Well, I do. And, fortunately, last night and the night before I actually got a little. Not the eight to ten hours I prefer, but some.
The most exciting thing about my recent bout with insomnia was the dreams. When I was asleep, it wasn’t restful because of the crazy insane dreams. Every time I’ve told anyone about these dreams, they back away slowly. One co-worker suggested (jokingly?) that perhaps therapy would be a valuable thing.
I know you’re dying to know what I dreamed about, because really, what’s more exciting than reading about someone else’s crazy-ass dreams? Nothing, that’s what.
Last Saturday night, I dreamed that I was a lobster. That’s right. An Amy-sized lobster. I was me; everything about me was the same except for the part where I was a lobster. I was visiting my parents in their haunted house on the coast of (where else?)
Sunday night, the dreams were even weirder, and I know that I’ve shared parts of those dreams with people, but the only thing I now remember is that I was desperately in love with a man who, to my recollection, looked like a toothless, tattooed rugby player.
Tuesday night, though, that was the best. I dreamed that I was talking to Leonard Nimoy, only a very, very young Leonard Nimoy. At the time I didn’t realize who he was. His ears were very pointy. That was apparently not part of the stage/screen makeup. He was lecturing me on the benefits of carrots. And I quote, “You have to eat carrots every day. That is how I stay so young-looking. They are like little orange fountains of youth.”
I reply, “But who can get carrots? No one has carrots.”
“Why do you think I do all these conventions? They pay me in carrots!”
It dawns on me that this is Spock!! “Spock?” I ask.
“I’m not Spock, but I played him on TV.” Then he opened his very nice, expensive-looking briefcase and reveal that it is full of carrots. (Any ideas Marcy? Or just the standard, “yep, you so crazy.”)
So – I may be a little crazy. One thing I do know is that the weirdness I’ve experienced has a name, and its name is PMS. Which sucks ass, because this is not supposed to be happening so often. I take the drugs to make it not happen so often! And yet, here we go again. With the whimpering and the mood swings and the irritability and strange paranoia and sensitivity (ex: Once, the architect and I were camping at Sequoia. He had just purchased a new digital camera. I really wanted a picture of the two of us together, but he felt uncomfortable handing over his camera to perfect strangers. I burst into tears and accused him of not wanting any photographic evidence of our relationship together), and that doesn’t even begin to cover the really fun stuff like pain and suffering and complete misery.
So, who wants to visit next week? I promise to try really hard not to cry and believe that you hate me if you don’t come and bring dark chocolate.
Book reports, soon, I promise. I’ve read “Oryx & Crake,” “The Dive from Clausen’s Pier,” “The Kite Runner,” and “Memoirs of a Muse” in the last couple of weeks. I did a brave thing. Involving going out alone in public and meeting with strangers and talking and being really, really brave. I knitted with people again. I have a group! With friends! And they’re fun!
Tonight, I’m going to try to have pie, although again I forgot my camera, so I’m not sure about pictures. If I eat a pie in a restaurant and there’s no photographic evidence, does it count as Pie Field Research? Also, tomorrow night I am going to a party at one of the architect’s architect friend’s place. We are social butterflies.
Happy weekend, everyone. Take some pain medication for me!