You May Say I’m a Dreamer

You may say I’m a dreamer, and in my household I am the only one. Where my dreams are typically vividly technicolored, Studly Doright’s are seemingly non-existent. So when I got this text first thing Monday morning, I was intrigued:

(Ignore the odd punctuation. If I’d known this was going to be blog fodder (blodder?) I’d have taken more pains with my text.)

According to Studly, he never dreams. Of course I’ve informed him that we all dream every night, but not everyone remembers their dreams. Stubbornly he persists in claiming that he is the exception.

All day I waited for him to come home, so I could hear the details. Part of me hoped he’d dreamed winning lottery numbers. Had that been the case, I’d have bought a dozen tickets immediately. Another part of me was concerned he’d dreamed about his soul mate–and it wasn’t me! As promised in the text I made potato soup for dinner, always with one part of my brain on Studly’s dream. Do I need a life? Most likely.

The second he walked in the door I asked the million dollar question. “What was the dream?”

“Mmmm, that soup smells good!”

“Damn it, you don’t get soup until you spill the dream beans.”

He said, “It was weird. The whole time I was dreaming I kept thinking it was the kind of dream you’d have.

“There was this creature, maybe an alien, maybe an animal, and a little boy. Somehow they communicated, and if there was any danger the creature would surround the boy with a protective cloaking shield.”

I managed to nod encouragingly, all hopes of a winning lottery number dashed.

“And this kid had family members he could pull inside the shield.”

“So, what happened?”

“Nothing! I couldn’t get past the shield part. The dream never moved forward. It was frustrating.”

As we ate our potato soup and cornbread I tried my amateur dream interpretation skills on him:

1) Studly is the little boy who feels like he needs protection for himself and his loved ones.

2) Or he is the outsider providing protection for others.

3) Or he had an upset stomach and as a result a weird dream.

4) Or he was hoping for potato soup for dinner.

At least he didn’t dream about his soul mate. Unless, of course, the alien filled that role.

Peace, people!

Strike While the Flower is Right

Three different times on Thursday I passed a garden area adjacent to the school at which I’m working. This garden featured the most gorgeous purple flowers. If I knew anything at all about plants I’m sure I’d be able to tell you their names, but I don’t, and I can’t.

Each time I walked by I thought to myself, “Those gorgeous flowers for which I have no name would make a perfect snapshot of the day on my blog,” but twice I didn’t have my camera with me and once my arms were loaded with testing materials.

Finally at the end of the day I found an opportunity to slip outside to take a photo of these breathtakingly beautiful plants. Alas, I was too late. Each of the blossoms lay wilted on the ground.

Now I have no idea what happened. Perhaps some group of ornery elementary students couldn’t help themselves and dashed the flowers to the ground. Maybe aliens were responsible for their demise, shooting death rays from the depths of space thinking to annihilate life on earth, but succeeding only in killing certain flowers. In that case we dodged a bullet, wouldn’t you agree? 

But maybe it was just that time in the flowers’ lives. They’d reached the pinnacle of their collective existence and then simultaneously expired depriving me of a lovely photograph and the world of their fragrant beauty. 

You know there’s a moral to this story, right? Stop and snap a photo of the unknown purple flowers. Gosh, that might just catch on.

Peace, people

The Daily Prompt: Out Foxing the Fox

Unexpected Guests–You walk into your home to find a couple you don’t know sitting in your living room eating a slice of cake. Tell us what happens next. (The Daily Prompt on The Daily Post)

  

Before the pair can register my arrival I slide quickly to the floor and roll behind the chaise longue. I knew this day would come, but I had hoped it would be many years down the road. Consciously I slow my heart rate and breaths per minute until I am barely more alive than the errant sock lying underneath the candle stand to my right.

“When did you say you expect your wife?” asks the male half of the duo.

“Any minute now,” my husband replies. “Unless she gets caught in traffic.” His voice betrays no hint of concern, but then why should it? Andrew has no idea of my true identity. 

“More cake?” he asks. “I baked this last night. From scratch.”

“It’s quite tasty,” comments the woman. “But no thank you.”

I hear plates and cutlery being placed on the coffee table.

“Could I trouble you for a glass of water?” she asks.

“But of course. Mr. Mulder, would you also like something to drink while we wait for Lana?”

I hear a muted “yes” and then Andrew’s familiar tread on his way to the kitchen.

“Do you think we have the right home?” the woman whispers.

“I’d bet money on it, Scully,” her partner says.

Andrew returns to the room with a hearty, “Here we go! How remiss of me not to include a beverage with the cake.”

The man asks in a strained voice, “How did you and your wife meet?”

“Oddly enough, we met at a Scifi convention,” chuckles Andrew. 

I hear a choking sound from one of our uninvited guests. 

“Why do you say ‘oddly enough’?” coughs the man named Mulder.

“Because Lana detests that stuff. Calls it nonsense. I’m the big fan. She was there doing research on the geeks who attend such affairs. Just my luck she found this geek attractive.”

“Of course,” Andrew continues conspiratorially, “You know she’s one of them. An alien. Just as you expected, Agent Mulder.”

The female, Scully, coughs loudly, a long painful sounding affair. Her partner follows suit. 

“Yes, it’s part of the reason I found her so fascinating at the convention. You see, I’m one, as well. My darling Lana, like myself, is a Mirbeesian, from the planet Mirbee 2, just a couple of light years from Earth.”

The coughing crescendoes to a shattering peak and then subsides to be replaced by a weighted silence before Andrew intones, “Lana, come out. You’re safe. The agents won’t bother you now.”

I emerge from my hiding spot to find Andrew grinning from ear to ear and the agents lying motionless on the floor.

“Andrew!” I cry, “What have you done?”

“Oh, they’re quite dead, my dear, but it had to be done if we’re to have any peace.”

“That’s awful, but I suppose you’re right. Andrew, you’ve never given any indication that you knew about me. And I certainly didn’t know that you were like me. How did you know?” I break down, crying at the enormity of it all.

Andrew takes me in his arms and strokes my hair. “My Lana, remember how I insisted on doing all of the cooking?”

“Yes,” I whimper, beginning to understand. 

“Had you been from Earth, my food would have had the same effect on you as it had on the agents here. I came to Earth specifically to find a mate so we can finally begin our infiltration.”

“How fortunate you found me on the first try.” I sigh.

“Who said you were the first try?”

Goodbye Mr. Spock



I thought for awhile

That Mr. Nimoy was

Truly from another 

Planet.

His portrayal of Mr. Spock

Was the quintessential 

Vulcan.

A tongue in cheek

Article read when

I was too young to

Understand such

Humor seemed to

Confirm that the 

Ears were real, 

That Nimoy was

Alien.

I wondered why 

This wasn’t bigger 

News.

Goodbye Mr. Nimoy. 

Thank you for 

Making me a

Believer.