Work Might Stress Me Out a Bit...

I had a dream the other night that has led me to believe work is stressing me out a bit. In fact, I had this dream the night before I decided I needed to start taking medication for anxiety (which, btw, is causing me to have severe chest pain which, in turn, is failing to mitigate my anxiety).

My childhood best friend now lives approximately 650 miles from me. We're still in touch, but not super close because, y'know, life. I dreamt that he was getting married! Hooray! So I scheduled a weekend off to drive to his wedding. In the dream, I left home on Friday to drive to the wedding. In transit, I received a phone call, asking me to work Saturday. Because Dream Me is a stupid chump, Dream Me agreed. Drove the rest of the way to Hammy's, attended his bachelor party, then turned around and drove back home to work Saturday morning. Worked my shift, then turned around and drove BACK to Hammy's Saturday night for the wedding Sunday morning. Wedding, turned around, and drove back home to work Monday.

Sadly, when I woke up, my first thought wasn't one of dismay. It was "Oooh, I liked Dream Hammy's fiance!"

The Time My Dog Brought Home a Cat

I did post this story on an old blog, but I enjoy it so much, I thought I'd share it here (language cleaned up a bit, except for the last paragraph).

Sadly, the following is a completely true story. There is genuinely no hyperbole involved.

Quick backstory: My dog likes cats. My dog really likes cats. Like, will sit at the door and whine if he hears a cat meowing outside because he wants to bring it inside and cuddle with it. My dog, by the way, is a St. Bernard.

Proper Story:

I came home from work one night, ran upstairs and got my dog to take him out for a walk. As we're coming back up on the entrance of my apartment building, I see a long, skinny as all get-out, pure white cat sitting outside my downstairs neighbor's window. My dog, who we'll call Lenny, because if people get fake names, he can too, runs at this cat. Cat doesn't respond at all. Lenny literally licks the cat's back. Cat doesn't respond at all. And then the most ri-frakkin-diculous thing I've ever seen happened. LENNY PICKED THIS STRANGE CAT UP IN HIS MOUTH. Like a mama cat, by the scruff of the neck. CAT DIDN'T RESPOND AT ALL. My dog has this strange cat slightly off the ground, and the cat is still just chilling, like it's still sitting undisturbed on the ground. After some sharp scolding, Lenny puts the cat down, but starts whining. Not like one sad little whimper. Like, eardrum shattering, devastated whining. If he could say words, they would have been, "But Mom! Kitty! Look at the kitty! Kitty is so skinny! He needs a home! Let's take him home! PLEASE MOM PLEASE MOM PLEASE MOM!" I unlock the door, drag my enormous dog to the door, get him halfway in, and he stops. While he's stopped, with the door propped open by his giant frame, the strange cat ran past his legs and into the building. Flipping brilliant. 

I try to catch the cat, but Lenny is going buck nuts, chasing this cat up and down the halls. Need I remind you, readers, this is still a St. Bernard, crashing down the halls of an apartment building at 12:30 a.m. I decide my best option is to wrangle the dog and get him into my apartment. As I'm running up the stairs with the dog, the cat is running back and forth on the floor beneath mine. Lenny is trying to break away to go play with the cat. I get my apartment door open and shove Lenny inside, as my own cat, Banana, bolts out the door, into the common hallway. So I scream, "Nononononono!" and chase after her. Banana gets to the top of the stairs, and I hear this super loud, long, drawn out "MMMRRRRRRRRRREOOOOOOOOOW!" Banana is terrified and turns around and runs back to me. I grab her, get my apartment door open, block the dog from getting out with my own body, all but chuck Banana inside, and then a white blur streaks between my legs, and into my apartment. Lenny starts jumping up and down, again virtually screaming "Kitty! Kitty! Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!" Seriously. Jumping straight up and down. So, White Cat is terrified and makes a beeline for under my sofa. Lenny takes off after him and tries to get under the sofa with White Cat. WC is totally fine with this. Giant dog? Whatever! However, Banana is unhappy. She's growling and hissing and approaching WC. I have no idea what the deal is with the random cat and I don't want my cat anywhere near him, fearing he'll bit her and give her some horrible disease. So I jump in between them, which scares WC, who bolts from under the sofa, jumps on my end table and jumps on the back of my sofa, and runs across the back of my sofa. At this point, I grab WC from the back of my sofa, grab my keys and run out the door.

White Cat starts out totally fine with the fact that he's in my arms and being run down the stairs, but around the first landing begins to wig out and start squirming. He jumps from my arms and runs back up the damn stairs! Thus starts Benny Hill, Round Zillion. I run up the stairs, WC freaks out, runs across the hall, and runs down the back stair case. At this point, I'm thinking about just leaving it in the building, but figure my neighbors are already pissed. Then, Lenny starts barking. Loudly. Because, y'know, St. Bernard. Lenny is barking and jumping against the door. WC is scream-meowing in the hall. It's a lovely cacophony of BARKBARKBARKBARK SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! MRRRREOOOOW! BARKBARKBARK! SLAM! MREOW! SLAM! BARK! I recapture WC and successfully get him outside. I get back to my apartment and Lenny and Banana are just chilling on the couch, like nothing ever happened. Right now, Lenny's sleeping on the floor, dream running and Banana is chasing a bottle cap. 

The kicker is, I was on the phone with El Zacho (of elzachorocks.blogspot.com fame) the entire time. His experience through this was "Lenny. Lenny! Lenny! NO! Lenny, come on. Come on! Inside! GODDAMMIT, NO! SHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT! Come here! Come here! Get back here! LENNY! Get inside! Get inside! INSIDE! SHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT! NONONONO! NONONONONO! Come back come back come back!" MRRRRRREOOOOOOW! "BANANA! Get in there! No! Stay in there! Fuckity fuck fuck, not you! Get out! Oh God no!" MRRRREOOOOOOW! BARK! BARKBARKBARK! Bang bang bang! HSSSSSSS! 

ROBERT ENGLUND'S AT THE MALL!!!!!

About two years ago, I moved to take an assistant manager job at a horrible store in an obnoxious mall. I no longer work for that company, thank Science. When I went to my interview in the last week of September, the first thing I saw was the giant Halloween store. That was exciting for me.

I started that job, which I regard as one of the top mistakes in my life, October 2. To get from the parking lot to the store, I had to go through this catacomb-y employee entrance.

During the early days at this horrible job, I dreamed that I was driving to work and heard an announcement on the radio: Robert Englund was at that moment doing an interview in the town I worked in! As more details were revealed, I learned he was not only in town, but he was participating in a live broadcast from the Halloween store at my mall! So I sped to work, parked, and ran through the catacombs. And got lost. Really, really lost. Couldn't find my way back to work. Couldn't find the Halloween store. But I did find Robert Englund, also wandering through the catacombs. We talked about the best way to prepare sweet potatoes.  I never made it to work.

I think my subconscious was telling me that I should have run from that job as fast as I could. A dream about meeting Robert Englund in the catacombs could have taken a vastly different turn. He could have become Freddy Krueger and killed me, or at least chased me. But no. It was just really disappointing, dull, and a huge waste of time that got me lost. In retrospect, exactly how I feel about that job. Disappointing? Check. Dull? Check. Huge waste of time? Check fucking plus. Got me lost, emotionally and career-wise? So far off track from what I wanted to be doing and needed to be doing? Checkity check check.

This is in no way meant to be a commentary on Robert Englund. I'm sure he's an awesome person; he just happened to be the person in the dream.

I Think I'll Stick to Diphenhydramine...

A while back, DrugStore USA had a sale on a specific type of Melatonin. Basically, the store gave me $1.00 to buy this. I'd been hearing good things about melatonin since high school, when my then boyfriend's dad swore by it. So I bought it but was always afraid to try it. I didn't want to try it for a pre-work sleep, and I didn't want to try it while I was alone. So, le boyfriend slept over the other day, when I didn't have to work. Awesome. Time to try melatonin.

This was also the day several people called in sick to work, half with a stomach virus, half with sinus infections. I'm pretty sure this is relevant. Also, I have chronic headaches, for which I take a decongestant on a regular basis since they cause some massive sinus pain.

First off: this liquid melatonin, with its "great berry taste!" tasted horrible. Has everybody watched "Doctor Who"? When Eleven has regenerated and crashed into Amelia Pond's yard and is asking for food and hates everything? Throws a bowl of baked beans, screaming "Bad beans!" That's how gross this stuff was. Carving a scary face into this liquid somehow would not have even made it worth taking.

So, I take the melatonin and crawl into bed with le boyfriend, and fall to sleep. Whoo-hoo! And then I have one of the grosser dreams I've had, though not scary.

In the dream, I'm in bed with a massive headache. Really bad, in between my eyes. So, still in the dream, I get up and go to the bathroom for some Sudafed. I get there but instead of opening the medicine cabinet, I just look in the mirror. And poke at my sinuses. I press the sinus cavities underneath my eyes, and my fingers plunge right through my skin, into the sinus cavities. As I pull my fingers back out of my sinuses, all of the skin comes off my face. Then the muscles and tendons and ligaments all melt away, just from the front of my face. I still have some cheeks and I definitely have the skin, etc., on the back of my head. But the front of my face is down to the bone. And there's bright green mucus bubbling down from the sinus cavity above my eyes, glorping down into the cavity beneath my eyes.

I woke up and took some Sudafed. Then crawled back into bed with le boyfriend and hid my face.

Ghosts in the Shower

My parents are from a town about 170 miles north of where I grew up, or nearly a three hour drive. When I was a kid, my father used to get one weekend off a month. Without fail, we always went up north on his weekend off. My parents, my sister (who I'll be calling Liz from hereon out if I need to mention her), and I would stay with my mother's parents.

My maternal grandfather was a carpenter. Amongst other things, he built houses. Including the one he currently lives in, where I'd stay for the weekend once a month through my entire childhood. It was a nice house. Small, 3-bedroom, one bathroom. The bathroom had a bathtub/shower combination, with sliding doors instead of a shower curtain. The toilet was so close to the shower, you could put your feet up on the ledge of the tub while sitting on the toilet, if you wanted to do that for some reason. Next to, not across from. The sink was next to the toilet, close enough that you could turn on the water while sitting on the toilet, again, if you wanted to do that for some reason.

Every night I stayed in that house, for as much of my childhood as I can remember, I had a nightmare. I'd wake up in the middle of the night and get up to go to the bathroom. I'd get up and walk down the hall for what seemed like hours. I'd walk into the bathroom and turn on the light. As I stepped towards the toilet, the shower door would slide open. And the shower was full of ghosts. Nine or ten of them. They weren't little Casper ghosts or wearing a sheet as a Halloween costume ghosts. They were well-formed with distinct faces. You could just see through them. I don't think I knew any of them. One or two of them always had blood around her mouth. They never did anything. Ever. They just stood there, staring at me as I stared back at them. And then I'd wake up.

Last night, I finally got around to watching "Insidious." I'm not going to go into much of a review, because that's not the point of this babble. I will say, while I didn't love the plot, it was beautifully directed and Patrick Wilson is a bit foxy and should be on my TV more often. So, spoilers free, if I'm not the only person who waited three years to watch it, blah blah blah, stuff happened. There was a scene fairly close to the end where a character opens a closet door and it's full of ghosts (basically). That looked exactly like the ghosts in my dreams from when I was a kid. It was just eerily similar.

Living alone, I sometimes get a little freaked out in the shower. I sometimes go so far as to having to pull back the curtain and peak out into the bathroom. I bet this is related to those dreams. Or the fact that I rent an apartment at which maintenance can let themselves in.

Who Needs Sleep?

It's 6:35 a.m. Many people in my building are waking up and getting ready for their commutes. I, however, have just finished watching "A Nightmare on Elm Street" and am feeling glad my "day" job is actually a night job.
I don't remember ever sleeping well at night. I think I've always been broken like this. Maybe I just really want to be a cat. But as this thought occurs to me, I turn and see my cat is curled up on the back of the couch behind me, sound asleep. Blarg. I'm more nocturnal than the cat.
Watching "Nightmare on Elm Street" tonight, I remembered a lot about my childhood. I had forgotten how much I loved that movie as a kid. For instance, back when I thought I was going to be some bigshot fiction novelist, I frequently named my female characters Nancy. I also frequently named my heroic male characters Victor. My sister had a baby this year. She named him David Victor. So, thanks for that, sis. Now it's awkward if I ever start writing fiction again and name my protagonist Victor. Oh, well. I'll be calling him Dave-Vic (Davic) until it sticks. One thing I'd forgotten about was that the first victim in "Nightmare" was named Christina, but preferred to be called Tina. Quite similar to the protagonist/narrator of the piece of work I once considered my crowning achievement.
Mostly, watching this movie tonight got me thinking about some interesting dreams I've had. I've recently started taking Zoloft, which I think might be causing some of my weirder dreams of late. So my first few entries of babbling will be babbling about dreams.
Enjoy.