Dreams are tricky. That’s probably because there’s so many types. Some are happy, and everything is perfect. You’re rich, you’re thin, you’re smart. You make witty observations that would be perfect to include in a weekly humor column.
While the sun seems to be shining on everything you do in this dream, you think to yourself, “Hey, that was funny. I need to write about that next week.” But then you wake up and realize the bag of M&M’s you were snacking on last night spilled into your bed, the alarm on your phone labeled “Pay Jacob’s tuition today” is going off, and you forgot all the clever quips you wanted to remember. I don’t even bother looking up what this dream means. I know what it means. Not thin, Not rich, Not funny.
On the other end of the spectrum, some dreams are disturbing. They make no sense but are extremely convincing. If someone died, you wake up thinking that really happened. You go through the entire day in a state of mourning. It’s post-dream PTSD.
You try to talk about it, but no one understands why you are crying about a dream where your pet ferret got hit by a car. It’s because you don’t own a ferret, moron.
I once had a dream my mom was alive. I walked into Clayborn’s Bakery, home of her favorite doughnut. She was sitting at the booth closest to the wall. I approached her and said something like, “mom! I’ve missed you so much.” When I finally got her attention, she asked me for more Sweet-N-Low packets. I sat across from her sobbing uncontrollably while she continued to ignore me. From a distance, I heard a muffled voice saying “Vookkkiiieeee.” I woke up to my husband shouting, “Becky, Becky, wake up.” I was relieved that it was just a dream. It was nice to see mom again, but the fact that she didn’t recognize me was almost traumatizing enough to force me back into therapy.
Suspenseful or scary dreams are the worst. This type could be featured on an episode of “Law & Order: Special Victims Unit,” if all the main actors took LSD. In this type of dream, screams, no matter how loud you’re trying to be, sound like must travel through quicksand.
I was on a cruise with my sisters a few months back and our first night on the ship I had a doozy. I was talking so loud in my sleep; my sister Laura woke me up.
“What were you dreaming about?”
“It was horrible. I’m lying in this bed. Christopher Walken came into our room and tried to snuggle me.”
The words no sooner left my lips when I realized “wait. I really like Christopher Walken. Would one snuggle really have killed me?”
Speaking of ships, last night I dreamt my children and I were on a cruise. The boat was like a rescue vessel. Everything was water. There’s no land. It was storming, and everyone is panicking. Passengers were wearing life vests over their evening gowns and suits. There was a Noah’s Ark-Titanic feel to the atmosphere. A group of musicians were on deck dressed in drag and lipsyncing to Cher’s “Believe.” While everyone is scurrying around, they can hear the voice of Julie from “The Love Boat” through the ship’s intercom. She announces dinner is ready, and they will begin seating first-class passengers in 10 minutes. Right away, the first-class passengers stop scurrying, take off their life jackets and proceed to the dining room. I start running to the other side of the boat because I know I’m not a member of the first-class group, and I was keenly aware that this floating death trap would soon split in half. Again, with the Titanic vibe. Before I make it, a rogue wave that looks 1,000 feet high, crashes down. We flip a couple of times, and eventually the boat rights itself. We soon wash up on the shores of Norway, but it’s also Dale Hollow Lake. In the next scene, I’m shopping in the now-defunct Sullivan’s Department Store, listening to a smart aleck 17 year old tell me that they don’t carry my size while I try on earrings. And then I woke up.
So today, I’m exhausted. I’m also irritated that I didn’t get that little twit fired after he made that crack about my chubby ears. Shortly, after this thought, I decide I’ll never eat Crunch Berries before bed again.
For your information, this column is supposed to make zero sense…like our dreams.
Comments? Email Becky Andrews at [email protected] Andrews and Angel Kane are the brains behind Telling Tales, a weekly column in The Democrat.