Skip to main content

psycho dreamland

I have the weirdest dreams. Usually the really weird ones come when I'm pregnant and HOLY COW are they weird. I mean, I know my brain doesn't always follow a logical path during waking hours. But during sleep it's like a psychotic free for all.

So I have to hurry and write about last night's dream before I forget it. Because you know how if you wait too long to talk about it you totally forget other than it was completely weird, but no one believes you because you describe it like, "Uuuhhhhhh, I don't remember...but I swear it was weird." And then whoever you're telling usually rolls their eyes (usually the eye roller is a husband.)

In my dream I was dating Kid Rock. Ok, not the actual KID ROCK, but a guy who was very kid rock-ish. And here is a picture of Kid Rock for those of you who have no idea who he is and because you really need a visual on this one.

And I'm using Kid Rock's mugshot for a reason - in my dream I met this wonderful boyfriend of mine as we were both being released FROM PRISON.

Yeah. Prison.

At one point of the dream he was saying how he wasn't good enough for me. So I lovingly held his hands and said, "Remember, I was there too." Like, "See how we're so perfect for each other?" Although nowhere in my dream did I find out why I was in prison, or why I was dating a Kid Rock look alike.

In fact, I think the whole dream took place in a mangy trailer kitchen (where else?!) And it ended as we were trying to figure out how to put my 4 kids and his 2 kids in that mangy little trailer so that we could have that perfect "just got released from prison" life.

You know how some people - like psychiatrists- say that all dreams mean things? Yeah, I don't know...

What was I supposed to learn from this? To watch out or someday I'll be in prison? To be happy that my husband is SO NOT kid rock-ish? Or maybe to be grateful for my house because at least it's not a grubby trailer that I have to share with my ex-inmate boyfriend and all of our kids?

I don't know.

Maybe the dream was telling me that if I could just get a full night's sleep uninterrupted then perhaps my brain would take a break from craziness and actually function logically.

Comments

Elisa said…
trailer trash dreams are my fav! My only question is this: did he sing to you? And, what did he sing?
Janiece said…
I just dropped in from the "Motherboard" and Oh my gosh girl I got such a chuck from your dream...
glad you wrote it down before you forgot it..it is a real Keeper!
Janiece said…
I went to order one of your rubber stamps and it said the link wasn't working.
Just thought I would let you know.
joolee said…
My name's not Joseph, but I DO pride myself on my dream interpreting prowess, though this may prove to be a bit more difficult....seeing as how I've never met you and I haven't read anything else on your blog (yet).

Kid rock represents a certain bad boy quality that your husband is lacking (you DO have a husband, Right?) Perhaps it is facial hair. Or the unmatched confidence of a rock star. Or an extremely high level of testosterone that manifests itself in bar brawls and bedrooms.

The prison represents something that has been weighing you down. Perhaps it is debt. Or a big decision you face. Or a conflict of some sort. Or stress over a misplaced jumbo-sized bag of M&Ms (I DID just see the title of the next post).

But you are getting out of "prison", which either means you will be coming into a large sum of money, or you will find those M&Ms tucked behind the tupperware.

Uuuugh, this is taking up to much time and space. Maybe I should read more of your blog to gain some much needed insight. PS. I think the part about trying to fit all your kids into a small trailer might mean that you are about to get pregnant again. And hey, I am a mom to 4....4 in 5 years as well. And I am totally INSANE too! Let's be friends!
Jami said…
OK, here's an alternate interpretation. You ate too close to bedtime. Potatoes, right? Kidding. I have no idea what your dream means. Except it's funny.

I never thought to blog my psycho dreams. Nah. What if my blog gets passed on to some authority in my life? That would be bad.

Nice to meet you.

Popular posts from this blog

I am an artist.

I really am. But not one of those deeply moving, "what do you mean you don't understand my painting, it's BLUE" kind of artists.  I'm more like one of those "oh hey, a pen and a napkin, doodle doodle doodle" kind of artists.  Because I do it for fun.  And yeah, for money.  But still.  Fun....most of the time. But I feel like branching into new mediums.  Do you know how long it's been since I painted?  Like with something other than finger paints or the kids' water colors where all the colors are mixed so they just come out brown anyway? It's been awhile.  I've been itching to paint for months. I've also wanted to let Monkey loose on a canvas for awhile.  He's not like my other kids (who all carry mine and Husband's arty genes) who like to draw endless pictures of unicorns, princesses, transformers or dinosaurs.  Monkey likes to feel his art.  He'll probably end up being one of those deeply moving types.  And I'

I won't be offended if you answer NO to the question at the end of this post

So this post will probably lose me a lot of respect and friends and possibly even a few phone calls to the Health and Welfare department. But I just feel like posting it, it's kind of like saying it outloud, but without having to watch someone's face react to the horror. And today, I really feel the need to say it outloud. So if you read this and don't feel like being friends anymore, I get it. With everyone's kids going back to school (and our school district being the last to start in the entire world, so I'm still sitting here dealing with summer child overload) I keep reading the posts about how mothers are sad to see their kids go, and how much they're going to miss them, and how much they absolutely love motherhood. Want me to tell you what I think about motherhood? I hate it. There are times when I hate it more than any other thing on the planet. And there goes most of my friends. But I'm sorry. I do. I hate being a mother. I don't hate my c

I'm not fat, my scale just hates me.

That's what it is. It's probably an evil scale anyway.  Always lying to me.  Telling me I'm fat. The worst part about it is that the scale has also convinced all the mirrors in my house to play along.  And I know it got my pant size on board ages ago.  It's also managed to get the camera to cooperate, even though I treat that camera like one of my dear precious children.  And this evil, hateful scale has attached a big mound of blubber right on my midsection. Well guess what scale - I hate you too. ***************************************************** I think showers are a waste of time. You get in just to get all wet, emerge dripping, get a nice clean towel wet, redress yourself, figure out something to do with your crazy 'just got wet and now it's going to dry ultra fuzzy, don't even think about using a blowdryer' hair, and put on all the makeup that you just washed off even though your mascara could probably have passed for a whole extra d