This morning I awoke and said to Ben, You bastard.

WTF? he asked, rather reasonably under the circumstances.

What happened was, I’d dreamed that he said my old college friend Susan wasn’t all that great in bed. (I haven’t seen Susan in 25 years.) How the hell do you  know? I demanded in my dream.

Oh, you know, we played around, some pocket pool, some groping. All over-the-clothes stuff, he replied offhandedly.

Wait, I said. I INTRODUCED YOU TO THAT GIRL! You philandering bastard. 

This he shrugged off. And, I continued, I’ll bet that’s why we’re not so much having sex. You’ve been cheating on me! 

No, that’s not it, he said.

Or it’s the meds you’re taking, I guessed.

No, that’s not it either. He looked evasive.

So I guess you just don’t like me anymore, I said.

After the longest time he said Well, it’s true; I’m not attracted to you because you’re too chubby.

Well. Breathes there a wife or girlfriend on earth who doesn’t dread hearing words such as those? I was crushed. And then I woke up, told my husband he was a bastard, and told him why.

But honey, that was in your DREAM, he said.

Doesn’t matter, I replied. Bastard. And hugged him with all my might, because none of it was true.

At least, it had BETTER not be true!

What in the world could be more boring than someone telling their dreams? Not much, usually. It’s always “Well, first I was in this house, and it was my house but sort of not my house, know what I mean? And . . .” by which time everyone has completely dozed off.

But these past few weeks I’ve been dreaming constantly of travel — scary travel. A freeway onramp that snakes straight up into the sky. A trip by hot-air balloon that goes all awry when caught in strong winds. Are these the winds of change? Maybe that’s why I’m afraid.

Morning Commute Soundtrack: More Adventurous by Rilo Kiley. This is the album where they came of age, and moving from an indie label to a major label was only part of it. The singing and songwriting have also improved and matured greatly. The track Does He Love Me? was appropriated by Elvis Costello for his Starbucks collection of old favorites and new talent (although Ben claims that EC is just trying to line up Jenny Lewis to be the next Mrs. Costello).

Breakfast Menu: One Starbucks six-shot Americano; one Flexeril tablet; one miniature Hershey Almond bar; two Hershey kisses. Enough to make nutritionists and the Religious Right howl with indignation.

Menu: (1) one Starbucks six-shot Cafe Americano; and (2) one Flexeril tablet. If there’s one good thing about mysterious back ailments, it’s that they give you the GOOD drugs.

Morning Commute Soundtrack: This Year’s Model by Elvis Costello. Although his earliest hit Allison had already revealed the crooner lurking within, this 1978 release brought us EC in full snarling, sneering Angry Young Man form. (He later confessed that this was the product of lots of booze and coke.) The songs are good, but I believe this album is honestly bad for your attitude. After a few listens, you may feel a bit snarly yourself. I once learned that I was in need of a SERIOUS ATTITUDE ADJUSTMENT when I was listening to George Harrison sing about lovely George Harrisony things and abruptly growled Oh, fuck you anyway, George, with your happy horseshit and put on This Year’s Model instead.

On tomorrow’s agenda: More coffee, more Flexeril, and Rilo Kiley for the morning commute.

MATT IS OFFICIALLY TOILET TRAINED. After three years, nine months and thirteen days of having two in diapers, I ONLY HAVE ONE KID IN DIAPERS AGAIN.

Julia, you hurry up with the toilet training thing, okay? Because I look forward to the day when I can say FUCK YOU, PAMPERS with impunity.

Now that we have plans in place for leaving California, I’m constantly listening to remember — to remember the reasons why I’m leaving, and the reasons why I’ll miss it when I’m gone. I’ll miss the excellent birds; the devil winds I’ll be happy to leave behind.

In October, the devil winds, the Santa Anas, blow in from the great Sonoran and Mojave deserts and turn Southern California into the world’s largest outdoor blow dryer. Mornings aren’t usually so bad, but in the afternoon the wind comes up and sucks all the moisture out of your hair, skin and eyes. The sky turns as clear and hard and blue as a huge chunk of turquoise, and actual tumbleweeds blow down the streets and fields. These are the winds that fuel California’s wildfires and make you pray for rain. I hate Santa Anas. I want football weather. I want crisp fragrant leaves crunching underfoot. I want sweaters. I will have to leave town to get those things.

As ugly and unwelcome as the devil winds may be, that’s how beautiful the birds are. Over the weekend, in the desert, we had the pleasure of watching roadrunners scoot through the fields. On my morning commute today, I watched a snowy egret flap slowly across the face of an office building, probably not realizing he’s one of the few things of beauty to grace this suburban sprawl. As a little girl on the East Coast, I dreamed of seeing such birds, which seemed as exotic to me as China, and as far away. Today I miss robins and blue jays, and egrets can be found in any wetland, eastern or western; but I will miss roadrunners and California quail.

That’s the bitterness and the sweetness of moving about. There is always something you long for, and always something you miss. I wear nostalgia like a big wooly sweater; it keeps me warm, but something’s always itching somewhere.

So my daughter is getting married this week. No, good Lord, not Julia — even Mormon fundamentalists don’t marry them off that young (although probably not for lack of inclination). I mean my oldest child, my daughter Erika, who is marrying her longtime boyfriend Joel.

Days gone by, it used to be incumbent upon the mother of the bride to have a talk with her before the wedding, to prepare her for the wedding night. Can you imagine how that must have gone down? Now honey, it’s going to be big and hairy and coming right at you. But he’s your husband. Try not to be too scared. Fortunately, such things are no longer required; but I feel it my responsibility to dispense some advice about marriage.

The best thing I can tell you is that there is no room in a marriage for deception; or I should say that once deception creeps in, there is all sorts of room, because it shoots your marriage full of holes. Always be honest with each other. That means accepting each other, warts and all. So don’t be hypercritical, either.

Don’t let arguments escalate. When things get too heated, walk away for a while — or grab him and hug him, or say something that will crack him up. And no fair, when angry, storming out of the house and taking off for God knows where and refusing to answer your cellphone. Walk away from him, but don’t ever deliberately make him wonder and worry where you are.

Be faithful to him. Protect him. Support him. Men don’t think the way we do, and just when he’s being completely impossible and thick-skulled it will transpire that it’s just him acting like a man. Try to forgive him for all that. Boys are different. (Whee, now we’re back to the rudimentary sex talk!)

If you want him to be a good husband, be a good wife. Remember that he adores you. And anytime you start thinking about making me a grandmother, come over to our house and hang out with our kids — which should dispel that notion right quick.

And Erika? You are a good, strong, smart woman, and I am insanely proud of you, and I love you more than the moon and stars. I hope you knew all that.

And looky there — she is a redhead after all.

When you say “This Yemeni shit really kicks ass,” but you are talking about coffee and not hashish, you know that you really are middle-aged.

Banana Girl. Last night, Julia was walking about eating a banana when I scooped her up in my arms. She laughed by way of greeting and promptly smeared banana hands all over my black t-shirt. Then she gave me a big banana-filled kiss. Then she smeared banana on my cheeks and hairline. Then she picked bits of banana off her fingers and fed them to me, beaming each time I took a bite. After I mopped us off and she toddled away, I reflected that Boolieland is a great place to be — with Julia, I find pleasure in small things because she shows me the way.

Things My Dogs Have Eaten. My basenjis have apparently entered into a contest with Kristy’s dog Calvin for the most bizarre things eaten. On the hot list this week: one ganja brownie and one Pull-Up full of Number Two. Yes, and lived to tell about it. Top that, Cal!