I’m going to post a description of a dream/nightmare that overtook me on the evening of Tuesday, May 30th. I don’t think I shall drink a Miller Light before bed ever again. This is, verbatim, from my personal journal where I record dreams and also, mean stuff about people that piss me off that I can’t post in public. Enjoy!

DREAM – Awoke May 31st, 8:42 am, Feeling Scared and Also Bewildered

I just woke up from a dream set during the Revolutionary War. The first part of the dream involved me singing a song to the troops 1940′s style. It was a musical theatre power ballad about betrayal and heartache and the soldiers were REALLY into it. The dream then took a dramatic turn when the troops invaded. (And by troops, I mean men with ponytails donning purple soldier uniforms.) I sought shelter on a pier where my good friend, Phil Badazewski from Buffalo had a gun and was “The Bad Guy”.

“PHIL!”, I screamed, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” as Phil pointed the gun at my torso.

In heavily Buffalo-accented English, Phil calmly replied, “Killing all you guys!” He then proceeded to SHOOT ME IN THE STOMACH. I clutched myself in agony and looked down at the damage only to find no blood, but pregnancy-induced stretchmarks.

Cut to me being in a tower, seeking refuge. And by tower? I mean a New York City apartment with a great view of the Empire State Building. I was resplendent in a 1700′s ballroom gown. My father was also there, as George Washington and together we watched as the troops rode horses on the Hudson River and killed each other. My father, glorious in powdered wig and riding boots turned to me and in heavily accented Brooklynese said only, “Oh my GAWD! This is gonna totally affect my gas prices!”

Suddenly, my little brother Jem, as Ben Franklin, appeared in the apartment, warning all of us that the soldiers on horses were entering the tower (how?) and we all had to get out. In my dream at this point, I distinctly remember thinking, “Oh, good! An escape scene! This dream has GOT to end soon!” No.Lie.

Naturally, I was right.

The dream culminated as a claustrophobic’s dream should–the elevators were all busy, so we took the stairs. However, there was quite a bit of time that lapsed between my brother/Ben Franklin’s warning that the British were coming and me running down the castle stairs toward freedom. In true Laura fashion, I could not vacate the apartment right away because I could not find my shoes. And not just any shoes. Nope. Shoes from summers gone by, the hot pink plastic sandals that adorned my feet in all their squishy glory. Yes. I’m talking about my jellies.

And the dream really was entirely appropriate to how I would react in such a (Revolutionary?) crisis. I’d take the stairs but not as fast as I should because I’ve misplaced my favorite shoewear from 1989. And really, that was indeed the BEST part of the dream: Everyone rushing out the door and me, screaming at my inventor brother in a hurried rage, “But the JELLIES, Ben, where the HELL did I leave my JELLIES?!”

Peace.