Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks
Monday, November 24, 2003 Wake Me When It’s Over
I tend to have whacked-out dreams when I sleep in unfamiliar surroundings. Take last night, for example.
Trash and I had recently moved back into the apartment complex in downtown Minneapolis where we used to live. She was getting on the bus to go to work, as she frequently did at that time, and I had walked her across the street to the bus stop, as I frequently did at that time.
As the bus pulled up, I realized I didn’t have the keys to get back into the apartment. Or even into the building. No pockets, you see, what with me being in my underwear and all.
I asked Trash for the keys. She didn’t have them. There was no time to verbally express me displeasure with her at this development, as she was already boarding. All I could do was flip her a highly energetic and heartfelt bird.
(In light of her reaction when I recounted that part of the dream to her earlier, I should give serious thought to doing that more often.)
So there I was on the sidewalk next to Hennepin Avenue in my BVDs. I would have been even more pissed off if I hadn’t also been holding a large pillow. That was the only thing that allowed me to keep my dignity intact.
Now I had to figure out how to get back into our apartment, a predicament compounded by the fact that I couldn’t remember our apartment number, or which floor we were on, or even which of the complex’s seven buildings on three city blocks we lived in. We’d just moved back, after all. Maybe I could check at the management office; they might even give me a spare key. They wouldn’t consider me suspicious at all. They’d be sure to help me out. Who’d be walking in there wearing nothing but an undergarment and a pillow who didn’t live there, anyway?
That still left the question of how to get into the building. Otherwise I was going to have to go to work like this. Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long before some guy came out. I dashed over to catch the door, but he studiously avoided eye contact and deliberately closed the door behind him. This is the problem with living in an apartment building: you can’t pick your neighbors. You could end up living next to someone really cool, or you could end up living next to some tight-ass who won’t even hold the security door open for a total stranger in his underwear.
But I was in luck, because the lock hadn’t engaged. In seconds, I was in the hallway, contemplating my next move. Which, as it turned out, was to wake up. In my bed, in the house where I’ve lived for over ten years, in the bedroom I’ve slept in for ten years’ worth of nights. Which was only unfamiliar by virtue of having become three quite lovely and complimentary shades of green over the weekend, as opposed to the oatmeal-and-whiz hue it had been since we moved in.
Props to Trash’s brother and his wife for coming all the way from Iowa to make that happen, by the way. Just the last part, I mean. They didn’t have anything to do with the rest of that stuff.
Today’s best search phrase: “How do paper towels exurb water.” Hope that makes up for a weak entry. As interesting as dreams may be for the dreamer, the person to whom they’re being recounted rarely finds them all that exurbing.
posted by M. Giant 4:00 PM 0 comments