And you won't make me jealous if I hear they've sweetened your night

Until I was woken up by the sound of Steve shoveling around five thirty(!) this morning -- which, by the way, happened yesterday, too -- I was dreaming about Ann. It felt so real that, at times, especially later in the morning, it's residual effects made interacting with Ann a challenging affair. The dream felt real not so much in terms of clarity, but because it was bereft of the usual phantasmagoria and catered to the feel and pace of my waking life.

In the dream, I was in the middle of a conversation with Ann and, seeing a small opening, asked her if she'd want to get together outside work sometime. There was a pause before she responded; her expression turned thoughtful, at the crossroads of a decision (which I determined to bode poorly for me) and then she surprised me and said sure, that would be nice.

The rest of the dream went as follows: we went out to eat; she excused herself and upon her return to the table, placed her hand on my back and held it there; then, more happened, much in the same vein.

I woke up pissed and a little hopeful. Pissed because I was awake and in the same boat I was the day before, and hopeful because dreams and prophecy can be synonymous -- I've had a few that have bore fruit -- and if this one were to come true, well, happy days for me, right?

It didn't help matters that Ann was looking particularly good today. Her long, black hair was down, and she wore a flattering black sweater. The way her hair framed her face....I must have gawked at her almost every time I saw her today. It's possible I drooled, but there's no way to confirm whether I did. Will I ask her out? Oh, hell, I don't know.

I let Maureen borrow Blood Meridian yesterday and today she told me she was deep into it and loving it. Throughout several stolen work minutes, we discussed McCarthy's mastery of the language and various literary allusions found in the book. I still marvel at the fact that this matronly woman would be so into McMurtry and McCarthy. After the conversation, I knew that I wouldn't be able to go very long without buying Suttree. Perhaps I will tomorrow, though I'm pretty hardcore into Moby Dick right now.

This morning, on my way downstairs to make breakfast, I saw that Janelle's door was open and Baby Boy Z was spread out at the foot of her bed. Of Janelle, there was no sign. I made breakfast and went back upstairs. After I ate, I stopped to say hello to Baby Boy Z, still at the foot of the bed. Janelle must have gone to work early today, I thought.

While play-wrestling with Baby Boy Z, I heard what I thought to be farts pillowing out of his ass and laughed at him. Baby Boy Z was getting rambunctious and our wrestling became more intense. Then, I heard the farting again, only this time it was accompanied by the shifting of a lump under the blankets.

It was Janelle, and those weren't farts I heard, but her soft, sleepy moans. I got up and went downstairs, thinking she must be wondering why I woke her up in the manner I did. I consulted with her later, and we laughed about the experience, though I'm still puzzled why I didn't notice her in the bed. Maybe I only have eyes for Baby Boy Z.

I could do worse.