Lately, I’ve had a recurring nightmare where my living room turns into a vortex and I slip off my usual spot on the sofa flailing across my wood floors and grasping unto anything I can hold. At the last second, I grab George the Plant and my Christmas tree and we are sucked into a black hole. Game over. That’s when I wake up.
My subconscious is not at all subtle. I know exactly why this is happening.
My brother’s return from abroad with a new fiance and the ensuing family havoc are major contributing factors to the black hole dream. The calls and messages from my mother alone are enough to make me feel like withdrawing from society and starting a commune where cell phones are banned.
Her messages over the weekend are as follows:
His fiance is the devil!
She has black eyes!
Could you give me your brother’s cell phone number?
Where did I go wrong with this kid?
I think they stole my new Victoria’s Secret underwear!
Why are you keeping your brother’s cell phone from me?
I HAVE NO UNDERWEAR! NO ONE WILL GIVE ME HIS CELL NUMBER!
Don’t try to understand the underwear messages. It is impossible.
I once had a friend who said, “You can either cry about these things, or you can laugh about them.”
As I dig my heels in just before the edge drops into nothingness, I think I’ll do a little of both.