Friday, May 14, 2010

Sweet dreams are not made of this

What do Troy Aikman, teen pregnancy, wandering eyes, Miller Lite and swallowing your fist have in common? They’ve all showed up in my dreams lately – and they are part of the dreams I can talk about in polite company. There have been many others involving Ben and people at work that are just too embarrassing to admit to. I think I need to get a CAT scan to make sure the fetus isn’t growing in my brain.

Troy Aikman was my first celebrity crush on a heterosexual male.

As a child I adored Boy George, and Mom had to carefully explain that he didn’t like girls that way. I still think he’s fabulous for teaching me about tolerance and eye liner.

I digress…My first deranged pregnancy induced dream started with Troy and I Wing Stop enjoying a basket of boneless wings. I decided to order a Miller Lite and proceeded to down the entire thing in one gulp. Upon putting the bottle down, I remembered – oh no! I’m pregnant, I can’t drink alcohol! I ran to the bathroom to induce vomiting, except I had NO gag reflex. I couldn’t throw up the poison beverage no matter how far I put my finger, then fist, then forearm down my throat. By this time, Troy was really worried about me and knocked on the bathroom stall. I told him to go back into the restaurant and work on his footwork and then I woke myself up. What in the heck?

The other dream theme of late is that Ben is just a hound dog. I’m sure this comes from some unfounded fear that he’ll leave me because I get too fat and grumpy. By the way, I love you Babe, and don’t actually think this’ll happen. However I can’t make my unconscious brain grasp that.

Example…In one dream Ben and I went a high school party in the Summerfields addition near my childhood home. (Note - We looked as we do today, and everyone else was in high school. Awkward from the get go. I got a bunch of “whose mom is that” looks.) I wanted to leave and couldn’t find Ben. Finally, I located him in the back bedroom holding court with all these high school girls. He got up to leave and one of the girls, who was hugely pregnant, asked for his phone number.

I pulled my best ghetto-Jerry-Springer attitude and informed her that he was married. She said she didn’t care, so he shrugged and wrote his phone number on her hand! The nerve! I woke up fuming and kicked Ben under the covers.

It wasn’t fair, but neither is my imagination’s nightly assault on my emotions.

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