This morning�s drive in was so gorgeous, it almost mitigated my dismay at the destination (i.e., the office, although not the Office office, where my gorgeous imaginary boyfriend John Krasinski would be waiting for me by the copier). Where was I? Right: the beauty of nature. Anyway, the sea was flat blue glass, and the enormous swell coming in creates big, frothy breakers sending up clouds of mist that hover over the coastline. It�s the same drive I make every weekday morning, but it never looks quite the same, and today�s combination of mirror ocean and pale sky was beautiful and ethereal, like a Maxfield Parrish landscape, but without the fey little elf kids on swings.

Yesterday, when I was finishing (i.e., starting) my Christmas shopping, I bought myself a dream journal. It features boxes in which to write the description of each dream, a box to check to indicate that the dream�s recurrent, and little spaces to note significant symbols. I was inspired to buy the journal following a vivid dream I had after Anthony & Lara�s Christmas party on Saturday night, which devolved from dinner party to ironic hip-hop dance party, to band recording session. The dream, which could have been spurred by the chocolate sugar bombs we had for dessert, involved a long drive over a very high bridge which at one juncture was dangerously strewn with cooked and peeled shrimp. Huh. Discuss. (Recurrent�? I�ll just check Yes.)

Essentially, I could have saved the $13.95 and just started keeping notes of my dreams in a blank notebook purloined free from the office, but its fill-in-the-blanks aspect appealed to me, which makes it more likely that I�ll record my dreams, comprehend the inherent pattern, and unlock the secrets of my destiny, etc., etc.

And speaking of unlocking my destiny, my horoscope this morning suggests: Instead of taking care of yourself, nurture the entire community. I started off in the right spirit, by oversleeping and failing to shower, but the community-nurturing is a bit of a mystery. It�s a nice idea, but begs the question of what, exactly, is my community. Nurturing isn�t really my strong suit, but I could potentially be nice to, say, my immediate coworkers. (Note: that endeavor failed before 11:00 this morning. But seriously, if you want a flip chart at your off-site meeting, you have to either tell me in advance or bring one yourself. Because I am not your bitch, uh-HUH.)

The only other real community I can claim would be that of the marina where I live and sail. I don�t see it happening there either, as meaningful nurturing would require that I resort to wife-swapping, and frankly, that�s too much of a sacrifice for me to make in the interest of fulfilling an internet horoscope.

So, speaking of wife-swapping, which I unfortunately was, the Keelhauler had an odd little encounter the other night. He had to get his hair cut, so he called to give me directions to the salon (�Upstairs, outside the Sears entrance, across from Spencer Gifts. If you get to the food court, you�ve gone too far.�) I arrived as the hairdresser, a plain-looking girl in probably her late 30s, wearing a boxy khaki skirt and holiday-themed sweater, was guiding the razor around the Keelhauler�s ears. He caught my eye in the mirror and smiled in a manner I call his Wallace grin�not so much a smile as a stretching-out of his mouth into a flattened oval so he looks like a claymation character designed by Nick Park. I took a seat by the hair products, and the receptionist ignored me to lounge across the counter, studying her nails and discussing weekend plans. When the haircut was through, the Keelhauler accompanied the nice lady to the front counter and paid, and as we left, called, �OK, well, maybe we�ll see you at Scuppers!� He waited until we were down the hall in front of Kay Jewelers to announce that the hairdresser, upon learning that we live on our boat, had said matter-of-factly, �I heard that everyone who lives on their boat is a swinger.� The Keelhauler was taken aback. �She didn�t even say, like, �Oh, but not YOU,� or anything!� he said, baffled, �It was like she never even considered that I might not want to be in that group!� He was annoyed that she stated it so plainly.

I processed the information. �So�� I started, �Why did you tell the swinger hairdresser lady that we might see her at Scuppers?� Scuppers is a grimy neighborhood bar known more for its fights than its ambience. �Oh,� he said, �she was telling me that her friend always drags her there to meet guys, but that she likes the guys who go to the meat markets.� Experience has shown me that there�s no point in trying to explain to the Keelhauler that he�d essentially told the hairdresser he hoped we�d meet up with her in the future, so I kept my mouth shut. I held his hand as we walked through the carpeted halls, past the Hot Topic and the Panda Express, while the Keelhauler, raising his voice an octave, perfected his impression of the hairdresser. �My friend likes the type a guys at Scuppers, but I like the meat market guys WAY better��

Star of the day. . .John Krasinski