It's around this time every year I start seriously contemplating life as a hermit. Or a recluse. I'd make an excellent recluse. (Yeah, yeah, I hear the resounding cries: You do a passable imitation for most of the year anyway, Deb…. Hush. Quiet in the galleries already.)
Last night's dream involved me explaining, in patient and excruciating detail, why you couldn't name an eskimo Deborah. (I don't know why, but for some reason in my head Jodi was determined to do precisely this.) It was a true corker of a theory, mind you, tying in the evolution of the Hebrew language and the nature of deserts and date trees and palms and oases and desert foxes and bats (are there bats in the desert?), and even Jesus. I can't quite remember the details, and for that we can all be grateful. Except dream-Jodi, I suppose, who was left with an unnamed eskimo.
No, I don't know the way my head works either. Just be grateful you don't have to live in it!