I was tagged to write a Six Weird Things post on my own blog and my first one was this:

I frequently dream that I look different than I actually do. Last night I dreamed I was a very short, very overweight woman who wore white pants and sandals and painted her toenails. I was living in Africa with my new husband and his many children, who were in high school and older. It was somewhat stressful.

After I posted that, I wondered if maybe that wasn’t at all weird. Maybe everybody dreams that way. I have been conditioned to think that I know how other people dream based on reading. But my dreams are nothing like the dreams in books and movies. If I think very much about my dreams I realize pretty quickly that they’re sort of a mishmosh. I’m in an elevator with a bunch of people from the college where I teach and when the elevator door opens we’re in my garage and I sort of forget about those people because Bob is in the attic. When I wake up, if I remember a dream its because there was something striking about it, like the Africa dream which was full of strange and striking images. At one point the doorbell rings and its a young African black man and I am not sure why he is there and he is acting very oddly and comes into my house before I can stop him. He is looking for the medical clinic downstairs of which I am unaware. But later it turns out his name is Rollo and he is a friend of one of the stepsons (who looks rather like a guy I sometimes work with. My kid, Adam is not in this dream at all, and neither is my husband.) And later I am running with lions in the grass in the darkness, gliding along bodiless, while Africa shimmers green around me. (I believe I dream in color if only because I used to have a recurring nightmare when I was a child that was in black and white, and that was something that struck me as singular about the dream–but maybe I dream in black and white and supply the color later.)

When I remember the dreams, I find in the first waking moments I construct them. I impose narrative on them. And then later I remember them as much more cohesive than they are. It’s very difficult to remember what I had in my head when I woke up. Mostly the dream dissipates like fog.

So I figured I’d ask. Does anyone else dream that they look different than they actually do? Not younger, but completely different?

Help Desk

Last night, while getting Younger Girl to go to bed (a process wherein I play the criminal and she plays Inspector Columbo–”Oh, geez, y’know? Just one more question…”) she asked where Valentine’s pelf came from. I said something clever and maternal like, Huh? She clarified: if Santa Claus brings Christmas presents and the Easter Bunny brings eggs and chocolate, who brings stuff on Valentine’s Day? I considered: while we do wreath our giving around with mystery at Christmas and Easter, Valentine’s Day is all about from-me-to-you and declaring your feelings. I started to say something about this and the kid glowered. “Work with me here, Mom. I’m asking for some creativity.” (The mouth on this kid, honestly!)

So: Valentine’s Day presents and chocolates are brought by Cupid, the son of the goddess Aphrodite, and a snappy fellow in his own right. He drank too much coffee and smoked too many cigars at a young age, and his growth was stunted, leading to his perpetual appearance as a chubby naked boy. In order to revenge himself on the world, he spends February 14 bringing too much chocolate to the world, in hopes to make the world as chubby as he is. He carries a bow and arrow with which to puncture the pretentions of the pompous, but he rarely uses them. He used to go out with Psyche, but once she got her MSW degree from Hunter College and went into private practice, he found they had grown apart and broke the relationship off. He lives with his mother and collects Action Figures.

The kid seemed to find this satisfactory and permitted me to turn off the light. Then (apparently going in her mind from Valentine’s Day to Easter, and from Easter to eggs) she asked “where do eggs come from? I mean…do chickens have sex?” I left her trying to imagine the mechanics and (I think) failing. Maybe next year.