|After Bob let Debbie get trampled by that wild herd of geese, her head was doomed to point left, forever.|
Last night I had the most luscious dream. I won't go into the details, but, in short, it starred me sleeping through the night. Arms splayed, drool running down my pillow, it was the type of performance James Lipton will later ask me about, and I'll have to wave humbly at the actor's studio and say...
"Really, James, it's all about believing in what you're doing."
"But there was so much drool. How did you find that within yourself?"
"I mostly try to stay hydrated. But the eight years I spent living among various wells in the Mohave really gave that smooth, scalloped edge to my method acting."
Unfortunately, sleeping through the night is usually a dream around the old Split-level, hallmarked by a few hours of sleep sifted from the requests for water, formula, and begging desperately for a piece of blanket. Last night was different, only in the aspect it gave me false hope.
The baby slept through the night.
Sundance only woke up for water once.
I nestled in my bed, content in this new Nirvana where I'd been discarded from lack of necessity.
And then I was punched in the face.
My dream universe somewhat unreliable, I could only jump to the conclusion I'd been trapped in a war epic and was being mercilessly trampled by horses. Arms flailing, legs assuming the fetal position, it was all I could do to fight for my life. I was going to die here. In my bed. Murdered by Sea Biscuit.
"Ahhhhh! Someone help me."
Husband's voice echoed from the hall. "What's going on?"
With the last breath bequeathed to my human form, I croaked out, "I'm being trampled to death."
"Oh, sorry about that."
I punched at the creature I was now sure had to be some kind of wild stallion. "What do you mean you're sorry? Call Robert Redford and see if he can whisper this thing off of me."
"Flea, get down."
I recovered just in time to see the dog push off my face and fly through the air.
"Sorry, I knocked the baby gate over when I went to the bathroom. I think it spooked him."
Trembling, I burrowed back under the comforter. "You think? I could've been killed."
"It was horrible. Just because you have to pee, doesn't give license to have me trampled to death. That stipulation only applies if I lose the house in a game of cards. And I have no idea how to play any card games except Go Fish, so really, when you think about it, the moral of the story is to never get up to pee, ever again."
"You'll be fine."
"The dog's an ido-" But, I didn't have time to finish. I was already back inside the actor's studio, explaining how method acting doesn't work for being trampled by horses.
Oh, and let it be noted here, if Flea ever does that again, I'm holding a raffle out of pretense and shipping him to someone in the Mohave.
Until Next Time, Readers!