What’s in Baltimore?

Last night was both a hit and a miss in the sleep department. I initially fell asleep quickly, but awakened approximately an hour later, eyes wide open, thoughts swirling like frantic snowflakes in a blizzard. I read a while until those flakes blanketed the ground of my mind and I was able to doze off again. I repeated the pattern to some extent all night long. Some sleep periods were longer, others shorter. I did dream, though, which is always a good sign.

In the one dream I can recall I had been working in some distant city and was trying to return home to Baltimore, Maryland, via train. I was so sleepy in the train station that I couldn’t stand in the ticket line without dozing off. When I finally managed to speak to a ticket agent I couldn’t remember my address in Baltimore, so she sent me to the back of the line until I could.

Now, I’ve been to Baltimore. I once worked for a company that was based there, and my initial two weeks with the company were spent in the suburb of Towson. But I live in Florida. I’m not sure why my brain thought I needed to go home to Baltimore.

I did finally get on the train in my dream, where I sat next to a man who’d been a social worker before retiring to paint landscapes. I told him I’d come “this close” to being a social worker–a blatant lie–but that I’d chosen a career as a teacher instead. I also told him I could paint. Another lie.

“It will all be clear when we get to Baltimore,” I told him solemnly, before waking up.

Since I have no plans to visit Baltimore any time soon, I suppose things will stay muddy. As usual.

Peace, people.

When You Rhyme in Your Sleep

Such a poor rhymer,

A nickel and dimer,

A shell without primer,

Rusting away.

Throw out the words, son

Steer away from the bad pun

Avoid the over done

This ain’t child’s play

Can’t help but dream

In a metronomic scheme

Nothing’s easy as it seems

These visions never stay.

(Michael Cheval is the artist featured in this post.)

I woke up (at 2:37 a.m) with the first stanza rolling around in my head. I told myself if it stuck around, I’d write it down. Almost wish it hadn’t.

Peace, people.

Library Dream

Last night I dreamt about a vast library. Oddly enough the dream was set in New Salem, North Dakota, a town Studly Doright and I, along with our two children, lived in briefly during the early 90’s. I don’t remember the town of fewer than 1,000 souls having a library other than the ones at the town’s public schools; although, a quick google search shows there is a small one.

In my dream, the New Salem library was housed in a modern log cabin with soaring beamed ceilings and shelves that required ladders at least 20 feet tall to reach the top rows. The aisles extended so far in every direction that one could not see the far walls from the library’s center.

During my dream visit, members of the library guild were hosting a membership drive. In every nook and cranny of the building there was some vignette set up–a play or live music or just a visual display–enticing visitors to join. For some reason oversized boxes of Kleenex tissues were stacked decoratively in key places, as an overarching theme for the event.

I desperately wanted to become a member of the library guild. I wanted to be part of this grand building with boxes of tissues stacked in the shape of the Eiffel Tower and the Empire State Building. But when I finally found a guild member and completed the necessary paperwork I realized I didn’t have the amount of cash on hand to pay the $94.00 joining fee, and the guild didn’t accept credit cards.

Frantically I began working odd jobs within the library itself in order to raise the money. I carried patrons’ books for a quarter. I shined shoes and moved the card catalogues. I stacked tissue boxes. After what seemed like many hours had passed I realized that I had raised $93.95, and I had one nickel in my pocket. I eagerly handed over the money to the nearest guild member, and abruptly awakened to the sounds of Studly Doright brushing his teeth.

Since I didn’t receive my receipt am I a member of the New Salem Public Library Guild or not? Seriously.

Peace, people.

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!

Swimming With Beasts

A few nights ago I had a dream in which Studly Doright and I had taken our kids and grandkids on a trip to an indoor pool. The pool was huge, larger even than Olympic sized, but that wasn’t the oddest thing about it. As we walked around we realized that large animals were swimming with people in the pool.

There were lions and sharks, alligators and tigers swimming menacingly, seeming to stalk the humans who’d risked their necks to join in the activity. I was appalled, but everyone else in our family group began to jump in. My youngest granddaughter and her dad raced a cheetah to the side of the pool, narrowly missing becoming a snack for the feline.

I was pacing up and down urging everyone to get out of the pool before it was too late, but they all just pooh-poohed my concerns. A shrill blast from the lifeguard’s whistle signaled that it was time for a change in animals, so all of the humans were herded into cages while the pool was cleaned and the new animals emerged.

This time there were elephants and polar bears, llamas and giraffes in the pool. I found myself tempted to enter the water figuring it might be my only chance to swim with an elephant. Just before I took the plunge Studly Doright awakened me to lean over and kiss me goodbye before heading off to work.

“Whoa!” I mumbled. “I thought you were a polar bear.”

He didn’t bat an eye, responding, “That’s because I’m so chill.”

Peace, people.

TV Marathon Dystopia

A couple of days ago I wrote about being addicted to sappy, family-friendly Hallmark Channel movies. On Saturday, though, I realized there was a Walking Dead marathon on AMC in preparation for the mid-season finale scheduled for Sunday night. So without hesitation I changed channels, and now my brain is having a heyday as evidenced by last night’s dream:

A beautiful young television reporter is caught on a live mic saying she hates Christmas–immediately following a segment on ways to spread holiday cheer. Her public reacts negatively, and in order to boost the show’s ratings the station manager sends her and her handsome producer to North Dakota where they’ll shoot a week of programs from a little town that bills itself, “The Christmas Capital of the U.S.”

Unfortunately, the duo arrives in North Dakota to find that the zombie apocalypse is in full swing. No one in the rest of the country knew about it because, well, it was North Dakota after all. Undaunted, although a bit confused, the couple gamely make their way to “The Christmas Capital of the U.S.” where they take refuge in an old hotel with a handful of other survivors. 

They film their segments about Christmas while gamely shooting zombies and subsisting on canned foods they’ve scavenged from abandoned homes. The beautiful young reporter learns to love Christmas and falls in love with her handsome producer. Unfortunately, they’re both attacked by zombies and become walking dead themselves. 

Now that’s a dream one could sink their teeth into. Am I right? 

Parade of Celebrities 

My dreams have been chock full of celebrities lately. I suppose their nocturnal performances are subtle attempts by my psyche to heal itself during this soul-scarring election.

Last week Chris Hemsworth, in the guise of Thor, snuggled with me in dreamland: https://nananoyz5forme.com/2016/10/30/a-thor-in-my-side/


Since then, I’ve danced with James Franco at an Italian wedding. He approached me as I stood off to one side, gallantly bowing and asking me if I’d care to dance, and then twirled me about the marble dance floor as I giggled helplessly. 


The next night Michelle Obama appeared during a dream visit to the Lincoln Memorial and gave me a hug that filled me with happiness and peace. She wiped away my tears and told me we’d all be fine as Abraham Lincoln looked on.


Last night, Brad Pitt flirted with me at Central Perk while Jennifer Aniston served us coffee. We sat on a couch holding hands, discussing everything except Angelina and Donald Trump. I think we are going to build homes together in New Orleans one day soon.


I’m pretty proud of my subconscious during these days of angst. I should send it to a spa as a thank you. I might even tag along.

Peace, and sweet dreams, people.

A Thor in My Side

I’ve developed a new pattern of sleeping. Studly Doright and I get into bed around 8:30 (don’t judge; we’re old) and he watches tv while I read for a few minutes. We kiss good night, I say my prayers, and then bam, I’m sound asleep. 

Around 2 a.m. I wake up with some weird worry on my mind: Did one of the cats just puke beside my side of the bed? Am I going to put my foot in puke if I get up to use the restroom? Do I even need to use the restroom? What if there’s a snake in the toilet? Seriously, these are my 2 a.m. concerns.

The great thing is that once I determine if I need to use the restroom, and the answer is always a resounding “YES!” I return to bed and fall immediately back to sleep where lately I’ve had the most vivid dreams. 

Last night Thor, (played by Chris Hemsworth) was trying to seduce me. He kept showing up in my house, in my shower, and against my feeble protests, in my bed. I tried to tell him I was a married woman and old enough to be his mum, but he promised he just wanted to snuggle. 

“Well, in that case,”I thought, “What’s the harm?”

And we were snuggling so sweetly, so innocently, until we heard Studly Doright open the front door. In one smooth move, Thor rolled off the bed and underneath it before my husband reached the master bedroom door. The sound of Thor rolling off the bed awakened me, and I patted Studly on the arm.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

“Huh? What?” he mumbled.

“Oh, nothing,” I giggled. “I just thought I heard thunder.” 

After Studly left to play golf early this morning I couldn’t resist the urge to peek under the bed. No Thor. I did find a bedroom slipper I thought I’d left in Clearwater Beach, though.


Peace, and sweet dreams, people.

Written in Meat Loaf

I’ve gradually been reducing my dosage of the anti-depressant, Effexor over the past year and just last week stopped taking it altogether. There have been a few shaky, brain shivery moments, and a couple of emotional outbursts, but knock on wood, I’m finally done with this mind controlling drug.

Vivid and unusually scripted dreams have accompanied every step down in dosage. Several nights ago I dreamt that I was in my hometown of Floydada, Texas, for a reunion of sorts. There were a good many people present with whom I’d attended school, as well as several family members. All of whom are now deceased. 

Maybe that should have creeped me out, but I found their collective presence comforting. They all appeared to be having a good time.

At some point a former physical education teacher approached me, and we visited for some time. I hadn’t particularly cared for her, nor did she like me much back in my junior high school days. Our dream conversation was convivial, though, until she took umbrage at something I said and assigned me the task of writing an essay. 

“No problem,” I smirked, “I write essays in my sleep.”

So I composed a quick essay on the prescribed topic of the Joys of Exercise and submitted it to her. She refused to accept it, saying she’d clearly demanded it be written in meat loaf, and that I wasn’t free to return home until I’d accomplished that feat.

Painstakingly I etched the attention-getting introduction and overarching thesis statement into an unbaked meatloaf, followed by three supporting paragraphs, and a resoundingly strong conclusion. Then the meatloaf was cooked to perfection.

My words disappeared in the cooking process, but Ms. P. E. Teacher was satisfied and I was allowed to leave.

Now, my amateur dream interpretation skills have led me to conclude that my subconscious was dwelling on the temporary nature of all things. Or maybe I was just in Effexor withdrawal. You be the judge.

Peace, people, but wait, there’s more!

There’s meat loaf, and then there’s Meat Loaf.

http://youtu.be/rezC6AvMgvc