I dreamt (is that a word? dreamed?) that I babysat and afterward my mom told me I got ripped off. And not just for that instance, but every time I had babysat for the family in the past, too. I started doing the math in my head and realized that they had only paid me a quarter per kid an hour that whole time and I felt gypped. You can now see the quality of sleep I’m getting: dreams become arithmetic and emotions of anger and anxiety. Perhaps I need to find a new way to recharge my body.
The real ironic thing of this dream was that in real life, things were the opposite. I once got paid $6 (one kid, two hours) and my mom said I was overpaid and made me walk over to my neighbor’s house and give her back $2. $1/kid/hour was standard in my day, but some people were generous enough to give $2/kid/hour. This case of $3/kid/hour was pure outrage to my mother, so I did the walk of shame at age 12, pissed off because I had already decided how I would spend it (Trolli sour worms, ranch pringles, fun size snicker bars, hologram stickers).
Today Steve and I were walking through one of the many adjoining neighborhoods where we saw kids lighting firecrackers, then throwing them in the air. “My parents would never have allowed that,” I said. “Kids get away with anything these days,” he retorted, and I knew he was right. I’m so glad I don’t babysit anymore. I would probably pull my cat trick, but on the kids. I hate cats, always have. Anytime I had to babysit for a family who owned a cat, I locked the cat outside until the parents came home. This usually worked except for one time when the cat clawed its way up the screen door and I got freaked out, let it back inside, and locked it into the bathroom instead.
I’m off to bed again, this time in hopes of better dreams. If I don’t dream of work, running into people I don’t like while running errands, or animals attacking me, this night will be a success.