Unmedicated Stupor

Yes, it's the wee hours of the morning and you have this man to thank for the unfortunate timing of this bit of posting. See, he just finished creating his post. While the world turned and he clacked away, I had been in the bed, reading and growing ever sleepier... until I evidently passed out, still clothed, book at my side.

Normally I don't crawl into bed without dosing up with the Xanax, so even if I dream, it's nothing I have to ponder upon waking. The problem apparently was that I'd had him bring me another cup of coffee (yes, I do still consider decaf coffee), and he set my shivering self up with the smooshy pillows and the heating pad. Bingo. Magic combination. Coupled with the hours he'd spent composing his rant against adult diapers and the Walmart clientele, my fragile brain never stood a chance. Care to know what woke me up? I'm gonna tell you anyway...

In the stupid dream, I was trying to sneak a frozen pizza (Monday was WW day. I held firm in my resolve not to lose an ounce this week.) in a ridiculous wood-fired wall oven. Behind me I suddenly am blasted with the sound of gun shots going off in the house. I start down the hall in the unfamiliar dream-house only to find two sheepish-looking men at the end of said hall, and the smell of fresh gunpowder. Turning, I can see gouges in the wall and, hearing police sirens getting closer to the house (on a corner lot in an urban neighborhood), I stalk angrily past the destruction to greet my 'visitors'. Once the cops are out of their cars, they ask me what's all the fuss about and I can only point to the huge holes in the side of my house and explain about the two dumb sportsmen who wanted to shoot skeet, but didn't want to break the law about "no discharging a firearm within city-limits". Because, somehow, being inside the house wasn't supposed to count...

One of the policemen picks up a casing from the ground. It's huge, and I realize that one of my houseguests is using a high-powered rifle instead. With a flip of his hand, the cop sends the empty casing back towards my house, where it shatters the entire glass door that leads to the side yard. Cursing and stomping back to the house (because, apparently, I get to ignore dream-cops), I resume some sort of kitchen duty that involves bread dough and not enough pans to put it in, and there's an annoying young woman following me around, determined to fill me in on her tragic love life. Finally, my husband steps into the kitchen to ask about me how many boxes of donut braids (I dunno what those are; just go with it) I want to take the kids. I'm puzzled by this, because there aren't any children around. Ugh. Time to wake up from this bizzare place...

See why I prefer the medicated stupor? And all this whilst unaware of Herr Becher's rant against growing older. But that old fart in the gov'ment car yesterday? He might have been one of the shooters. Now I'm wide awake at nearly one a.m. and blathering on. Time to hit the Xanax.
Also, for Anna and anyone else interested in the custom colors for the shop, I was told orders were 6-8 weeks out at Lorna's Laces. I ordered near the end of January, so it could be another month before I have those lovelies in my/your hands. Soon, though. I'm still knitting on the 'Smooches, Pooches' sample.

Muh culuhs ahh blush and bashful...sorry, didn't know a movie quote had to come popping out because I was thinking pink. G'night, y'all. C