Dream interpretation

Okay! So, um, let’s talk about something else and move those pictures down the page.

Waaaaaayyyyy down.

Bump.

Bumpity bump.

BUMP.

 

 

Ahem.

How about that local sports team? Read any good books lately? Or…to be actually interesting, how about the Spin Cycle (now hosted by the lovely & talented Gretchen)? The topic is “dreams”.

Now, I dream fairly vividly (except when I was pregnant, which is pretty much the opposite experience of every other pregnant woman ever to have lived), so I could tell you some good ones. But nobody is ever interested in your dreams except for you, I know this. Unless they are trying to get into your pants, they are only being polite when they smile and nod as you say exuberantly, “And then George Takei walked in with my afternoon delivery of bumper stickers!”.

So I’m going to take a different approach and tell you a little anecdote.

Do you have a dream kitchen? Dream closet? Dream wedding? Dream vacation?

I don’t. I guess I’m easy to please, because I’ve never spent time deciding on what my ideal version of any of those things would be. As long as my kitchen is somewhat clean, my closet somewhat full, and I get to leave the country, I’m happy with any format. (And I’ll probably never get actually married, because, HOLY CRAP IS THAT A LOT OF WORK.)

But I realized just recently that I do have a dream house.

Sort of.

I had a (reasonably rare) date night with Alfred, who I am going to continue to call Alfred because it suits him better than Paul, and as Nicki pointed out, Paul is not a Batman reference. During our (actual, uninterrupted) conversation, he mentioned what kind of house he thought we should buy if we won the lottery.

“No way,” I said. “If we win the lottery I want to build a house that has a big library, and spiral staircases, and hidden passageways.”

“The kind that lead to paintings with eyeholes that you can spy through?”

“Exactly. And a graveyard in the back, and a greenhouse full of thorns but no roses. And we’d have to train our foliage to attack the mailman.”

He squeezed my hand. “It’s moments like this that remind me that I picked the right woman to spend the rest of my life with.”

I beamed. Exactly.

And if not, there’s always that graveyard.