Actually I guess “oh gross…that’s sick” was pretty much spot on.
I was in bed the entire day yesterday and although I am better enough today to turn my computer on, I am still in bed and in a general state of ill health. Mr. Man has taken my phone away and is guarding the door to my sick sanctuary like a gargoyle. The Vicks Vaporub humidifier is humming, a half used box of Kleenex is within arm’s reach and I’m popping Theraflu pills like Pez. It’s like a camphor, snot-covered rain forest in here.
While I’ve been bed bound, I’ve been having sick dreams. Not sick as in “oh gross…that’s sick”, but sick as in the kinds of dreams you have while cat-napping between coughing up phlegm.
I love having dreams. They’re like little guilt free movies in my head that I’m in no way responsible for. While my dreams usually manage to include monkeys in red hats or men in no hats, my sick dreams seem to be incorporating things I’m seeing briefly on TV while drifting off.
Yesterday Chuck Norris and I were carving an ice sculpture with chain saws when Paula Dean burst in to tell us Uncle Jed just saved a bunch of money on his car insurance. Just as Chuck was about to celebrate the news by giving me a diamond journey necklace, Mitt Romney showed up and ruined everything by forcing us to watch his campaign ads.
I woke up just as Anderson Cooper was about to make sweet love to Marge Simpson at Macy’s.
By far, the great majority of my dreams often involve sex. I don’t think I’m any different than anyone else other than I actually admit to being human. I think people are afraid to let on that they are romping around in their heads at night doing things they can’t do in their awake life. Not me. In fact, if you’re a friend of mine and I’ve had a dream about you during which you were in any stage of undress, you are definitely getting a very detailed phone call.
The weirdest dreams are those in which someone I have never really noticed before shows up and sweeps me off my feet in a very Harlequin kind of way. They can be completely dull and balding in the real world, but once they’ve carried me to the top of a dreamy snow-covered mountain, I never look at them the same way again.
One day I’m at a mind-numbing parent-teacher conference telling them I’m happy to hear my son is doing well in History class and then post dream affair, I’m baking them Civil War shaped cookies and asking them if they want to touch my hardtack.
They never know why.
Sometimes I out my friends while I’m asleep. They may be skirt chasing, suave, women-loving, hunks while I’m conscious, but at night they often confess to me they are gayer than Tim Gunn. We cry together, I give them reassuring hugs and then I buy them a beret.
I never tell those guys I’m having out of the closet dreams about them for fear they will need to do something grand to prove their straightness…like shooting me. Instead I immediately call the Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou and we laugh at their expense because laughter at someone else’s expense really is the best medicine.
Speaking of the Evil One, I have dreams about her too but they are never any fun. When she shows up in my subconscious it’s usually to tell me I am doing something I’m not supposed to.
She buzzes in like a moral red-headed mosquito and says things like, “You really shouldn’t put Vodka on your Cocoa Pebbles”, or “I don’t think a married woman should be getting her inseam measured by a firefighter/cop/superhero”. I always try to shoo her away before she ruins it for everyone and reduces me to dreaming about scrubbing the bath tub.
I’d love to stick around right now and produce more Theraflu induced writings, but I’m sleepy again and Chuck and his ice sculpting chain saw await.
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6 comments:
You are so scary. I love it.
I love that you love me 'cause I'm scary. Most people love me 'cause I'm rich.
Really, there's nothing better than a NyQil dream. That stuff is better than booze and xanex. I once dreamed that this guy I knew 22 years ago in high school swept me off my feet and the whole thing got completely X-Rated from there on. I barely knew him, but every time I see him now, I start drooling. He's not even exactly sure who the hell I am, and I'm over there molesting his pudgy self with my eyeballs while I giggle like an idiot and he tries to remember my name. Damn you NyQil!
Karen,
I totally get that!!!
Just tell me that at some point in there the chainsaw slipped and lopped Paula "The Banshee" Dean's head off. I will die happy.
sweeps me off my feet in a very Harlequin kind of way
I initially assumed you were referencing the romance novel publisher here, but then I thought, "This is Sher you're dealing with here!" So now I have to ask if you meant a jester-type in an alternating-colored diamond patterned jumpsuit or the book publisher. Because it might make a difference in the feet-sweeping.
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