the other half is pharmacy dust.  So, down I went chasing those TINY pills around trying to get any sort of hold on every 90 of them. I got the job done and felt quite proud of myself.  I considered it a Julianna learning experience.  

90 pills on the kitchen floor was easier than one dime in public. Carry on.

The Happy News Lady 💗