My dreams take me to the wierdest places—sometimes good, sometimes bad—but there are some of them I just don't want to forget. So good or bad, they go here. My dreams take me on a journey into the farthest parts of my mind. If I can figure out what they mean, maybe I can understand myself a bit better. You are more than welcome to take this journey with me, but don't judge what you read. Remember, it was just a dream.

That said, a lot of these dreams have at least one part of them that would be great in a story. Some of them would make amazing stories all on their own, so I do get a lot of writing inspiration from these pages. Maybe one day you'll read one of my stories and know exactly which dream inspired it!

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Put It Through Hell

The third dream of the evening. It actually seemed to be a flashback of the first dream, taking place during the family gathering. It was just completely independent of the events of that first one.

I was sitting down talking with the family, and Mike and his mom were discussing cooking. She was laughing, saying, "Man! My husband can't cook at all. He can't even boil water right!"

To which Mike replies, "Well, sometimes with the ones we love, their flaws are the things we love the most. They make us love them more. For example, I mean, I seem to recall somebody trying to burn our house down boiling water."

I instantly divert my full attention to the conversation. "Oh, hell no. Please do not tell this story."

He just laughs and continues telling the story that he tells over and over about the time I tried to boil eggs and ended up forgetting them on the stove. Hours later we come home and the house is full of smoke, the smoke detector is going off, the propane burner on the stove is still turned on, and the pot is still sitting on the burner, but it's completely bone-dry. The inside of the pot is black and there are bits of charred egg not only in the pot but all over the kitchen. They had completely exploded.

He turned off the breakers just in case (before we knew it wasn't an electrical fire), I turned off the stove (once I found it on), we opened all the doors and windows and started clearing the house out...but it was only after the smoke had cleared somewhat that we realized the smoke killed my bird. Literally, smoke inhalation was the cause of death of my favorite cockatiel. (We buried her an hour or so later in the front yard, though I'm not sure if she's even still there anymore since the cats and dogs love to dig.)

But, he was telling this story in the dream and I was fighting him along the way, because I hate when he tells the story; it makes me look stupid and forgetful. In my defense, I was pregnant at the time, and you know you don't really have all your brain cells at that point. In the dream, of course, I was kind of laughing as I told him to stop, so I wasn't completely serious. I guess I was just embarrassed.

I remember asking, "Why do you love to tell that story so much? It makes me look stupid. How did that make you love me more?"

This is where he came in with something completely profound, and I wasn't expecting it out of him. He says, "The things we love people for are not the things they're best at, but the things they mess up. We love people for their mistakes and their flaws, because they are challenges and hardships we work through together, and that brings us closer. It's like making a sword. You don't harden your metal with flowers and candy. You forge it in fire and beat it with a hammer and put it through hell. That is how you make something stronger. And it's the same with relationships. It's the hard things that make it what it is, that make it last."

And I just thought that line about forging needs to be in a book somewhere because it's beautiful.

Unrealistic Property Lines

Mike and I were going camping down by the lake. It was our lake, but for some reason it was massively huge and there were islands in the middle of it. I thought that was very strange, because they were HUGE islands, so our lake must have literally been gigantic.

Anyway, we were down by the lake and we were on the back side, up the bank a little ways, and we had a lot of trees around our little clearing. There was a kind of lean-to under the trees; I'm not sure what it was made of, but it appeared to be constructed between a small cavern of tree roots and wrapped in thick canvas. The front entrance was open save for some tree limbs that reached down over it, so it didn't exactly have any real privacy. If anyone were directly in front of our entrance, they could see right in. It was only private from the other angles.

So we're in this little lean-to, and we have a bunch of camping supplies with us to last the night. Mike suggests we take advantage of our alone time (wink wink) and at first I was hesitant (outside, in the dirt, under a tree, with a wide-open doorway? Umm...) but as it turns out, my delayed response worked out for the best. A few minutes later, a giant ship flew overhead. When I say giant, I mean something out of Star Wars (I actually think we might have these in real life, too, though). It was one of those triangular ships with a top fin that sticks straight up and the two wings can fold up to the top when it lands.

This giant ship flies directly over us, very low to the tree tops, and lands on the largest island on the lake. It's really close enough to paddle a boat to in just a few minutes, that's how close it is. I was getting worried about it, but Mike said, "It's okay, it's pretty far away," But then a second one came and landed in the mud on the bank next to us, just a few trees away. I'm freaking out, saying things like, "Oh my God, they're on our property! What the hell is going on here?" I was very grateful that  most of clothes were still on (nothing "revealing" had come off). I put my pants on and climbed out of the lean-to behind Mike.

He walks up to the men coming off the ship that landed on the bank to tell them they're on the wrong property, and my paranoia is going haywire imagining us being killed for "seeing too much." It had a very "high-level military" feel. But they just referred us to the overseer of it all, so we got into a small boat and crossed over to the island. Once there, we went to a small building where the overseer was said to be waiting for us.

This guy was a tall, light-skinned black man with a shiny bald head, very similar to the man on the TV show Scrubs. He was leaning back in a reclining couch when we walked in, yelling at a guy for touching him. "Stay away from me! Don't touch me! You know the rules!"

Mike tried to talk to him and get his attention, but the overseer refused to listen. Mike tried to tell him, "Hey, man, you know you're on our property? What's going on here?" but he wouldn't have it.

"Stay away from me! I don't know who you are! Don't touch me, don't come near me, get away from me! Security!"

Finally I got fed up with it all. Fuck this, I thought, and I walked right up to the guy and shoved my hand in his face, as if to shake his hand. "Good evening, SIR," I said very pointedly, "I'm going to have to ask you to get your ships off my property."

At first the guy kind of leaned away from me, but I guess I was exuding enough confidence, because he actually acknowledged my existence and shook my hand briefly. "Okay, so this is your place here? I don't think we're on your property, but we can check the property lines and we'll figure out how to situate this so that everybody's happy."

I was fine with that, because I was pretty sure I knew where our property lines were. I was fairly certain at that point that we had actually leased out the islands for their use, but that the far bank was ours.

My view changes to a bunch of different maps; GPS maps, Google maps, hand-drawn maps, etc. All kinds of amazing maps. They each show the lake coming into view or being drawn out, starting close up and panning back, showing dotted lines for the property lines and circles around the islands to show where it was his, but then...it showed a section of the bank being cut out to indicate it was also on his side.

I wasn't sure where along the bank we had been camping; I had been pretty positive we were on our own property at the time, but seeing that part of the bank cut off really dug into my confidence, because it made me worried that I had confronted somebody when I was wrong, which is a huge fear of mine. But that's where it ended.

Just Come Home

In the first dream of the night, my family and I were all sitting in a quaint little house, the whole family shoved inside—brothers, sisters, mothers, grandparents, etc. I sat with my husband and mother-in-law, talking about their lives. Nothing major. Mom, of course, was talking about moving back to her house, though none of us seemed to think she would.

At the next table over, my sister-in-law Danielle was telling her younger sister, Jessie, that she had dropped out of college. It was one of those world-stopping lines that seemed short and harmless enough until the brunt of the meaning hit you. I stopped listening to Mom and my hubby to pay attention to the details Danielle was about to disclose.

She went on to say that her kids were growing up in front of her eyes and she was never there to see it. She was missing out on school events and hobbies and fun stuff, and school was taking up so much time that she just didn't want to miss anymore. So she changed her mind, dropped out, and said she was going to try again in a few years when her kids weren't so busy or so active; when they were old enough that they didn't need her as much.

Mom couldn't believe that she would drop out (apparently she was listening, too), but we all understood her reasons. She had to do it.

I don't remember what else happened during the gathering, but at the end of the night, Mom was crying. She said she just wanted to come home, and that she was tired. I remember very vividly putting a hand on her shoulder, looking into her eyes, and saying, "Just come home."



I guess the point of this was that you have to do what you have to do, even if it's not what you want to do, and that sometimes, people believe in you and push you to achieve your dreams, because the only one holding you back might just be yourself.

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

The Apocalypse that Wasn't

I don't remember why the world should have ended, but the whole group of us knew it wouldn't be worth living in. There were at least eight of us, and we were all huddled together in this small room. In the center sat a collection of black boxes, the largest of which had a red segmented display counting down from ten minutes. I looked at those numbers and I knew this was it. The world was ending...my world was ending, at least.

My husband hadn't noticed the countdown yet. For the first half of the timer, he stood against a wall talking to one of the guys about something in a book or magazine. The timer was already nearing the four-minute mark when he pushed away from the wall and came to wrap his arms around me. When he did finally notice the bomb, he said it very casually, as if he had instantly accepted that we would die there, two minutes from that moment. Or maybe he only accepted it because I seemed to have already.

He held me tighter and I pressed my cheek into his chest, tears streaming down my face. I began babbling, clearly not ready to die. I remember saying, "There's still so much I haven't done yet." I looked up into his eyes, the timer ticking away beside us, and told him, "I'd rather spend a lifetime of uncertainty fighting to be by your side than only two minutes of surety, knowing we'll die together."

In the last thirty seconds, we ran. We couldn't take it, we needed to try. We locked hnds, the two of us, and we ran. We made it into the next room and dove down to the floor beside a bed just as the bomb went off. Miraculously, the explosion had stayed contained to the room. Horrifyingly, on the other hand, all it had done was mangle our friends. They were nothing but piles of limbs and bloodied torsos. We crawled around to the other side of the mattress and covered ourselves in pillows and sat there for a while, just in case something else would happen or there would be another explosion. We were happy though, because whatever came next, we would be together to figure it out. And we would be alive.

Friday, July 8, 2016

Mike and Roger

In my dream last night, I found myself torn between two people. Two men who both seemed to want me but who were very different people.

They were both very handsome and kind. On the one hand, I had Mike. He and I ended up in the same apartment somehow and I offered to help with some things, cleaning and such, and after joking and laughing he asked if I was interested in going out. I thought he was extremely handsome and fun and of course I said yes. I feel like 90% of our conversations were perverted or sexual and kept light. Nothing deep, no long conversations. It was nice to feel connected but detached. I felt free. I also felt like it was a waste of time and I was constantly nervous because I didn't feel like he really wanted to be with me, and wasn't sure why he even asked.

At one point we had to take out the trash (it was a lot). We were staying by the beach and we looked over the balcony to see if there was a good place to burn the trash and one of the neighbors looked over at us and commented how he had just burned his trash earlier and pointed out a good place. We went back to the apartment to get it but I said I needed to change first. While I was in the bathroom changing, a stranger came to the door and was teasing me, saying that he knew I was 'having fun' in there because he could see my feet under the door and he knew I wasn't dressed yet. I played it up and took a while longer to get dressed, until the guy had left a few minutes later. Finally, I came out and went to the beach where Mike was. I told him about the guy and we laughed about the joke, about what he had thought I was doing.

When we left the beach and went back inside, friends started coming over. We were having a party. By some miracle, every time he would do something he would ask me to join in. He'd put his arms around me or he'd corner me against a wall and press himself up against me and ask if I wanted a drink or if I wanted to 'make some' (I had no idea what he meant by that but his eyes were seductive and I instantly said yes). At some point though, another guy came up to me.

I don't remember his name, just that I called him Roger. I don't think that was his real name, but the two of us had played a game where we make up names and he had ended up with Roger. He was really sweet and directed all his attention to me every time we talked. He seemed genuinely interested in me. He looked like Mike crossed with BJ Novak. We laughed about his crazy ex who would write on his windows about how she couldn't connect to his WiFi or something. It didn't register until later that he had been warning me that she would do that if she saw me, because he was interested. This guy really stole my heart, but Mike had my body. At least, he had it if he wanted it. Throughout the entire dream, Mike never even kissed me. It was like he claimed me because he wanted to, but I was just a puppy following her master.

A girl had gone up to Mike and hit on him, and I heard him invite her along and flirt with her. I was a tiny bit jealous, but the overwhelming emotion I had was one of not caring. It was like somehow I knew we weren't exclusive or something. I wanted to be, but if we weren't I couldn't force him to be. I think I knew that it just wasn't serious. So I turned back to Roger and we laughed and talked. People were getting ready to head out to go do whatever it was Mike had asked me to do, when Roger asked me if I wanted to stay and watch a movie or something. He may have even just outright asked me out. I don't seem to remember exactly what he had asked. But I know I was torn.

My options were Roger, this sweet guy I really connected with, or Mike, this fun, hot guy I lusted after. I wanted to stay with Roger but had already committed in some way to Mike. I felt giddy and excited about spending time with Roger, yet I had a loyalty and real want to also be beside Mike. Mike had brought me into his world and made me a part of it. I clung to a gift from him (a piece of sausage I think?) debating. I really did like Mike. I didn't want to lose him.

I knew both guys were waiting on me, and I found them in the bedroom, which was dark, both sitting/laying on a large bed. I stood between them at the foot of the bed and just broke. I said I couldn't decide between them. They were both awesome but any decision I made would hurt one of them more than likely, so I didn't choose. I laid down between them and stared at the ceiling.

Mike spoke up. He sat up and was working on his laptop, and said it wasn't a big deal. He said he was just gonna pull out of the choice to make it easier. Without ever looking at me, he said, "We have the book anyway." On his screen was the cover image of my children's book he was illustrating for me. I was grateful not to have to choose on my own, though I knew that was the choice I would have made anyway, and it did feel better knowing it was his choice so I felt like I hadn't really hurt him. I could tell by the vibe I got that he really was upset though, like he felt that things always happened this way for him. He was putting on this unfeeling front but inside he was hurt. In truth I was hurt too. I felt like he had never really cared, that I was just a toy he was done with, though I knew that wasn't true because we had never done anything.

Roger had been silent during that, and finally I looked into his eyes. He seemed very patient, like he was waiting for me to affirm that I chose him. I told him how he made me feel, and how Mike and I, we were friends. All we had really done was took out the trash. (To which Mike laughed, but it was true.) But Roger and I, we had taken out the past. We had talked about who we were and who we wanted to be. We connected. Roger and I got lost in each other for a few minutes, during which time Mike left to go with his friends.

We went to the living room, which was lit up, and Roger took his place on the couch. We both seemed happy. I was in a recliner. He told me he had a last name now (in our name game, he had never chosen a last name). He said what it was (I didn't hear it) then said Junior. I laughed and teased him about being a Junior, and moved over closer to sit beside him on the couch. He looked into my eyes and I felt that spark, that feeling that said I was where I was supposed to be, and he leaned over and kissed me.

It was amazing. Hours seemed to pass in those few seconds, and though only our lips touched, I felt like we were closer than I'd ever been to a person. When we finally separated he didn't even move. He looked lost in a daze, and all he could say was, "Wow." It was more like he had breathed it, it was barely audible. I told him I was sorry I didn't have more to offer, and he told me not to worry about it. He had everything we would need and he would take care of me now that I was by his side. I woke up as the dream version of me curled up to fall asleep in his arms.

Saturday, June 11, 2016

The Child of 551 and Tipper

551 and Tipper.
That's where it happened.

I think I visited the past or a memory. At some point, I remember seeing a father with his baby, who was considered to be a special needs child, alone without the mother. Somehow, I knew she had passed away. It was sad to see a broken family but I was glad the father had stayed with his child despite the additional hardships that his condition surely brought about.

Then I was back in the past. We were in a car. The father was driving, I was lying in the seat behind his. I'm not sure how I had room to lie down but somehow I did. The mother was in the passenger seat and had the back of the seat fully reclined into a makeshift bed. She was still in a hospital gown and had a thick sheet over her lower half, much the same as the kind they have in hospitals. The baby was bundled up and lying on top of the center console, which was a large flat rectangle. It clearly wasn't safe to be driving that way, but no one thought anything of it.

I looked at the baby and he looked back at me. He was barely a few days old. One of his eyes was a bit larger than the other; not enough to cause any mental issues but enough to be considered a deformation. He was a cute baby though.

The mom was exhausted. She was lying in  her chair, staring at her baby, with lightly-curled strands of her black hair fallen in front of her face. Without thinking about it, I reached forward and brushed her hair to the side so she could see more clearly.

I looked back to the baby, and the mother finally spoke. She was teasing me, asking if I wanted to feed the baby. She sounded as if the two of us had been the best of friends. I laughed, and I told her I was probably dried up with as old as my own kids were. My daughter was almost two, so she had stopped feeding months ago.

The mom smiled and eased herself up a bit to take her baby. Time seemed to pass quickly here, and the next thing I knew she was putting the baby back on the center console. I think she fed him, but I didn't get to see that part.

But as she set him back, her grasp of his blankets slipped a bit. The baby missed the console and hit the front edge of the passenger seat, by her feet, before falling to the passenger floorboard.

I jumped up and grabbed the baby to make sure he was okay. He seemed fine; his blankets must have kept him protected from the fall. I looked to the parents to see if either of them had freaked out too. The mother was trying to lay back down. I don't think she was even aware of the fact that her baby had fallen. But when I looked to the father...he didn't react the way I expected him to, the way the man I had seen before, holding his child, would have reacted. I knew he was driving, so he couldn't just jump over to grab his son, but he looked so casual. Like he was watching me collect his child as if it had been my purse that had fallen. As if I were just picking up the spilled contents of a sack of leather. He had no attachment, no worry, no care. That bothered me.

I laid the child back in his place on the center console, making sure he was okay and that he was safe. I was about to turn to the father to scold him about his lack of caring when the mother made a sound. It was something like a cross between a moan and a gasp, and it didn't sound good.

I turned to look at her. She was sitting up slightly, leaning back. Her gaze was out of focus and her shoulders weaved back and forth slightly, like she didn't have balance or control. She whispered, "Please call nine-one-one...and tell them...I'm bleeding." Then she pulled her right hand out from beneath the sheet. It was soaked—coated entirely—in dark blood. The color is what really stuck with me. It wasn't bright red, like fresh blood, nor was it thin or aqueous. It was thick and congealed, with a mucus-like texture that spread between her fingers. It was a dark, mauve-like purple with brown, like old blood, bad blood, but it shone black. It ran down her fingers, over her wrist, and began oozing down her arm. There was so much of it. So much blood. Bad blood.

I screeched at the husband to stop the car, and I could feel his panic. At least he had emotions, that was something. I pulled out my cell phone at stared at the screen, but for a moment I was frozen. I knew I needed to dial a number but for the life of me I couldn't remember how to access the phone itself. I knew this was it. This was how she died. What could I do to save her? Could I save her? I only paused for a moment before it clicked into place and I brought up the keypad, carefully dialing the right numbers and hitting the button to call. The car stopped and I leapt across the mother and out the passenger door, away from traffic.

As I waited for the operator to answer my call, I saw myself standing there. The whole world was a stage, and the spotlight was on us. Only the car, the intersection, and myself were visible beneath the glow of a nearby street light. Like an old-fashioned movie, everything seemed to be black/brown, with the night closing in around us. The hazy light was a brownish yellow and I could see mist or fog in the air. No other cars were moving, nor could I see them anyway, but I felt their presence. But it didn't matter, because in that moment, all that existed was a dying mother who wouldn't be able to care for the child she loved, the child who needed her, and the father couldn't care less. He seemed worried for his wife, but I don't even know if he acknowledged that he even had a child.

They finally answered the phone, and I rambled on for help. I told them about the mother, I begged them to send an ambulance. They asked me where we were. The sign in front of me by the side of the road wasn't helpful. It listed all the upcoming stops and roads we were nearing for future exits, but they didn't tell me where we were. I shouted into the car, asking the husband, "Is this the interstate? Are we on the interstate? Where are we? Tell me, damnit! Where are we?!" He seemed shaken at my outburst. He looks up at the traffic light and says, "551."

I glance up at the traffic light. Suspended in the air in the center of the intersection were the street signs—why didn't I see those before? The road we were on was 551, and the cross street was Tipper. 551 and Tipper. For a moment, I could see the other cars at the intersection. They were older cars, 80s or older. They were all stopped at the intersection as if every single lane was at a red light. The driver closest to our car was the only one clearly visible, but he looked at me like I was crazy for asking which street we were on when it was clearly labeled in the center of the road. I was embarrassed, but I didn't say a word or acknowledge them. I was distressed, surely they could forgive my oversight.

The woman on the other end of the line assured me the ambulance was on its way, and time leapt forward. I didn't have time to worry, because before I could blink, the ambulance was there.

Reality blurs here, as the medics prep her and remove her from the car, transferring her to the ambulance. That was the last time I saw her. I was holding the baby now, though his blankets were messed up. The world spun and shook, and the gray-brown of the intersection became white. We were in a room. It looked kind of like a hospital room, like a small room at a doctor's office. I stood to one side, leaning against a counter. A female police officer or detective—not sure why she was there—was helping me get some last-minute things together and closing out the room. She seemed sympathetic, though I wasn't sure if she felt bad for the baby for losing his mother or if she felt bad for me, the stranger who now had the baby.

I tried to talk to the officer, to get her to understand that although I wanted to see the baby safe and sound and with his family, I wasn't related and I'm not even sure how I knew the parents. The phone on the wall rang, and the officer held up a finger to silence me as she conversed with whoever had called.

After a few minutes, discussions of work must have trailed off because the officer was talking about going for drinks and hanging out later in the night. She was talking about how she was just getting off work now and she'd be there soon, wherever 'there' was. When she hung up, she glanced around the room and said that it looked like I had everything under control.

I immediately voiced that I didn't. I didn't have anything under control. I looked around the room and noted umbrellas, shoes, blankets, and my own daughter curled up on the floor by the door, asleep. I told the officer that the baby was cold and his blankets were messed up, and on top of all that I had to get the baby and all the things in the room out to my truck, and I had three kids of my own to handle, I couldn't do it all by myself. Reluctantly, the officer began helping me to fold up some of the baby's blankets so we could wrap him. The blanket was huge though, and it took both of  us to fold it. The officer was only half-attentive to what she was doing; I could tell her mind was counting the seconds that ticked past her final hour of the work day. I almost felt bad for making her work overtime, but I was really only asking for a few minutes, for a little help. Where was her sense of compassion?

We finally folded the blanket, and I set the baby down to arrange the blanket in my arms so we could wrap him—an odd method, I know. The officer set the baby down in my arms but wasn't even paying attention to exactly where my arms were. He nearly slipped, but I caught him and adjusted my grasp to keep him secure. I threw a frustrated glance at the officer, but she had already turned to pick up some of the shoes and umbrellas. Bit by bit, everything got moved to the truck. My boys were already out there, and I had set the baby down in the truck, so I just had to get my daughter and make sure the room was clear. As we walked down the hall way just outside the room, I realized the walls were lined with rows of baby clothes.

The officer was holding up some of the outfits and showing me how cute they were. They were so small. When I noted that, she told me that everything here was for the preemies. The tiny babies who were too small to wear anything aside from doll's clothes. It made me immeasurably sad. I couldn't even look at the clothes, because I could only think of the parents whose babies didn't make it, which then reminded me of the babies whose parents didn't make it, like the little infant boy I now had to care for.

Everything finally made it into my truck, and the officer vanished. It was just me, my three children, and the baby whose only loving parent had been lost. The father had disappeared.

I wondered why things had worked out so differently than the way they had been before. Before, the father had held his son. I thought he had loved him. Did he, really? Or had he wished for a way out? When we relived the past and I had been present for it, was that all the reason he had needed to leave the child behind? Would he ever come back for his son? I had so many questions.

All I knew for sure, looking down at that child, was that I'd raise him as my own. I'd love him, because he'd need me. Because he deserved it. Because she'd want me to.

Thursday, May 12, 2016

The Blonde and Rumplefoodkin

I woke up next to girl. It was dark, and the bed was in a wide, dark studio. The head of the bed was up against a thick beam or pipe, there was a soft yellow light coming from somewhere in the room, and toward the foot of the bed was a hallway with a bathroom.

The girl was venting, commenting about her boyfriend. She was upset because they wanted different things in their relationship, one of them to get married but the other didn't and she wanted to feel alive again. She mentioned how she never gets to leave the house. She is sitting up at this point and is very beautiful. A thick head of bouncy blonde curls. Small nose. Green-blue eyes. Freckles everywhere.

I wanted to make her feel better, so I sit up as well and tell her that I know the feeling. I think back for something to say to bond with her, to connect over. I mention that when I was pregnant with each of my kids, I never got out of the house or went anywhere either. As I'm saying this, I look up and my husband is right there, coming out of the bathroom all dressed for work, still rummaging around for his work things. She accepts this and vents again about her boyfriend and how confusing he is and that she's not sure what to do next.

She turns to me and asks if I'm gay. It catches me off guard, because surely she sees my husband in front of us? Then again, I'm in bed with her. I deny it with a laugh, but then I toss in "sometimes." I can't look straight at her because I feel awkward and embarrassed and pretty certain I've just said more than I needed to. I repeat "sometimes" while turning deep red. Looking past her, I see a metal ladder, maybe pipe? It feels out of place.

Hubby comes back into the room and starts telling me what he is going to do that day. He points beyond the head of the bed, saying he's going to get his truck or bobcat out of the lot. I turn around to see that the pole the bed is up against is actually a power pole, and the entire bed is outside!

I warn him that he's gonna get stuck if he's not careful. He said, "Nah, I'll be fine." But I look around and it's beginning to snow. The flakes are large and beautiful. Even as they land to blend in among each other, I can tell they are each unique and special. I tell him he might not think he'll get stuck, but in all this snow, he might.

The snow fascinates me. I want to play and enjoy it. I throw off the covers and leap out of bed (much to the amusement of the woman—she sees that I'm only wearing a thin shirt and very short shorts). I run around the snow, laughing and having fun, and I want to see it closer. I lean forward to examine the snowflakes. Rather than me getting closer, the flakes grow larger. They get about two feet across, and they're extremely detailed and beautiful. I pick one up and hold it in my hands. I can barely feel the cold at all. I'm not sure if it's melting in my fingers or not yet...it should...but just in case, I take a huge bite out of it at the top. It's amazing. It's like thin ice, but with the texture of a snow cone. It melts in my mouth and I love it. That's the last I see of the snow, though.

I go inside. Hubby is working (and I believe he got out just fine without getting really stuck) and there are two women inside. One is my sister in law. We're watching the kids and talking, and someone mentions food. I think I described the snowflake and eating it. My sister in law says something about 'Rumplefoodkin.'

I think that's hilarious and adorable. I comment, "Ha! Rumplestiltskin with food, I love it!" and I continue on about how I'd love to meet him, all his magic creates food and it's just him with lots of food. I try to imagine if all that food would have made him fat, but I can't picture him any different than the tall, thin, gorgeous, golden dark one. Then she says, "I don't know who that is." And I'm confused (and kind of laughing though) because she was the one who said his name in the first place.

I woke up (for real this time) dreaming of Rumplefoodkin.

Put It Through Hell

The third dream of the evening. It actually seemed to be a flashback of the first dream, taking place during the family gathering. It was ju...