Sunday, March 23, 2008

Blast from the Past

I had a dream last week that I wrote down while I was stuck in the airport between Chicago and New York. It was a layover and I had nothing else to do, so I wrote out the entire thing, and it amounted to about 2 pages front and back hand-written. While I won't bore you with the entirety of it here, I will give you the gist:
I was at my grade school gymnasium with an assortment of people from high school and college working on a project. This kid from my grade school (Ryan B.) - who I haven't seen, much less even thought of in the past nine years - pulls up a chair behind me and we start talking as if old friends. We joke in a friendly flirtatious way, the way I might with any guy I'm good friends with. It's clear that we have conversations like this often. I dwelled on this dream for a while, mostly because it was weird that he popped up in it.
Tonight, I went to an (apparently) popular bar in St. Louis and Ryan B. walked in. Why did I dream about him a week ago? And not only that, but I remembered it and it stuck with me for the past week. Ryan B. and I did have a couple different convos, along with Brian N., because you have to have a trio to have a good, well-rounded grade school reunion.
What do you say to someone like that: Hey, what have you been up to for the past ten years? According to tonight's experience, that's exactly what you say. I got along with Ryan B. and Brian N., surprisingly, since I always thought in grade school that they thought I wasn't "cool enough" for them. I guess once you get older and you realize that it was all ridiculous, you grow out of that phase. But how weird is it that Ryan B. showed up there? My subconscious is prophetic.

Sunday, March 9, 2008

What's Your Sleep Number?

My parents left for Mexico yesterday morning, and left me to watch over my 18-year-old brother. Last night, I slept in their bed for a few reasons: 1. it's bigger, 2. my dad for some reason inherited the best pillow in the house, 3. my room is super cold!, and 4. they have a sleep number bed.

Many of you might be thinking, why would anyone spend so much on a mattress? Oh ye doubters! The sleep number bed is the best place I've ever slept (and as a narcoleptic, I've slept many a place...posts on this coming soon) I know that many narcoleptics wake up periodically throughout the night, as do I because my nighttime medicine wears off every four hours. I went to bed at midnight and my dog woke me up at 6:00, but I thought it was way earlier. I had one of those rock sleeps, the kind where you think you've only been asleep for a few minutes but it was hours and you feel really well rested.

When I have a house of my own (the one in the 'ville doesn't count) my first major investment will be a sleep number bed. Although I'm not picky when it comes to where I'm going to fall asleep, I consider myself a bit of a cama connoisseur. The sleep number bed is the best there is. If I encounter better, I'll let you know.

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Money, Money, Money, Money!!!

Last night I had a dream that my mom came to visit me at school. For those who know me, I've been very poor lately, and just got a job this week (yay!).

My mom hurries up to me, lugging a large backpacking backpack behind her. She gives me a huge hug. We're in a place I've had dreams in before. It's a place that doesn't exist (at least, not that I know of). A very front-of-the-library type of location, with lots of vestibules where people can read and work on their computers and stuff. Is it weird that I have recurring dream-locations in a place I've never seen? I think so.

My mom has this large bag with her. After our hug she looks at me excitedly and tells me to open it. It's full of new clothes, all for me!! As excited as she is about the new wardrobe, her face is still glimmering with the anticipation that I will find something better. I look at her, holding a snazzy blue shirt up to my frame. "What?" I ask her. "There's more!" she says.

I dig to the bottom of the bag to find a small pile of checks. Opening the first one, I recognize the name of Carol C., a woman my mom went to high school with whose children I used to baby-sit. Although we haven't talked in years, the check is made out to me for $20.00. I proceed to the next check. This one is from Suzy P., my mom's best friend from grade school and high school. Fifty Dollars. More and more checks, all from my mom's friends. Forty Dollars, Fifty, Seventy-Five. Janet even gave me a blank check. I'm in awe.

"Mom, why did your Buncko group give me all this money?"
"Well, I told them how poor you are (an awake laugh here...I'm not a charity case yet) and they just got out their checkbooks and started writing checks to you!"

Mom was obviously excited, and so was I. Forget universal humiliation. In my dream, it didn't matter who knew how poor I am, or that they were giving me handouts. I was just happy to have some extra cash.

Possible Meanings: Yesterday I found out that I am getting a hefty check from Uncle Sam in a few weeks. And by hefty, I mean almost three times what I have in my bank account (don't get too excited/jealous...think of how little I must have in order to be able to get 3x of it back!!) Check from the government = checks from Buncko friends???

My Confessions

Hi, my name is Abbey, and I'm a narcoleptic.

Phew! It feels good to get that off my chest. The fact that I have narcolepsy is one I keep from most people, until I get really close to them. Usually that saves the often awkward conversation about whether or not my narcolepsy is similar to that of those portrayed in popular movies.

I'm not a closeted narcoleptic. All of my friends and family know - that way I don't have to explain why after a big meal I have to scoot off to take a quick nap. However, I'm not the type to profess it to the world. I'll tell my professors, if I'm comfortable with them. Or if I happen to fall asleep in their class and they make a global announcement about "laziness" and "disrespect." However, I have never told an employer that I've had narcolepsy, simply because I think that they'll think I'm not as capable as all the other employees.

I started this blog for my travel writing class, but I've decided now to keep it as a place where I can write about my dreams. They are often weird and very vivid, and people have always told me I should write them down. So viola! Narcoleptic Dreams...

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

The Kirksville Chainsaw Massacre

Today I looked out the window of our quaint little cottage to see a man bearing a chainsaw in our yard. Although many might be alarmed if they saw a stranger that could pass for a clothed yeti toting a chainsaw anywhere near their property, I wasn't too fazed. Kirksville is a sleepy town where nothing ever happens, so the thought of a would-be-horror-movie seemed highly unlikely.

I yelled down to my roommate. Even though the four of us live on three separate floors, we're against disrupting the ass-mold of wherever we might be sitting to communicate with one another. In absence of physical movement, we either call them on their cell phone (if it's after 7 pm), IM them, or simply yell.

The man in our yard looked like Tom Hanks in Castaway with more clothing. He had a shaggy beard and the visible hair under his trucker hat was unkept. Jessie verifies that she sees the man, and tells me it looks like he's pouring something on the ground. I look out my window, having a superior bird's eye view from the second floor. Nope, he's not pouring something on the ground. He's filling what looks like gasoline into his chainsaw.

Being the only house on our street, we notice when there are people around. This guy was not unusual for what we might normally see. He was wearing tan overalls, with a red plaid shirt underneath, and he looked dirty. Luckily, no police officers were asking me for a description, because I just described about a quarter of the residents in Kirksville. He began to unbuckle his overalls, and that's when I began to get weirded out. Is this drifter-guy really gonna pee in my yard? But, no such luck on booty sightings for the day. He simply untwisted his straps and went about his business.

What exactly was his business? He sat working on the chainsaw for about ten minutes before reviing it up. He then proceeded to move towards a tree at the far end of our driveway.

I think he's gonna cut down that tree, I yell at my roommate.

You think?

I watched him. Why is he cutting down our tree? Technically it's not ours. We're only renting this house, after all. But now that he's cutting it down, I feel like it's my tree. Did my landlord actually send him, or is he just some guy looking for free firewood? Coming to more logical conclusions, I muse that the tree could be dead, and he could be a city worker coming to cut it down. I look at his truck for a logo. No such luck. He has a black truck with a gray driver's side door. Typical Kirksville.

When I left for class, he had toppled the tree but was still working on cutting off all the branches. I really hope he takes it with him when he leaves. I don't know what we're gonna do with a giant tree in our driveway.