Quebec, November, Year of the Whisper-Quiet

Quebec, November, Year of the Whisper-Quiet Maytag Dishmaster. I am thinking constantly about mice. Where do they live at night? Where do they come from that they invade my kitchen

and squeak at 50 dB, well exceeding the output of our Whisper-Quiet Maytag Dishmaster? I can't even hear myself think (20 dB). They're going to wake my big-eared Canadian husband

John, who can hear everything and complains I slam doors when I am sleeping. John is from a family of deep sleepers, but he cannot get to sleep before 3am.

When Wendy falls asleep at 5am, I wake up. She talks in her sleep and we get to talk about sports. The she wakes at 7am and we make passionate love. I suspect she is having an

Idea or two about Politics. Because when she wakes up again at 10am, she talks about Ronald Reagan and his team. It's true that at this time I would be sleeping, but I still hear

all her political talk in my dreams, meanwhile I'm trying to escape from all the shitiness of real-life and spend some quality time in the Dreamscape....Luke would understand. He

wore gauze kurtas, love beads and hemp sandals and had a vacation house in the Dreamscape that he had furnished with east Indian gew-gaws. I begged Luke to let me be his butler at

whichever house he wasn't using. He insisted he was always at all three but that I could butler for him on his yacht when he wasn't there. "Deal", I said and spit into the palm of

a monk named Darren, who, until that precise moment, hadn't made a sound for thirty years. "It's okay," he laughed, "It was a dumb vow anyway. I should have given up cornholing!"