Last week my mother was telling me about a weird dream she had.
She dreamed there was a tornado approaching her house, and it passed through a cow farm first. Its trip through the pasture caused it to pick up all the cow poop.
So there it was, heading for her house, with a plethora of bovine poop swirling around and around.
What did she call this?
A "Turd-nado", of course.
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Mr. Carrot said he'd like me to give back the bear, please. I leaned in and whispered something witty and provocative in his ear. (I wish I could remember what it was. All I remember is that it was flirty sizzly hot.)
A few nights later I felt guilty about stealing his bear and ring, so I decided I'd return the items to him. I camped outside his apartment/house like a good little stalker, and waited for him to come out.
"Well," he said, "Since my wife died a few days ago, I guess I could have dinner with you tomorrow. Not tonight, though. I've already had dinner."I had another weird dream last night.
I went to visit Fab, only to find that instead of the building I was expecting, there was a big store. He had opened this business venture to cater to all his fans. It was maybe half the size of a Wal-Mart, and had about the same kinds of things.
But the best part was in the corridor just outside the store. There was a snack bar, and an ice cream shop, and an amusement park ride.
I decided to ride the ride. It cost, like, fifty cents or something.
It was a mix between a magic carpet and one of those log flume water park rides. There was only one magic carpet, about the size of a loveseat. And people rode it on this white-water-rapids stream which went out into the parking lot.
I ended up having to share the ride with two other ladies. It was clear they didn't want me there; they'd been hoping to have it all to themselves. They were friends with each other, and wouldn't speak to me the entire time. I tried being pleasant and making jokes, but they wouldn't even smile.
So I made sure to steer the carpet into lots of turbulence and waterfalls, getting us all soaked. Serves them right.
When the ride was over, I went to the ice cream shop and sat at one of the tables, trying to decide what I wanted to order.
Then the dream ended.
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I had a weird dream Friday night.
And, because this is my blog, I'm going to tell you all about it.
It started out with this scene: A guy having a covert conversation with some other guys in a public restroom. I don't remember what they were saying, just that it had a very spy-like feel to it; this guy was meeting with "the enemy", spilling some information he was not supposed to spill.
Then, in the next scene, I was assisting with the investigation of that incident. The head of the investigation was some CSI-type chick who had analyzed all the evidence. The most damning piece of evidence was this: We had installed surveillance equipment in the walls during the time of this guy's illicit meeting, and although we couldn't make a definite voice match to him, we compared a printout of the "sound waves" of his voice, and the sound waves seemed to be an exact match.
Ms. Investigator chick and I went into the public bathroom together with this guy, for the "interrogation." The guy was "obviously" guilty in her eyes; she was saying stuff like "Nah, c'mon. We've gotcha. You know that. We've got the evidence right here." And she showed him a comparison of the two sound wave charts. They were projected onto the wall as if it was a slide show.
I looked at them (apparently for the first time), and was kinda surprised to see that the voice patterns DIDN'T really match up perfectly. They were similar, but not exact. "Hmmm," I thought quietly to myself.
The guy began claiming his innocence, giving all sorts of great reasons to why the "evidence" had been misinterpreted. As for the voice analysis, he turned to ME and said "You. Say something."
"What?" I said.
He turned to the investigator as if nearing the crux of his case. "See? It could have been anyone."
It seemed he was making the point that anyone's voice could have made the same imprint on the sound sensors. And, I thought to myself, that would explain why the vocal "fingerprints" didn't match up exactly....
Now the dream gets weird.
Apparently we lived in a society that used fake mashed potatoes a lot. We used them for insulation, and as an ingredient in milkshake-type beverages, and no doubt in many other ways as well. Throughout the course of the investigation, I had been sipping a "slush/shake" type of thing which seemed to be fake mashed potatoes mixed with a little Mello Yello. I remember it was Mello Yello, not Mountain Dew.
So it turned out that there was a real possibility the evidence had been planted there by another spy who had scooped out the mashed-potato insulation from inside the walls, hidden there, and found a way to spy on this guy's conversations in the bathroom. Somehow, perhaps this guy was not the criminal but a victim after all.
The guy left the room and was taken back into custody, leaving me and the investigator to mull over the evidence. I turned to her and said "Y'know, at first I was positive this guy was guilty, but now... well, now I'm just not sure."
And the dream ended there.
In retrospect, here's what gets me: The dream started out with proof that he really was guilty. I watched him do it! I was an omniscient observer. Yet the rest of the dream was devoted to "Well, gosh, maybe he's innocent..."
And it will definitely be awhile before I can eat mashed potatoes again.
Ok, finally my migraine seems to be gone, so now I can concentrate on doing a longer post.
I want to tell you all about this weird dream I had earlier, while trying to sleep off the headache.
I dreamed I was spending the night at a house owned by this weird family. (I don't know who they were, I don't know them in real life). There were a few other houseguests as well, including Al Franken and Grandpa Jones from Hee Haw.
This family was really repressed about "bathroom" issues. The following rules were enforced whenever any of us had to go to that section of the house:
1) We had to announce whenever we were going to the bathroom-- except we weren't allowed to call it the bathroom; we had to call it "The Question Room" instead.
2) We were not allowed to be totally naked in The Question Room. If we wanted to bathe, we had to use a sponge or small washcloth soaked in a small jar of soapy water, and we could only uncover whatever body part we were washing at that particular moment. Each of us was assigned our own little jar of soapy water, which we had to carry around with us all the time. I noticed that poor Al Franken had a scouring pad in his jar instead of a sponge or cloth. (ouch!)
3) As we got up and entered the "Question Room" door, we had to audibly pose a question. ANY question, to no one in particular, for no particular reason. The more nonsensical, the better. I wish I could remember what Al Franken's question was. But here are some examples of questions that would have been acceptable:
"Are liquids redundant?"
"Do four aspen branches taste like cloves?"
"Other than vinegar, what else do orange skunks drink?"
"Why is the square root of pi more than your IQ?"
"Whose armpit smells like doritos?"
And everyone in the room would listen to whatever question you asked and discuss it while you were gone.
Get the idea? So after Al Franken came out of the bathroom, I realized I had to go too. So I picked up my jar of soapy water with its little washcloth, and announced that I had to visit The Question Room.
Except as I was about to enter the door, I froze... I couldn't think of a question! Stagefright, writer's block (dreamer's block?), call it what you will, but I couldn't think of a question. So I stood there, anxious because I really had to pee, trying really hard to think of something-- anything-- to ask.
Finally, in desperation, I said "What is nine times eight?" and hurried on in.
I was so disappointed in my question. Somehow I knew that everyone in the other room was looking around with expressions of disgust, thinking "What the hell kind of question was THAT??"
And of course that's when I woke up... with a full bladder.
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I went to McDonalds and ordered a burger with no onions. Instead it arrived with nothing BUT onions. (this has actually happened to me on more than one occasion). Plus the top bun was a lot larger than the bottom bun, like they'd taken it from a BigMac instead of a regular hamburger. I absolutely can not eat burgers with onions on them, onions seriously make me sick (read here for further explanation). So I took the burger back to complain. I requested a replacement that fit the specifications of what I had ordered. The counter-people were not very helpful and not apologetic at all, so I ended up talking to the manager. For some reason, in my dream, the manager/owner of this McDonalds was Kevin Nealon. (yes, Kevin Nealon from the old "Saturday Night Live" days) He was also a high-school principal, and McD ownership was just a "side gig" for him.
He took me into a back room, where we sat at one of the tables and discussed things. He seemed to be implying that people shouldn't expect so much of him, because he had a rough childhood. He told me about his days in high school, where it was so bad he had to carry a gun to school often. He said he shot & killed people, though I had to kind of draw that information out of him. As the conversation progressed, it was as though I was his therapist, and we were in a counseling session. (Hey, I really do have a therapy degree; if I can't find such a job in the real world, I might as well dream about it, right?) I ended up having to stop the conversation short, saying we should "make an appointment" for the next session, where we could discuss his issues further.
I never did get my hamburger.
I was on some kind of pilgrimage with a huge group of young people (age range-- about 6 through 20). I don't know what our destination was, but we were all walking there together on a well-worn path through the wilderness. There was a city a few miles ahead of us. Along with one of the pre-teen kids (he was maybe 12) , I saw a little boy at the side of the road. He was still standing, but he was frozen solid, like a statue. Completely petrified, changed to stone as if he had seen the face of Medusa.
I expressed shock and surprise, but the person next to me said "Nah, that's just Billy."
As if that explained everything.
"Wait a minute," I said to the pre-teen, confused. "I thought YOUR name was Billy."
"It is," he replied.
No one else seemed to care that there was this petrified kid-statue at the side of the road; they just walked right on by and kept going toward our destination.
I reached out to Billy-the-statue and touched the side of his head (or maybe it was his shoulder.) I said something, but don't remember what it was. Instantly Billy un-froze and came back to life, resuming his walk.
He never thanked me for this strange resuscitation, nor did anyone else seem to notice or care.
After all, it was just Billy.
I dreamed that our entire family owned a McDonald's together-- and my cousin & I were the only two people who could hear the ghost of Elvis inside it. All I heard from Elvis were low moans, but my cousin said she heard him frantically crying out for Martha Stewart. And while we were trying to investigate, the ghost of Elvis stole my wallet.
Again I dreamed about being a spy last night.
I was investigating the murder of one of my fellow agents, whose nickname was "Two Fourths". Written down, the name looked like "2/4".
What the investigation revealed was that there were actually lots of agents named 2/4, and the assassin had killed the wrong one!
(I wonder what MY nickname was...)
(1) I dreamed that I was the star of some spy film (like the lady version of James Bond)...(Janna Bond?)
And at the end of the movie, when the credits rolled by, the theme music played.
I remember the lyrics because they made no sense:
"The big and large and Swedish dog
Which finds a home in God...."
And the music was a combination of Won't You Come Home, Bill Bailey? and the theme to My Three Sons.
(2) Then I dreamed I was in some large assembly hall in Holt, Michigan. The hall had multiple rooms and I was in one with some guy and some lady. They were both studying or reading something. I noticed to my horror that there were some weird worm-like creatures on the floor. (I have scoleciphobia and I HATE WORMS!) I froze and let the guy know I was terrified. He seemed puzzled but obliged me by picking up the phone and dialing the number for an exterminator. Then he handed the phone to me so I could make the arrangements with the exterminator. I had to let the phone-person know where we were, so I searched for an address. This was easier said than done, because the address number kept changing. In addition to the building number, there was a room number posted on the outside of the door. First it was four digits, then I noticed actually it was five digits... and a moment later it had changed to six digits. And the numbers were different every time I looked at them. Sometimes they actually looked like letters instead. I couldn't explain to the exterminator-lady exactly where we were, which was really frustrating for me. Plus, I kept freaking out, hyperventilating and making terrified noises every time I saw one of the worms. Fortunately, the phone-lady remained courteous and patient, and eventually somehow they were able to find us. I moved to another room, and after awhile the exterminator guy came in and handed ME the bill.
I don't remember what the cost was, but I took it anyway. Hey, if it gets rid of worms, it's worth just about any price.
I dreamed there was this new pizza place in Hillsdale. There was no actual business name, just a building and a sign that said "Come in and try our pizza!"
One day I decided I would.
I called ahead and ordered a large pizza with pepperoni and sausage.
When I arrived to pick up my order, that's when the real trouble started. I discovered that the place wasn't really a restaurant but one of those group-homes for the retarded or developmentally-disabled. The staff was busy working with the residents. Apparently some manager thought "Hey, I bet we can bring in a little money on the side if we make pizza for people!" It didn't even look like a restaurant, it did NOT smell like pizza, and no one there seemed to know what I was talking about when I told them I'd called to order pizza.
So I waited and waited.
More than a half hour passed and I was still waiting. Then some other person came in the door who seemed to know me (I think it might have been Cary Elwes, but I'm not sure). He was neither an employee nor a customer; he just decided to walk into my dream for some reason, I guess. He went to ask them what the heck was taking so long with my pizza. After maybe 10 minutes more, he came out with a large pizza box and handed it to me. I looked inside.
It was all wrong.
First, Instead of a large freshly-made pizza, it was just re-heated leftover slices of someone else's pizza.
Second, The slices weren't all there. Instead of twelve, there were nine, sort of haphazardly piled on top of each other in groups of three.
Third, the toppings were all wrong. Instead of pepperoni and sausage, there were six slices with just cheese and diced tomatoes, plus three slices with (I'm not kidding) LEMON MERINGUE.
I immediately said to Cary, "This isn't right."
"What?" He answered, confused.
I showed him the fiasco.
By now I knew there was no way anyone was getting any actual fresh hot pizza today. I was tired of this, and I wanted my money back.
Cary went back to straighten things out.
I couldn't believe what horrible service these people had. They acted like it was a chore to deal with customers, a nuisance to have to listen to what the customer actually wanted. They seemed to wish I would just go away and stop distracting them from their "real" jobs.
After even more time had elapsed, Cary finally came out with the owner, an older matronly woman who was very solemn and bitter. She never apologized about any of the terrible service or any of the mistakes. She just plunked a big briefcase down on the floor and put six dollars in my hand (a five and a one, plus some change).
I seemed to think that was less than what I'd paid, so I repeated that I wanted ALL my money back.
The owner glared at me, silent and resentful.
I never did get any more money back, I never did get the right pizza, and I never found out what was in the briefcase, despite the fact that it was now mine to keep.
(Maybe it was filled with more pizza leftovers contributed by other people)....
Last night I dreamed that I was on a mission with about 4 other people. We were sent to find a special diamond that was rumored to exist at an archaeological site. There was an Indiana-Jones-like maze and obstacle course we'd have to conquer before finding our treasure.
So, we all made it to the site, and my colleagues began crawling through the tiny cave-like tunnels. "Oh, NO, I thought. I'll never fit through there! I'm too big!"
But I refused to be thwarted, and came up with an alternate plan. Rather than go through the maze, I'd just go around it! So I did-- I went to the 'finish line' by taking an alternate route, totally avoiding all the traps and pitfalls my colleagues were experiencing. And there, hidden in shadow right at the end, was THE diamond. It didn't look much like a traditional diamond, of course; it wasn't clear and sparkly and faceted. It was a raw diamond, similar to the one shown in the picture here, only smoother and milkier (kinda like an opal, actually!)
Everyone agreed that YES, this was the artifact we'd been searching for. Yet for some reason, I was allowed to keep it!
Somehow I discovered I was able to visit with the original occupants of the archaeological site (maybe I had a time machine, I dunno). So I took the diamond with me and showed it to them, asking them about its history and significance.
"Oh, THAT thing?" One of them made a face. "That's just something one of us threw up one day."
(??!!!)
And... that's when I woke up.
Last night I dreamed I shot and killed at least two of my friends who were getting on my nerves (!!!). (Actually they were both girls from high school, one of whom I haven't seen in a long time). Even though one of the shootings had taken place in a parking lot (Kroger in Hillsdale), I didn't get caught. A few weeks later in the dream, someone threw a surprise party in my honor, and all my friends were invited. (Even one of the people I'd shot who was supposed to be dead was there!) It was held in this spacious multi-level mall. I began to get suspicious that this 'party' was actually a set-up to catch me admitting to the murders, or to confront me with incriminating forensic evidence. (Besides, what if they started listening to the person I'd shot??) So I tried to nonchalantly escape, and meandered away from the group.
Someone followed me.
It was Levi, from band. I suspected someone had given him the job of keeping an eye on me to make sure I didn't get away. I went downstairs and through corridors and boiler rooms and all kinds of hiding places, but still Levi followed me.
Finally I went into the ladies' room. I turned around and said "Aha! You can't follow me in here!!"
He sighed in defeat as if to say "Yeah, ok, go ahead, do your business-- but I'll be waiting!!"
So I sat on the toilet and waited for him to leave-- and that's when the dream ended.
Moral of the story: Don't shoot your friends. It's more trouble than it's worth.
Last night I dreamed I was a teenager in some kind of boot camp... the other 'recruits' were between 6 and 20-ish. The six year old looked kinda like Thomas Hayden Church (the "I see dead people" kid), and the oldest looked like Lance Bass.
I couldn't figure out whether we'd been grouped together because we were problem-youths, or were specially gifted somehow, or what.
In one of the 'scenes', the Lance-like guy got sent to the top of a roof to fix some kind of antenna. Meanwhile, our drill sergeant was yelling crude insulting things at him. Our drill sergeant was a real bitch. Offhand, I can't think of a celebrity to compare her to, so I'll just describe her as short, semi-pudgy, with short dirty blonde hair and a piss-poor attitude about pretty much everything. While 'Lance' was fixing the antenna, drill-chick went to get his lunch, and then proceeded to eat it right there in front of all of us. She shouted up to the roof and mocked him and teased him, "I'm eating your cookies! Whaddya gonna DO about it???"
Trying to maintain perfect composure and a pleasant demeanor, 'Lance' looked over at ME and smiled. "I don't mind sharing at all," he said, convincing us all that he really meant it.
Meanwhile, I was getting really sick of hearing the drill sergeant bully him so much, so I thought to myself, "This would be a REALLY good time for a lightning bolt."
And somehow I was able to 'call' a bolt of lightning from the sky! It was amazing!
Here's the thing, though: It missed the drill sergeant and ended up hitting the 6-year old kid instead. (oops!)
And when it hit him, it completely vaporized him into pure energy, taking him back up to the clouds.
Someone else in the group expressed hope that his 'energy' would return somehow to help us overcome the oppression of the drill sergeant.
And that's when I woke up!
