Earlier today I was Blog flipping….. this is when I am tired fom just waking up and start reading all the blogs I have bookmarked one by one. Yesterday I passed by Vaguely Urban’s site (she is on vacation, but posts little ‘keep you paying attention’ posts while she’s on the road) and I came across her post on dreams. She describes the dreams she has most often and invites her readers to post the same. While I did not post there, I will of course post it here.
See, my dreams are usually quite odd. There is no standing at the front of the class in my underwear, nor is there any dreams of being chased by dogs. My dreams are scarily mouth related. I do have the dream where, for whatever reason, all my teeth fall out … one right after the other (as often described by others, “like chiclets”) so that when I wake from this dream I immediately run to the bathroom and brush my teeth…. no lie. But that dream is nothing, its not the worst dream I ever have.
The worst dream I ever have invloves styrofoam.
I can never remember how it starts but I always know how it will go. Regardless of the dream setup, this dream finds me feeling sick……. or if not sick at least a little off. I feel something weird in my mouth and spit it out to discover that I’m somehow regurgitating styrofoam pellets…..
You know the cheap ass filling for equally cheap ass carnival toys, except since I’m throwing it up its all wet and feeling all moisty pellety in my mouth. So I spit it out, and then my mouth fills again and again… sometimes I choke, but usually I spit. Now before you go thinking this is some weird Freudian dream of epicly sexual porportions (I know you are going there, because that would be the first place I would go to), this dream only comes about when I am really stressed…. and I totally doubt that my subconcious is suggesting I act like a porn star to relieve anxiety.
By far though, the dreams I have while pregnant are the most entertaining in their retelling. Like the dream where Mr Stephieface was wearing a Drunken Master wig and a fishing hat while ….. well…. I can’t say that I should post what he was doing, save to say that it invloves him spinning parts of my anatomy like they were double dutch jumping ropes with a very concentrating look on his face.
In other news, I gave two of the monkeys haircuts yesterday. The Mister said to buzz em bald, and while I could not actually buzz them bald I did buzz them enough to look like…. as my friend Bob who stopped by last night so frankly put it….’hey there little cancer patient.’ After I shaved the Monkeys (hehehehe I have always wanted to use that phrase… odd…. I know) I became possesed. Something took me over and I did something quite dumb. I’m not overly incensed with feeling dumbness, but I do feel the odd twinge of regret… but only a twinge.
I cut my own hair.
Oh god! I know! No, I don’t hate myself… really. My hair had just gotten too long. Past my bra strap is usually my indicator of too longess, partly because I wear grandma bras and if hair goes past the bottom seam of a grandma bra… that’s long. But in honesty I couldn’t do anything with it. I couldn’t wear it down because it would get caught under my purse strap, fall into dish water/mop water/or *shudder* diapers, it took alot of conditioner to condition it and even more shampoo to shampoo it, and after a point there is only so many ways you can wear it up which I was doing all the time. I once had a hairdresser tell me that for my hair to get better in condition I would have to wear it down every once in a while, but I really couldn’t. So, I pulled my hair back into a ponytail (a very low ponytail mind you) and cut off about 10 inches- give or take. The back of my hair falls between my shoulders, which if far more managable. The front is longer than the back and I am totally fine with that… in fact I prefer it. Its nice that I can finally brush my hair without having to know yoga positions or have a past vocation in carnival contortionism.
Sam the Middle Monkey saw the ponytail of cut off hair in the trash and screamed. “Mommy, mommy your hair is in the garbage!” (yes my three year old says grabage and not trash). What is entertaining is that the Mister still hasn’t noticed.
If I can get the computer and the camera to talk (they are having a lovers’ spat) I’ll post a pic.