Sick of Dreaming

I’m talking about dreams today, and not the kind that when achieved give you a massive ego, and the next thing you know you’re invading other countries in the name of ‘peace’ rather than fixing your own. No, I mean the other kind of dreams - the sleep kind. I wish that every night as I slept it could be a quiet, still darkness until I awoke because having dreams nearly every night is exhausting. If you go to sleep and your mind and all of your senses go to sleep with you, all I can say is you are one lucky bastard.

My dreams are so realistic I’ll think it’s real life until something so weird and over the top happens that I’ll realize it’s just a dream and either get pissed off or be relieved. How I feel about it depends on whether it was a good dream or a bad one. But lately I’m always pissed off when I wake up. I’m pissed off because I had a nightmare. I’m pissed off because I had a good dream then had to wake up. I’m pissed off because I had a good dream that morphed into a nightmare. I’m just pissed off that I keep dreaming, period.

Last night I dreamt that I started meeting up with a realtor because it seemed like as good a time as any to buy a home. The realtor and I became friends during our visits while I was house shopping. She apparently grew tired of me shooting down every suggestion with, “Can’t afford it.” So she somehow talked an old rich couple into lowering the price on a home she thought was perfect for me and the kids. When I went to check it out I was a bit skeptical because it was an old home and we all know what happened in the movie The Money Pit. But the place had wood floors so it started out on the right foot, as I’m allergic to dust mites. There were four huge bedrooms on the main floor. The bedrooms and dining room all had old faux wood paneling which made those rooms dark. The living room was a cheery room with white walls and lots of windows letting the sun in, but it was smaller than the other rooms. The kitchen was pretty basic, nothing special about it. After scoping out the main floor I climbed an old, wooden twisting staircase that creaked on every step and made me uneasy but it led to a gigantic room that had a wood floor and a huge almost wall-to-wall window that was 6 ft. high and overlooked the backyard. There was a long short seat built into the floor in front of the window so the kids and I could sit there and watch the stars at night. That was pretty cool and I was sold at that point. Then we went down to the basement. It was newly remodeled and quite the opposite of your average basement. It was all very bright - white from the floor up to the ceiling, with tons of white cupboards with violet trim and teal knobs. There was a kitchen, bathroom and a door leading outside so it was a place of its own.

The strangest thing is most of my dreams, overall, take place in houses and each house is different from the next. But this is the first time I dreamt of buying one. What could this mean? Well, it obviously means I need to get out more. And maybe I should be designing homes for a living. I know it doesn't mean I'm ready to buy a home. How absurd!

Well, back to the dream. After deciding I wanted the house my ex-husband Slick came over to see the kids and we got back together. That was the moment I realized I was just dreaming. WTF?! Now that I knew this wasn’t real life things got chaotically crazy. We got a man-maid (what the hell is that?) and a female nanny to take care of the kids, then Slick and I went on a road trip. When we drove through the Res Slick picked up a drunk Native American who just happened to be hitch-hiking. Then as we continued down the highway we kept seeing explosions as bombs were being dropped all over the mountains. Big, bad firey explosions. Great balls of fire! We could feel the ground shake every time a bomb dropped, and I swear I’m not a Vet. That shit finally scared me awake. And this was one of my milder dreams.

I guess this also means I need to take a road trip. And maybe, that they all should fear bombs on the Reservation.

Do your dreams wear you out? Ever?

My First Love

When I look back and think about my first love I have some fond memories, but there is just no way we could ever rekindle what we used to share. And my tastes have changed since those younger days of yesteryear.


When our courtship began I was just a smidgen of who I am now. I felt like anything was possible. I was always ready to try new things. So when we came together on that special day I’ll never forget, I remember feeling uneasy about it at first, but once I swallowed I knew we had something special. I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth, but it wasn’t anything mouthwash or breath mints couldn’t handle. Whenever we were together I felt warm and absolutely giddy. I was all a-tingle and on cloud nine! And we continued to meet up every Sunday and major holiday for three glorious years, until Mom and Dad learned of our goings-on and broke up our happy affair.


It was difficult at first, to leave behind those warm and fuzzy feelings, but in time I soon realized my parents were just doing what they thought was best for me. After a short period of pain and withdrawals I was ready to move on.


And now, just in case you're curious, I'll reveal my first love.

Jesus juice!

My first real love, we are still friends, but how do you tell someone it was never meant to be without hurting their feelings? Living in another state helps. A lot.

One day when I was 10 I asked my mom if I could have some of her liquor and she freaked out. I just wanted to expand my horizons and try something new. I asked her why it was such a big deal since I had been sipping wine at church. Well, that’s when we stopped going. And to this day my mom says she thought it was grape juice the priest was serving. WTF?

When I became an adult I could no longer drink wine without getting a serious headache, so I don’t touch the stuff. Beer and liquor - no problem, but for some reason wine makes my head feel like I banged it against a brick wall for an hour. Gee, when I was 15 I could drink a bottle of Mad Dog then make out on a lakeshore and still remember it vividly. Good times.

A Myspace Intervention

I first posted this here on 2/18/08.


This is what happens when you write a short story and forget to close it up, then while you’re at work along comes a wise cracking 16-yr-old who has the day off from school and decides to add his own ending to your story. In other words, this turned into a co-blog with my son Jake.



This story is entirely fictional, and has no moral.



The day had been going well, and now home, it was just like any other Friday afternoon for Judy Bumpinsteck. She was finished with her work and now relaxing in her overpriced chair at her desk, perusing blogs on the somewhat popular website known as Myspace. Reading blogs and even occasionally blogging herself was a hobby she enjoyed in her spare time. Her three children had their own activities as well, and they were quite happy to be left alone to play their games and not be annoyed with a nagging mother barking orders at them. But on this day, their mother would make a terrible mistake.

Everything would have been just fine and dandy for Ms. Bumpinsteck had she ignored the fact that her children were running through the house chasing each other and screaming, but it had gotten on the woman’s last nerve. She soon stood up and yelled, “For the love of gahd, you had better walk kids, don’t you run through this house! And hush up you ragamuffins! Can’t you see I’m trying to read blogs here?”

The house fell silent and she promptly returned to her computer screen. The children huddled together in another room while she was busy giggling at LUL Dawgs.










Ms. Bumpinsteck didn’t think anything of the quiet, other than it was pure bliss. But that peace was soon interrupted when she felt the blow of a 2x4 at the back of her head. The attacker was her 10-yr-old son, and he didn’t have the strength to knock her out cold but the kid sure gave it a good try. She jumped up from her chair. “What the hell are you doing?” she screeched.

The boy’s twin sister started screaming at her mother. “We hate you! You love Myspace more than you love us!”

The eldest, her 13-yr-old daughter, piped in. “She’s right! How can you even call yourself a mother? You’re an addict and Myspace is your crack. When you’re not working you should be lying on the couch watching TV, just like Dad does.”

After speaking her piece she picked up the 2x4 and gave her mother a good hard whack to the forehead, knocking her back into her chair. She then held her down as the twins quickly and tightly wound the rope, securing her as she struggled. Then the eldest child pulled off one of her ankle socks, stuffed it into her mother’s mouth, and finished up the gagging process with some duct tape. The three children wheeled her into a closet and told her she needed a “time out” until she was ready to admit she was a hard core addict and promised to go to rehab. Ms. Bumpinsteck wished she could tell them that such a place for Myspace addicts simply didn’t exist, SO, if she was in love with Myspace it was just tough shitcakes. But all she could do was try like hell not to vomit from the taste of her own sweaty sock, and save her energy.

She was rescued a few hours later when her lazy kids couldn’t figure out how to make themselves dinner. As soon as she was freed she took off her belt and let her children know they were going to get punished, just like Dad does.


Good story Mom, but I think you know that it would turn out a little differently in real life. This is my revised version of what really would of happened (and there’s a moral).


Ms. Bumpinsteck was left in the dark and lonely closet for about 2 minutes. The only reason she was let out, however, was because she couldn’t stop crying and screaming at the realization that her Myspace addiction was true. As soon as her kids opened the door to see what was going on, Ms. Bumpinsteck broke out in apology begging forgiveness for the terrible act she had committed. All would have been well from here, had Ms. Bumpinsteck’s apology been heartfelt. An hour had not passed before Ms. Bumpinsteck raced to the computer to blog about how she wasn’t addicted any longer! But then she had to blog about how much her children must have loved her to cure her addiction so quickly. And then she just couldn’t deny all of her best “friends” how much better she felt because she was addicted no longer. Eventually, her children came upon her furiously blogging about how she didn’t need to blog. At this point, her children decided that there was only one way to get real results…

Ms. Bumpinsteck’s funeral was modest, as most of the arrangements had been made by her ex-husband. Normally the task would have fell on the children, but all three were being held in a juvenile detention center until they each turned 18, when they would be shipped off to a prison to serve the rest of their sentence. If Ms. Bumpinsteck had wanted to die, she would have been delighted to hear how it happened, even if it was too fast for her to comprehend. Ms. Bumpinsteck was killed when all three of her children ran at full speed from behind her, leading with a frying pan, to finish her off with her own addiction. The plan was for the frying pan to hit the back of Ms. Bumpinsteck’s neck/head with the combined force of all three children. The resulting smash would send her head forward into the computer screen, sending bits of broken glass and plastic everywhere. This is exactly how it happened, although gorier. Blood spatters covered the entire computer room. Bits of brain matter clung to the frying pan and the remnants of the computer screen. There was also a smell of burnt hair in the air, as when Ms. Bumpinsteck’s head thrust through the computer screen, it immediately began to smoke and smolder, do to the electric currencies flowing through this addictive box. If only Alicia Bumpinsteck had listened to her children’s cries and pleas for a life where Alicia didn’t blog so much.

The End
Well, there ya go. The moral of the story is, “Children are more observant than adults, so any observation made by a child is most likely true. And all 3 of your kids can beat the crap out of you if they think you need it (which you do).” What do you think? And it added a whole page
more to your blog. Glad I could be of assistance.

Why, thank you Jake. But you made a few mistakes.

A. This is a fictional piece about Judy Bumpinsteck, who was a figment of my imagination for a few minutes.

B. Alicia a.k.a. your mother spends less time blogging than you do playing video games and IMing.

C. The moral of this story is… “Kids, if you do the crime you will do the time.”