Sunday, June 1, 2008

Closing My Eyes Now, You Can't See Me

One of my biggest pet peeves, other than the actual term "pet peeve," is when people tell you about a dream they had. Even worse is when they tell you about a dream they had with you in it. A long drawn out story of the innards of somebody else's mind where they saw you in an aquarium maybe, with that guy from the post office? You know, the guy with that thing on his forehead? Except he looked more like that kid who stocks the vending machines at work? And in the dream you were having a long intense conversation with Mr. Post Office/Vending Machine Man and you just have to stand there and listen to this enema of somebody else's subconscious, nodding your head with a stupid smile on your face as you are told about the dream, as if it means something to you, as if at any minute you'll jump in with Oh yeah! That guy! That conversation! Yeah, I mean, wasn't that just cah-razy??!

Another pet peeve of mine: dream catchers. They're almost as bad as bolero ties.
With the exception of Martin Luther King, most people should keep their dreams to themselves. That being said... so I had this dream. But don't worry, you weren't in it. Back when I was pregnant I dreamt that one night I unzipped my belly and pulled out my baby to play with her. She was not yet Zoey or even the guy from the post office with that thing on his forehead. She was a stock photography toddler and she giggled and made faces and poked at me with fingers made of oleo; it was one of those dreams that you just don't want to end. When I was finished playing with the baby I folded her back inside of myself and zipped up my tummy and woke up in the morning smiling. This weekend I realized that dream has come true. Zoey has turned a developmental corner, or maybe I have as her mother, and suddenly she is so fun to play with, the way she talks to me, explains her world. She makes me laugh as if I am the baby lying flat on my play mat and she is the adult leaning over me, dangling brightly colored objects for me to bat at in an effort to make me smile. And she does. I smile. And no, it's not just gas.
Bryan was away this weekend so my mom stayed over. It was kind of like spending the weekend with three versions of myself: 2 year old me, me at 35, and who I will be at 62. The weekend was a mass of versions of me, me if I smoked Marlboro Reds and woke up at 6 am demanding Get Up! Get Up! Get Up! so fast and so loud that it sounds more like Giddyup! Giddyup! Giddyup! The Marlboro Women at Home On the Range of Herselves.
So you will understand if I need a little time to not be myself. To watch some tv about somebody else's reality, to read a book, to sleep. Because for how much I hate hearing about other people's dreams I recognize that a blog is pretty much a dream proffered, the subconscious exposed. A dead mouse brought to the masses by a house cat very much pleased with herself, words gutted and left on a doorstep, a gift, well-received or not.
Sleep Tight, ma petites. Sweet Dreams.

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