“Cut”

I must be worried about my upcoming haircut. Actually, scratch that. I know I’m worried about my upcoming haircut. (I will make a note to add this to the list of worries – see “Worry List” blog).  On December 21, 2010, I will have made the executive decision to bring back the bangs. Scary thought, I know, but hopefully not scary in person. Don’t worry. I’m not going with the 80’s bangs (or the 80’s permed bangs, in my unfortunate case back in 1989). I’m going with the long, straight bangs (Google Taylor Swift at the 2010 AMA’s and hopefully it will resemble my upcoming ‘do). Anyway, I’m so frightened by this thought that naturally, I’ve started to dream about it. So here it is…

I’m outside of this fancy-schmancy hair salon in NYC. No, I don’t know why I apparently have to travel to NYC to get a dream haircut, so don’t bother asking. There are two doors to the hair salon. One says “Cut” the other says “Trim”. I boldly walk into the “Cut” door and am met by my assigned hair stylist, who happens to have the EXACT haircut that I want! While she is “getting ready” for my big hair cut (no, I don’t know what she would need to do to “get ready” for my haircut), she lets me know that games are available while I wait. Games?  Let me clarify. While waiting for your hair stylist to “get ready” at this hair salon, the guests are invited to play pool games.  Me and the other guests had a pretty intense game of Marco Polo going on when my stylist alerted me that she was ready.  Once you sit in the chair, the owner of the salon makes his rounds with what looks to be a chalk line (similar to what you would use to put shingles on houses… impressive that I know what a chalk line is, right?!). Anyway, he goes around and marks on your face any “improvements” that the salon thinks that you need, which they offer in addition to haircuts (i.e. Botox). I knew he was going to mark my forehead wrinkle, and without surprise, he did. I politely declined any other services besides the haircut though. I wisely know that even Botox can’t get rid of that sucker. Anyway, that’s where the dream ended. I don’t know what my haircut turned out like. I wish I did. That way, in real life I would know whether or not to make the cut.

Maybe this dream will come in episodes until December 21^st (a.k.a the big day).  I hope so, because seriously, it was one of the most vivid – an equally hilarious - dreams that I’ve had in awhile. Stay tuned.

Worry List

Every family has one. Unfortunately for me, I’m the worrier of the family.  It’s so frustrating that I worry about things even while I’m asleep. I don’t even have that much to worry about right now.  So I just make up things to be worried about. What if my alarm clock doesn’t go off, and I’m late for work? What if the dishwasher catches on fire during the dry cycle? Did I lock the side door? Did I lock the car? Did I lock the front gate so Sammy doesn’t get out? What if Sammy gets attacked by a wolf while she’s outside? Really? What if Sammy gets attacked by a wolf while she’s outside? That’s what I dreamt about last night. Why am I dreaming about wolves?  I’m totally team Edward, so wolves mean nothing to me, but nonetheless, last night in my dream I was too scared to let Sammy out of the house because of this fear…a completely unrealistic fear at that. If you’ve ever met our dog, you would know that NOTHING is going to get within 5 miles of our house, without her alerting the entire neighborhood by barking at it.  She has very distinct barks at that. I always know when she’s barking at my husband because she’s excited that he’s home vs. when she’s barking at the sweet kids in the neighborhood vs. when she’s barking/growling at those “other” kids in the neighborhood (Note: see “Entitlement” blog about the “other” kids in our neighborhood, and you’ll realize that we have the smartest dog ever. I think she can sense the road-blocking-egg-throwing-entitled kids from the cute hope-we-have-kids-like-that-someday kids). Regardless, I was so scared in my dream that she would be attacked that she received a life sentence as an inside dog. (Great. There goes the dream furniture, the dream paper towels, all of the dream blankets, and the occasional dream flip flop.)  

This worry of mine actually does have some realistic base to it.  Last week, she let out 5 minutes of strange, unusual barks.  I was sure she was just barking at the awful pit-bull neighbor that attacked her when she was a puppy (no, she has not yet forgiven or forgotten and neither has her mother), but when I looked outside, she was barking towards our shed.  Finally, and unfortunately, I realized a little too late what she was barking at.  I saw it lunge at her.  A panicked scream to my husband followed by a quick trip to the garage for a shovel, we had a dead cottonmouth on our hands.  Luckily, my poor baby came away unharmed. As for me, it’s just another item that I’m not adding to the list of things to worry about.

Canada Eh?

I hate when people are rude. I may not be super friendly all of the time, but if I don’t know you, I surely won’t be rude to you on our first encounter (even if I can just tell that I don’t like you).  I just don’t understand it.  It gets under my skin, and in some cases, including the one below, it can shape my opinion about people, places, etc., for a long time. This happened back in September. I went to Canada for a work-related trip.  I was traveling alone and had to fly into Toronto and rent a car to get around for my 8 day stay. Up to day #7, the trip was going really great.  I had never been to Canada before, and it is somewhere, up to day #7, that I would absolutely recommend going to and hope to visit again.  It’s really beautiful. Except for Toronto, which is a fairly large city (and reminds me a lot of Chicago, which I love!), Canada’s pretty rural.  I was staying in Brantford, about an hour outside of Toronto, and it reminded me a lot of where we live today (except with less people, and more farmland… if that’s even possible).  It was really beautiful though. Anyway, day #7, I had to refuel the rental car before I turned it back in.  I pulled into the gas station, and for some reason (unknown to me at the time), my credit card wouldn’t work at the pump.  Side note: it turns out that Canadians have chips in their credit cards to verify their identify. It’s similar to the “fast-pass” at American gas stations. You can just scan your card… you don’t have to swipe.  Anyway, I walked inside the gas station since my card didn’t work at the pump.  I explained to the cashier that my card didn’t work, and she asked, “Are you American”?  If my lack-of-ridiculous-Canadian-accent didn’t already give that away, I responded that I was. And here was her response…. “Well, we don’t like Americans here”. What?!?  Is she serious or is she kidding? Did she really mean Americans or just American credit cards? She has no facial expression at all, so I’m assuming that she’s serious. I paid inside and left. But in my mind, I verbally abused her. Really!?… you work at a gas station, you ignorant, worthless 5-letter word beginning with a ‘B’ (hey, this is a family blog, so I’ll keep it clean)…If Canadians didn’t use the American supply-chain for resources, blah, blah, blah, followed by several 4-letter words, and then a punch to the face.  Anyway, it bothered me.  From my trip, this is what I remember most.  Not Niagara Falls, not the Toronto International Film Festival, not the wineries at Niagara-on-the-Lake… nope, I remember this. 

One night this past week, I was dreaming that I was flying a kite.  Not sure why I was flying a kite.  I don’t think that’s the piece that matters.  What does matter is the design of the kite that I was flying.  It was in the shape of a big question mark and the pattern was made out of the Canadian-flag.  That’s exactly how I feel about Canada now. 

The New Office

For the most part, I consider myself a pretty smart gal.  I mean, I have two college degrees, and was a CPA at the age of 22. Not too shabby. So why on Earth, can’t I figure out how to get from the parking garage at our new office to the actual office building? I’m told that there is a very well lit and neatly labeled walkway that says “to office building” in the parking garage, but for the life of me, I’ve never been able to find this sign on my own.  It’s ridiculous.  Try #1 (with a co-worker who had yet to go to the new office) failed miserably.  We just ended up walking outside the parking garage to get to the office building (in the rain, might I add).  Try #2 succeeded only because I caught up with a tax associate who goes to the office on a daily basis, but after we winded through the parking garage, took the elevator up to another parking garage, walked down the stairs, through someone’s apartment, over several barricades, and under a limbo pole, did we finally arrive at the elevators that take you to the office building.  Unfortunately, as good as a memory that I may have, I can’t remember how to complete that journey by myself.  This is SO frustrating. Why did we have to move office buildings? I’m told the reason is that the new office building is “green”.  It’s not. It’s gray. And if they mean “green” like Earth-friendly, well that’s obviously going to be the case.  No one can find the stupid office. That means no one will ever be there. That means no one will need to turn on the lights, use the printers, etc, you get the picture.  Or maybe it’s “green” because now, instead of driving the 25 miles to the office, it’s actually closer for me to just park at home, and walk, since that’s about the equivalent length of our walk on Try #2.

Not to my surprise, I had a dream about this awful new parking situation.  I was in my car, winding around the floors of the parking garage, and they just kept getting smaller and smaller…. to the point, where I had to get out of my car and start crawling through the garage.  My car wouldn’t fit anymore.  So there I am, military-style, crawling on my elbows through the parking garage (apparently trying to find that not-so-nicely-lit “to office building” sign). The further I went, the more obstacles I had to go through (i.e. spider webs… except they didn’t have spiders on them, they had crabs and dead fish… yeah, I don’t know how they got into the dream.  I’ve been sick, so I took some cold medicine before I went to bed. That has to explain the craziness).  I can’t remember if I ever made it to the office or not.  I’m writing this on a Sunday, and I have to stop by the office tomorrow morning before work to pick up a few binders. Hopefully I have better success than last night!

I’m making a change…

Well… this is a hard decision, but I have to move the blog to a once/week ordeal.  While I may be able to keep up the daily pace when I’m not too busy at work, it’s nearly impossible to write everyday when I’m not getting home until late. Sorry people, but I’m choosing sleep/time with hubs, over the blog.  So, tough decision that this may be, I will only post once/week.  It’s better this way anyway (I mean, it’s seriously hard to try to be funny/witty on a daily basis. Sometimes I don’t feel like being funny. Sometimes I just feel like being the boring, old CPA that I am.) I know this is going to affect you all tremendously (ok, let’s get real, it’s going to only affect the 30 or so loyal readers that continue to check my blog everyday… yes, I can see the stats…. And I think you will be able to go on with your lives). Anyway, next post will be next week. Save this link, it’s also coming down from my FB page. Have a good one!

Dream sequence… take two

I was on a boat in Lake Gaston with my dad, and there were fish everywhere! There were dolphins continuously following the boat. We saw 4 sting rays, and even a blue swordfish.  I was on a boat in Lake Gaston with my dad, and there were fish everywhere! There were dolphins continuously following the boat. We saw 4 sting rays, and even a blue swordfish.  That’s not a typo. I literally dreamt the same thing twice in a row.  I woke up in the middle of the night and had my typical troubles falling back to sleep this morning.  So, while I lying there, wide-awake at this point, listening to the not-so-soothing sounds of snoring, I kept telling myself to remember what I had just dreamed so I could write about it in my blog.  I was WAY too lazy to get up and write it down, so I just kept thinking about it.  Well, I eventually fell back to sleep, and literally had the same dream.  That’s not how this is supposed to work!  I usually dream about things that are on my mind (obviously), but with this whole blog thing, when I wake up in the middle of the night, the act of remembering my dreams is on my mind (I’m SO task-oriented!) This could have a serious effect on my blogging skills.  Now I’m completely limited.  I usually have like 5 dreams a night.  I don’t want to dream the same thing 5 times… and I can assure you, that you don’t want me to!  I usually pick and choose the best dreams of the night to write about.  I mean, seriously, I dream about EVERYTHING.  You don’t want to hear/I don’t want to tell you about some of the craziness that I have going on upstairs.  The majority of my dreams are completely unexplainable (i.e. why would I dream about swimming in a parking lot with 2 feet of water or dream about being attacked by a jelly fish that was laying in the sand?), and there are some that I would never write about (i.e…sorry, never going to tell you). That only leaves the few gems that I share with you on a daily basis.  So, this whole “dreaming the same thing twice a night” can’t happen.  Otherwise, I’m going to have to attempt to explain why I was dreaming about a blue swordfish, 4 sting rays, and dolphins while at Lake Gaston… a.k.a., otherwise, there goes my blog. Wish me luck for tonight!

At least I have ants…

Yesterday was one of those days. There was no looking on the bright side.  Nothing went as planned. No one offered any help. It was just me against the world. (Ok, I may be exaggerating a little, but that’s how I felt anyway).  I was walking into a client’s office building, trying to juggle a glass container of pasta salad that I had made for a lunch meeting, a full and very hot Grande brewed coffee with 4 Splendas, and my oversized laptop bag, and somehow open the secure locked doors with my key fob.  There were people all around me, but no one offered to open the door. I know that’s against client policy, since access to the building requires government clearance, but really, do I look that threatening while carrying 2 pounds of pasta salad in my little black dress? I don’t think so. Anyway, it was an impossible task.  I knew I should have just made two trips to the car. A burn wound and ruined pair of hose later, I finally made it in the building (with help from no one). Much like my dream last night. All I was trying to do was build a shed in my parent’s backyard.  I had all of the equipment in my truck, but I couldn’t lift it by myself. I needed help, and no one was around to help me.  No one PERSON that is.  Instead, I had an army of ants that were helping me erect this shed, and they could lift anything. It’s amazing what those little suckers can accomplish!  Thankfully, with their help, everything went as planned. No thanks to humans though . Next time, I’ll know who to ask help me in the door.

Diddy

I went to a baby shower last week for one of my good friends. I’m so excited for them. It’s their first child, and they are one of those couples that you just KNOW are going to be great parents.  For their shower, I got their future son an array of Ralph Lauren monogrammed blue and orange tailgating outfits that he can wear while he watches, alongside his UVA alumni parents, the Cavaliers lose at every widely-accepted sporting event known to man.  (Yes – it was hard to purchase those hideous colors, but one more UVA fan is not going to help them win, so I did it anyway… not to mention that orange and maroon is unfortunately not an option at Ralph Lauren, which is completely ridiculous.  Although this makes sense, since Ralph doesn’t strike me as a real sporty fellow). Anyway, with all of this baby talk, you can imagine what I would dream about…

P.Diddy. Seriously…P. Diddy.  My dreams had nothing to do with babies at all. I just wanted to take a jab at UVA this morning when I was writing my blog (I think I may be feeling a little guilty about my UVA colored purchase or something).  Anyway, back to P. Diddy (or actually, it’s just “Diddy” now… I’ve been keeping up through my E! Online/TMZ news. Personally I think this is a vast improvement since his Puff Daddy days. I mean, really? Puff Daddy? That’s sounds stupid).  Anyway, apparently I needed a ride home and out of nowhere, Kanye West and Diddy offered me one.  Kanye was the driver, and Diddy and I were in the back seat chatting it up the whole time.  Kanye really didn’t say much (he’s apparently learned his lesson about the whole interrupting thing).  On the way home, we passed Diddy’s house, which for some reason, was a white shack with ugly blue shutters.  I cannot, for the life of me, figure this one out.  I mean, I’m a HUGE music fan. I listen to everything. But when I was scanning my music collection this morning, I realized that I don’t really have very many Diddy songs (except the collaborations with B.I.G., MA$E’s Harlem World CD, and the remake of “I’ll be Missing You”). So it’s not like I was listening to him on my hour drive home from work and thus dreamt about him.  It’s a mystery. 

What’s not a mystery, however, is why I dreamt that they gave me a ride home.  I was on my way to work one morning last week in my normal morning daze, and felt the eyes of a neighbor driver in the other lane.  He had a pretty horrified look on his face, and I got pretty defensive about it. (I mean, I WAS running a little late, so I did just throw on an outfit that probably didn’t match, and I doubt that my hair was in that great of shape, but really, I don’t think that justified his horrified look).  A few minutes later, we’re still traveling next to each other, and I realized why he gave such a glare. It had probably been about 10 minutes since my hands had come anywhere close to touching the steering wheel.  I was deep in thought while I was driving to work, so my arms had literally been crossed against my chest the entire time.  Little did the guy know that I’m very experienced at driving with my knees, but I think his look probably kicked off the reasoning behind the dream.  He obviously didn’t want me to drive, and neither did Kayne or Diddy.

No sleep = no dreams = no blog

No post for today.  After watching Virginia Tech beat Georgia Tech last night, there was an unusual turn of events. Anyway, for once, I’ll spare you the details, but seeing that I have not been to sleep since Wednesday night, it is impossible to blog about my dreams. I’m so tired that I may accidentally fall asleep at work today, however, in which case, I will update my post. Otherwise, I promise a good one for Monday.

I’m an addict

I’m such a news junkie. Seriously. I need help.  I probably only read 2 or 3 books a year, but if you totaled all of the news articles that I read in that same time period, I bet it would it fill more pages than the whole Britannica series. I can’t get enough. My daily routine consists of reading all of the major articles in the following newspapers online: FoxNews, CNN, WSJ, USA Today, PilotOnline, Suffolk News Herald, and last but not least, Yahoo news. (Ok fine. I also secretly read TMZ and E! Online. How else I am supposed to keep up to date on the Hollywood scene? I mean, I go to L.A. at LEAST every 2 years, so I have to stay on top of these things.) I love it. And honestly, it helps with my job.  I spend probably 70% of my day talking to people.  Now, I can talk about anything. I can tell you who won the Toronto Maple Leaf hockey game (like anyone cares), give you an update on T.J. Lavin, and at the same time tell you about the Schmalkalden sink hole in Germany (apparently it’s a big one).  So, it’s not a surprise, given the recent news surrounding the border violence in Mexico, that I’m dreaming about being attacked by a boat-load of Mexicans.  While I’m kind of poking fun at my dream, there really is some serious stuff going on down there. Did you hear about the newlywed American couple that was jet skiing on a lake that borders Mexico? I’m trying to keep this light, so if you don’t know what I’m referring to, then Google it.  Also Google what happened to the Mexican police chief that was investigating this attack… It’s absolutely horrible.  So was my dream.  There’s nothing pleasant about taking a relaxing cruise, only to be invaded and attacked by Mexicans. Nope – not pleasant at all.  Now that I’m thinking about it, there’s probably nothing pleasant about the Schmalkalden sink hole either, but given the choice, I’d rather dream about that.

My little black pumps

A little fun fact for you: I have bought, in the past 2 years, about 15 pairs of the exact same black pump shoe from Nine West. They are perfect.  I don’t bother trying them on anymore when I’m buying a new pair. I just go to the counter, order a 7 ½, pay, and leave. No lolly-gagging. Just a quick explanation to the salesperson. Trust me. I’ve owned 14 pairs of this same shoe. I KNOW they fit. They are my “go-to” shoe. They’re stylish enough to wear out with a pair of jeans, but still business-friendly for the workplace.  One flaw… they don’t last. In about a month’s time, that graceful tap they make on the marble floor of our downtown office building turns into the most annoying clack you’ve ever heard.  It’s seriously one of my biggest pet-peeves.  I can spot (or rather hear) aged shoes for miles.  Can they not hear that their 4” stilettos are begging to be thrown away? The nail has worn to the nub – it’s time to give them up.  I’ve learned over the years that this dilemma permeates throughout every price point.  It doesn’t matter if you own $800 Jimmy Choo’s or $29.99 no-names. They all have a shelf life.  The shelf life for my shoes is about a month, depending on what client that I’m working on for the duration.  I’ll keep this secret for client confidentiality purposes, but seriously, one of our client’s really needs to think about resurfacing their parking lot. HELLO!?! You’re costing your employees at least an extra $600/year in shoes. It’s SO frustrating! What’s also frustrating? I dreamt last night that upon my exit of one of our client’s buildings, I tripped, and scuffed up my new shoes. My brand new shoes.  They still made the perfect tap on the marble floor, but now, they had this ridiculous hole on the top of the shoe. Great… there goes another Ben Franklin.

Fashionably late

There are SO many things that one person could worry about in the world. Finances. Family. Remembering to feed your dog. Crazy People. Obviously, the list goes on.  But why, may I ask, do I have to worry about remembering my locker combination from high school? WHY? Out of every possible thing that I have to worry about and remember (and write down on a To-Do list, because I’m definitely one of those To-Do list people), WHY do I have to worry about this? This isn’t the first time, and I’m sure it’s unfortunately not the last. This is one (of two) recurring dreams that I have.  I’ll give you the short version of this dream, since, like the Zoolander movie that I mentioned before, I can tell you exactly how this one goes every time.  I know this dream well.  The 3-minute warning bell has just rung. I need a book from my locker.  I can’t remember the combination, and I can’t remember what cycle of classes today’s schedule falls on (i.e. we don’t have block scheduling, so we rotate the same 6 periods differently each day).  How stressful is that? Really!? I never finish the dream.  I never know if I make it to class on time or if I get a pink slip for being late.  The stress of the dream somehow wakes me up just in time to never know the ending.  I didn’t realize how much the 3-minute bell must have had an effect on me, because really, I’ve been out of high school now for 9 years!

Funny story… my mom sent me an email the other day to tell me that she loves my blog, but was glad she wasn’t in it that day.  Well, sorry mom, but I might have to blame this recurring dream on you. J We were NEVER late growing up.  We were one of those families that lived by the rule “If you’re early, you’re on-time. If you’re on-time, you’re late. If you’re late, don’t even bother showing up.” So now, present day, I’m completely annoyed by everyone’s tardiness.  Somehow this didn’t affect my sister. Sure, she can be fashionably late. I, on the other hand, cannot.  I mean, really, don’t get me started about that whole concept.  Fashionably late?! Please. If something starts at 7pm, I’m going to get there at 7pm. Why on Earth would I show up at 7:30pm? If that’s really what the invitee intended for me to do, then why wouldn’t they just put 7:30pm on the invitation.  And why does this only seem to apply to certain events? i.e. Our wedding invitation said 4pm.  Everyone was there by 4pm (except for a few stragglers, which I still know by name (and outfit choice)).  i.e. My husband’s employers says he has to be at work at 8am.  I don’t think it would be ok if he showed up “fashionably late” every day. I just don’t understand when you’re supposed to know when to be fashionably late. i.e. Is it ok to be fashionably late to class? Maybe we learned that on a day when we were late, and living by the cardinal rule, we didn’t bother showing up. But clearly, I must have missed that day at school. Otherwise, I could put this dream to rest. Ugh.

The Happening

I watched less than two minutes of a scary movie yesterday, against my own good judgment, and darn it, if I didn’t have a nightmare last night.  All I wanted to do was catch a quick glimpse of Mark Wahlberg, but no, I watched just enough to have to check underneath the bed and in the closets before I went to sleep last night. (Side note: I ALWAYS check under the covers for spiders. Not going to be surprised by one of those guys in the middle of the night. Gross.) I just don’t understand it. My co-worker watches scary movies all the time (apparently it’s her thing), and she says that she sleeps great.  Meanwhile, I watch one episode of Scooby-Doo, and I’m haunted by cartoon ghosts for a week! Life is not fair. So there I was last night, walking back to my dorm room at college, and this masked man came running at me as fast as he could.  I let out a truly horrifying shriek (probably one of my best). Enough so, that this masked individual decided that his scare tactics weren’t so funny anymore, and he revealed himself as someone that I went to high school with. (Side note #2: I haven’t heard from, thought about, or seen this individual literally since the day that we graduated.  But I recognized him immediately.  Of course, he looked the same as in high school. In real life, I doubt that’s true.)  Anyway, he felt so bad for terrorizing me, that he offered me ten bucks to take a cab so I wouldn’t have to walk home by myself.  I’m exhausted today. I don’t think I sleep well when I have nightmares. Tonight, I’m watching the Disney Channel… unless of course, one of Mark’s movies is on. J

A little “off”

I’ve been sick for the past few days.  Nothing major, but something has just been a little “off”.  It’s going around work, and knowing that I spend most of my waking hours there, I’m not surprised that I’ve been feeling bad.  Last night, my husband bought a car.  Not just any car, but a 7-series convertible. Obviously, this did not happen in real life, unless he just received a $75K raise that he didn’t bother to mention. He also sold his truck (more on this later).  I’ll pause here, for those who are unfamiliar with my husband, and I will play a little game called “Vehicle Association”.  You know how they say pet owners sometimes resemble their pets? You know what I mean.  The best example would be the classic snobby, rich, not-so-pleasant-to-deal-with person who owns a fru-fru poodle or some other ridiculous species that should not qualify as a dog. Well, the same goes for vehicles. A middle-aged-going-through-a-life-crisis man would probably drive a yellow 2-seater convertible.  A thirty-something-with-three-kids-woman would probably drive a mini-van.  You get the stereotypes.  Well, my husband (in real life) owns a 4-door diesel truck.  It’s perfect for him.  I think it says, “I’ve obviously been raised as a country boy, but I am smart enough to know that this will also come in handy for the various honey-do’s that my wife is constantly nagging me about”.  Again, it’s perfect.  What’s not perfect, is a 7-series convertible.  Can you imagine my husband showing up to the hunt club, dressed in camouflage, gun in hand, stepping out of a BMW convertible? No. Absolutely not… but it gets better.  Remember how I said before that he sold his truck? Well, he sold it to one of our good girl friends that, if we are playing the Vehicle Association game again, would most likely drive a Range Rover (I won’t reveal what she really drives, but you get the point).  Can you imagine her pulling up to Neiman Marcus in a diesel truck? Again, I think not. Ugh.  Like I said, I’ve been feeling a little “off” and clearly, so have my dreams.

“Invitation-only kickball spring training for those in need of training”

Most everyone who is reading this blog knows that I play on a kickball team.  Everyone also knows that we’ve won the championship 3 years in a row (since the inception of the entire league, might I add J). Well… I think the pressure may be getting to me. Seriously. The league starts every April, and it’s only October, but for some reason I’m dreaming about kickball.  Not just kickball, but kickball spring training.  Not just kickball spring training, but, “invitation-only kickball spring training for those in need of training”.  Seriously – that was the name. And darn it, if I wasn’t on that stupid list.  I’ll pause here for a moment, since I know that our kickball coach reads my blog (he’s going to be so proud… and hopefully dismiss me from the “invitation-only kickball spring training for those in need of training”). It’s funny the people that I dreamed about in this training boot-camp.  Everyone there seemed like they didn’t need to go.  I mean, without naming names, there are DEFINITELY people in the real-life league that don’t just need to go to the “invitation-only kickball spring training for those in need of training”, but also need to go to the “get-it-together-and-learn-how-to-be-coordinated-after-thirty-or-so-years-on-this-Earth-training”, but no… none of those people were there.  Weird.

It’s taken me awhile to figure out this dream.  I mean, there are the obvious answers… (a) I’m super competitive, so of course I would dream about spring training so our team can win a 4-peat. (b) I see our kickball coach all the time. But, I wasn’t satisfied with just those answers. Nope, I just let it sit for a week, so I could figure out the true meaning. Thankfully, I saw an email in my inbox from my best friend sent from a few days ago, and that jump-started my subconscious memory.  We email a lot, but last week, she sent me an email to let me know that our favorite movie was coming out with a sequel.  (YAY!)  That favorite movie, of course, is Zoolander.  For those of you who can’t quote every line in the movie with the same enthusiasm as my best friend and me (in which in case, I’m questioning your judgment and will never ask you to pick the movie on movie night), there is a line that is repeated several times throughout.  For those of you who haven’t figured out the link yet, I’ll go ahead and give it to you… drumroll…  “The Derek Zoolander Center for Kids Who Can’t Read Good and Wanna Learn to Do Other Stuff Good Too”.  Seriously.  Hello!? Look at my title. Now look at the movie quote.  There HAS to be a connection.  No one would dream about a camp called “invitation-only kickball spring training for those in need of training” if they weren’t subconsciously dreaming about the release of Zoolander 2.  Yay – I can’t wait!

Free Gas

I got hit on at the gas station.  I pulled up to the pump, and out of nowhere, this guy asked if he could pay for my gas.  Who does that? The weird part is (if the first part wasn’t already weird enough), I turned him down on the free gas offer.  Who does THAT? I mean, it’s not like I could possibly be expected to give anything in return for that (hello, Mr. “I’ll pay for your gas”, I’m married).  After he paid for my gas, all I would have to do is get in my car and leave.   He could write down my license plate information, that’s about it.  Maybe he has a cousin that works as a police officer that could look up my license plate and give him my address.  But really, what’s he going to do?  Knock on our front door, and tell my husband that he was hitting on me at the gas station, and paid for my gas without anything in return?!? What an idiot. That’s what I dreamt about a few nights ago. For once, I am speechless. 

I have no cute anecdote that somehow relates back to this event.  No story of some dashing young gas pumper that offered to rescue another in an act of camaraderie at the gas pump.  Nothing.  So, I’m thinking that maybe (or hopefully), I’m starting to dream about future events.   Maybe this dream was a precursory warning for me never to make that mistake again.  Take the free gas! Take the free gas! I bet that’s what my mind was thinking that night after I turned him down.  So far, my theory on dreaming about the future has not been proved.  I dreamt this on Friday night.  Well, it’s Wednesday, and no free gas to date.  I’ve even lingered around the gas pump for an extra 30 seconds or so yesterday, scanning the crowd of my fellow gas pumpers, hoping to catch the eye of someone who looks like they want to pay for my gas. Nope. Not once. Or if I’m looking on the bright side… not yet.

I should have just done the “mom-arm”

Last night, sound asleep, I was driving my car (somehow from the passenger side) and my mom was in the driver’s seat (somehow as the passenger, not the driver).  My grandfather was in the back of the car.  Not the back seat… no, that was empty. He decided to ride in the waaay back. I had my cruise control on and apparently wasn’t paying good enough attention, because we entered a turn a little too fast.  I slammed on the brakes, but I still ran off the road.  While I did recover control of the car (like Danica Patrick…Nascar-style), the act of running off the road had apparently damaged my car and all you could hear was this annoying clank coming from the back.  What you could also hear, was my mom SCREAMING at me and my lack of driving skills.  Absolutely, SCREAMING.

This has happened before.  Not in fake dream land, but in real life.  I was a senior in high school when I got into my 1^st car accident.  I hadn’t even left our driveway yet.  For the matter, I hadn’t even put the car in drive… I was still in reverse.  You can go pretty fast in reverse though (or maybe you can’t, hence the accident). I didn’t see it.  In fact, I didn’t even turn around when I was backing up.  I should have completed  the “mom arm” back-up procedure, put my arm safely behind the passenger seat, and jar my neck like some ridiculous yoga pose, in order to back-up.  But I didn’t.  I didn’t even look in the mirrors.  If I would have looked, I would have possibly seen that my dad had stacked a pile of wood in the normal turn-around area of our driveway.  But I didn’t.  Poor Ford Explorer.  Poor Ford Explorer that is now missing a taillight, and will forever have the indentation of my carelessness. My mom doesn’t yell.  I can count on one hand the times that she’s really yelled at me.  Don’t get me wrong, she has threatened (i.e. I’m going to pull this car over right now if…), but she doesn’t yell.  I think yelling might be a trait on my dad’s side of the family, but my mom doesn’t yell… except when you back her car into a woodpile.  She totally yelled.  She may not yell often, but it was obviously so great at that moment, that her yell still radiates throughout my dreams.

Christy

There was a girl that used to work at the firm. Her name was Christy.  She left right before I started for one of our west coast offices, but from what I hear, she was about 6 feet tall, 110lbs, and blonde. I know… not really what you would think as a typically CPA.  Christy had a lot of the same clients that I have now.  I’ve been with the firm for almost five years, and I can’t really pinpoint when this started happening, but there’s a lady at one of my clients that thinks I’m Christy.  I’m not really sure how this is possible, since, while I may be blonde, I’m barely 5’5”, and I’m certainly not 110lbs.  I mean, she wears glasses, so maybe she needs to up her prescription or something.  But nonetheless, it’s been happening now for a while.  Too long.  Too long now to ever tell her that, “No, my name is not Christy, but I’ve been pretending to go along with that absurd idea now for 4 years”.  The bad part… EVERYONE at the client knows who I am (the real me… not the fake Christy me). So I’m terrified now, that we’re going to pass each other in the hall, the bathroom, the lunch room, etc., and someone, like the CFO, is going to hear her call me Christy.  How do I explain that? I should have just nipped this one in the bud. But now, what was a tiny snowflake of a mistake, has snowballed into something way bigger than any avalanche.  Ugh. The bad part is – she’s SO nice, which makes this worse, because I know she’s ALWAYS going to say something to me when we see each other.

I dreamt last night that I was in the early school classrooms section of my old school.  My mom’s previous co-worker (mom used to be an early school assistant) was there too.  I was writing my to-do list on the chalkboard. (This is too funny. Or kind of sick, depending on how you look at it… I can’t seem to get away from work. It doesn’t matter if I’m awake or dreaming, I’m always thinking about what’s on my giant to-do list). After I finish the list, me and my mom’s co-worker walk out of the classroom, and there we run into her.  And of course, she called me Christy.  Luckily no one heard it but me.  I have been spared another day… meanwhile the snowball keeps growing!

Correction… the roof is not on fire, it’s leaking

So, the whole point of this blog is to analyze my dreams.  Well apparently, I got it wrong. My husband informed me (and I hate to admit that he may be right) that my dream about spraying the ceilings of my parent’s house with a water hose (see “The Roof is on Fire”), may have been misconstrued as an attempt to subdue the extreme temperatures in their house.  Instead, the dream probably relates to the fact that everything that I currently own is leaking.  For those of you who read my facebook several weeks ago, you may already know this. It’s a little funny that he wanted to bring this back up, since, to date, 2 of the 3 leaks are still not fixed as promised almost a month ago now (apparently he’s a glutton for punishment).  Remember that 2 day stretch of leftover storm Nicole? Yeah, that’s about when I started to carry an umbrella inside my house and inside my car.  The car problem (hopefully) has been fixed. The house… not so much.  My co-worker is always talking about being positive and looking on the bright side, and I PROMISE I’m trying, so here goes… The first leak in the house is in our bedroom, right next to the bed. I’m always complaining about how I wake up in the middle of the night because (a) I’m thirsty or (b) he’s snoring. At least now, all I have to do to solve (a) is lean over and open wide. Or, I can solve (b) and just push him underneath the Chinese water-torture device that is now custom-made in our house. See, that’s looking on the bright side.  The leak in the garage is so bad it’s starting to tear down the drywall.  The bright side… it’s just tools out there (what would I do with those anyway).  In conclusion, I’m pretty sure this will be the last time that my husband suggests that I was wrong about my blog. I love looking on the bright side. J

Entitlement

This makes me sound SO old, but what’s with kids (and some adults) these days? Everyone seems to think they’re owed something. They’re entitled to something.  I don’t get it.  When did that mentality change? I mean, don‘t get me wrong. I remember wanting plenty of things as a kid and thinking that I deserved them (i.e. my own phone line, a Barbie jeep, an older brother that would bring over his hot friends, the list goes on…). But wanting and receiving were almost opposites growing up in our household. We didn’t keep up with the Joneses, the Kardashians, or any other family clan (we couldn’t… we didn’t have cable TV until I was mid-teen). Ok – so we weren’t completely without either… just somewhere in the middle. 

My husband and I live in a neighborhood with a TON of kids. Our household is seriously bringing down the neighborhood average of like 6 kids per house. It’s kind of cool though. Neither one of us grew up in a typical neighborhood.  There weren’t 50 kids to choose from.  We were forced to play with our siblings (thankfully mine’s pretty awesome) and if we were lucky, maybe one other kid lived within 30 miles.  So when we first moved in our house, I was SO excited about the idea. Three years later… I’m annoyed. These aren’t the kids that I had in mind.  These are the entitled kids.  They walk in packs, 5-wide, in the middle of the road and expect, for some reason that I will stop, politely wait for the opposing traffic, and proceed home after my 10 hour day at work. I mean – I would hate to have to trouble them to move. Sometimes they just sit in the middle of the road.  I cannot even begin to express my frustration at this. It is just ridiculous.  Out of everywhere in the entire world I could possibly choose to sit, today or as a kid, I can assure you, I would have never chosen the middle of the road. As I drive by on the other side of the road, I always have a fleeting thought about what would happen if I didn’t move over (but then I realize the consequences, and after I write my congressman about my jail idea – see “The Roof is on Fire” blog, I don’t want to be subject to that kind of torture again). 

So, knowing all of this, you will understand why I woke up completely irritated this morning.  I had a dream that I was driving through my neighborhood and the kids were blocking the entire road.  I came to a complete stop, and they just stood there.  I even honked. Nothing. No response. Nada. I give up. I can’t win with these kids.  Real life. Dream life. They rule the neighborhood. For now, all I can hope is that they don’t read my blog and egg my car.

The Roof is on Fire

We live in one of those “green” houses.  Really. It was a selling point on the original flyer (which I still have neatly placed away in a yellow folder labeled ‘House’).  The flyer said that the owner went to great lengths (i.e. new windows and expensive insulation) in order to efficiently heat/cool the house.  He must have done a good job – our HVAC rarely runs.  Compare that to my parent’s house.  I think it must take 3 HVAC systems, 2 wood stoves, and a matching pink scarf and glove set to keep warm in the winter, and in the summer… ugh, don’t get me started.  There’s no escaping it.  Of course growing up, we didn’t know any better.  I didn’t know that my organs were being slow roasted in the crock pot also known as the upstairs of my parents house BY CHOICE.  That wasn’t until my sister and I were old enough to visit other friends’ houses, whose parents keep their household at a very comfortable 72 degrees.  Whoever invented the genius that is the HVAC system was either (a) a woman or (b) had lots of sisters who owned hairdryers.  It is physically impossible to dry your hair during the summertime when at 6am, it’s already 82 degrees inside with 100% humidity.  It’s torture.  Maybe I should write my congressman and suggest that method for murderers, thieves, etc.  It’s gotta be worse than jail.  If you don’t believe me, look at my yearbook pictures from ages 13-17. You can’t get that hair by accident. Let me say, however, just in case mom reads this, that being a homeowner now I totally understand (ok that may be a little much…. I sort of understand).  It’s expensive.  It’s VERY expensive.  Especially if my entire house could fit in the laundry room of theirs.  So I get it.  (Of course, to cut down on expenses I think I would sacrifice TV, food, and maybe even my oldest daughter (just kidding sis) if I were them, not a few degrees on the thermostat… but hey, I’m not them).

So, knowing all of the aforesaid items, it’s pretty obvious and hilarious that still today I have dreams about this experience as a result. This time, I was in the inferno part of parents’ house (I mean the upstairs) and I was holding a garden hose.  My brother-in-law was there, and so was an Indian co-worker of mine, and they were looking at me like I was CRAZY. Of course, I was spraying the ceilings with the water hose…. Like they were completely soaking wet. I sprayed my old room and my sister’s old room.  That’s where the dream ended.  I woke up this morning and kind of laughed at my dream.  I knew exactly what I was doing. It doesn’t take Freud to piece this one together.  I have subconsciously been terrified that as a result of the scorching heat inside my parent’s house, I thought the roof was going to catch on fire. I was just trying to help.

Jem and the Holograms

When I was in 2^nd grade, our teacher had a system to keep track of how “good” we were in class. It was your basic ploy to keep 7 year-olds in line, and I was drinking the Kool-Aid. Basically, if you followed all of the typical grade school rules (i.e. no talking while the teacher is talking), you would receive a gold star for the day (and on very special days, I believe they were apple-shaped stickers…which, needless to say, were totally awesome). She had a whole chart. One hundred and eighty days.  As I think back, this is my earliest memory of my competitiveness.  I hate to lose.  I hate to lose at anything, I hate to lose at anything, whether or not there is a prize at stake…. But I especially hate to lose when there are gold stars and apple stickers involved. So there I was sitting at my desk, NOT talking while the teacher was talking. And there was “Courtney”. (I have obviously changed her name for her own safety as well as the embarrassment this may cause her). Courtney sat in the desk in front of me.  Except at this moment, she sat backwards at her desk, blabbering on about Jem and the Holograms (yes, they are truly outrageous), and I knew it. I just KNEW it.   Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. And certainly do not get a gold star for the day. Ugh. My. Life. Is. Ruined. Permanent record destroyed.  I think it must have been somewhere around day 85 when this happened and that was it.

Now, present day. I dreamt about Courtney.  I’ve dreamt about her before.  This time, we were just riding in the car together.  I don’t know where we were going. I don’t think that necessarily matters. I think the whole point of this dream, is that some day, some time, somewhere, I’m going to run into Courtney and let her know just how I feel.  I’m going to let her know just what I went through that day.  I’m going to let her know, that she totally owes me an apple sticker.

Karma - you got the wrong one!

It’s obviously getting close to Halloween. Spiders are everywhere! Unfortunately, not just the decorate-for-Halloween type either. As part of my daily OCD habits, I was “straightening” up the guest room a few mornings ago when I spotted my #2 biggest fear trying to set-up shop in our household. (My #1 fear is frogs, and will hopefully NEVER be mentioned again in this dream blog. Seriously. Don’t even get me started about those disgusting creatures. Ugh.)  Anyway, this sucker was HUGE.  Generally, if someone were describing me, I feel fairly confident that the word “independent” would be used….but in this case it would be used with a big fat asterisk next to it. I would rather sell our house at a loss, rent a storage unit for all of our stuff, rent an apartment while we are hunting for a new house, and buy a new one (sans the spiders) that will most likely be smaller than our current one because we somehow have to pay for all of the aforementioned items, than to remove the spider by myself. This distressing event has obviously had a huge impact on me because last night, while I was sound asleep, the ghost of spidy came back to haunt me.  He was affixed to my arm, latching on to me for dear life (or in this case death, since my husband had already killed him several mornings before).  It was one of those nightmares that’s SO traumatizing, it woke me and my husband up! (Mainly because I almost fell out of bed trying to get that thing off of me).  After I realized that I was dreaming, and that the “incident” which occurred several mornings ago was indeed in the past, hysterics ensued. The good kind.  The kind where you can’t stop laughing because you realize what you just did was so embarrassing and yet so ridiculous.  I mean, thank goodness the ghost of spidy landed on my arm.  What happened if it landed on my face? How could I possibly explain to my co-workers this morning that in the middle of the night, I was attacked by my dead-ghost-arch-enemy-back-to-life-to-terrorize-me spider and thus have suffered abrasions on my face? No explanation for that. Secondly, why was I attacked? I didn’t kill the thing. My husband was soundly sleeping, probably dreaming about unicorns and cotton candy, while I’m being tortured.  Karma definitely got this one wrong.

Night in the Life…

I got to work this morning and my co-worker informed me that her husband had started blogging… After numerous questions, I decided to give it a try myself, and here’s why: 

A couple of weeks ago, I was talking with that same co-worker about our (my husband and my) financial “plan” to eventually start a family, send our kids to private school, and still afford the small luxuries in life, which from here on out shall be called my “slightly large, but not overly ridiculous shopping addiction”.  I was complaining to her that I have (other than my degrees and current job) no real skills/talents to make money outside of my career.  My husband tints windows on the side. My brother-in-law takes in odd-jobs, like power-washing sidewalks, etc.  One of my friends DJ’s …. apparently EVERYONE has some extra skill in life except for me! I mean, I used to babysit, but why, after the age of 16 does that job stop paying? It’s not like, at the age of 27, I have nothing better to do than to take care of someone else’s [crying, grouchy, smelly, crazy] child… for FREE. Insert: the blog.  Apparently, people get paid to blog (I’ve seen “Julie and Julia”… she got a book deal, a movie and I’m sure a big, fat, paycheck). Finally! I have some sort of extra skill that I can (hopefully one day) get paid for.  Ok – so I’m not the next Virginia Woolf or Candace Bushnell, but I WAS allowed to skip freshman English in college because of my mastermind writing skills (or maybe because I did well on my SAT II’s, but still, that’s something, right?!?). So, the only question that I’m left with is the obvious… what to write about?

Well that’s easy. Since I’m already piggy-backing off of my co-worker’s idea, I might as well keep going.  It’s weird. Both of us dream almost every night.  She keeps a journal of all of her dreams and is planning on publishing it into a book one day (which will no doubt top the NY Times best seller list, and I am assured an autographed copy!). So there it is. This will be my dream blog. Sort of. I’m going to blog about the events that cause my crazy dreams. Hence the blog name, “Night in the Life”.

I’ll have to write this early every morning, because after about noon each day, my head is swirling with numbers and thinking only about what’s for lunch. But today, you’re in luck! While I can’t remember now the extent of the dream, I do remember the characters. Last night, I had a dream about John Stamos. Yes. THE John Stamos from the now classic TV show “Full House”. I don’t think that I’ve (consciously) thought about this man since 1993, but for some reason he showed up last night in my dream.  Unfortunately now, I can’t remember where/what/why this happened, but I’m sure it’s from the years of TGIF Friday nights spent with the family.  Kind of cool that he came popping back into my head after all of these years though. Gotta love Uncle Jesse!