Living with Mom, Dad (and Greg)

I don't know how, but this was the configuration: I was living at home, here on Stonehedge, with my mom and Greg. Dear old Dad was somehow living there too. Or at least he was posted up in my downstairs room and sitting at my desk, making himself quite at home. 

I told him that if he was going to be using my desk, that under no circumstances was he to go rifling through my desk. Specifically, he should not be tempted to go through my files, which contained my ancient scribblings and writings from my twenties. 

And in warning him, I opened up the drawer and pointed to the exact, specific folder that I wished for him to avoid, even teasing out a page or two in the process, to make it more alluring. I knew this would make it impossible for him to resist, but he agreed that they were off limits as I slammed the drawer shut. 

Next, I was in the kitchen with Mom and Greg. I was late for work and was vacillating between calling in sick or just arriving 4 to 6 hours late. My mom made a somewhat demanding remark to address the situation, which I resented intensely. 

"If you are going to go out, it is imperative that you pick up some things from the store," she demanded of my somewhat sullen, already put upon psyche. 

I went back downstairs to make the phone call to see about avoiding work altogether. It was already 2 pm. By the time I'd finished arguing with both sets of parents it was 2:30. Now I just had to find a phone with legible buttons on it to make the call.

For some reason I couldn't remember the number right away and I got some other business with my first attempt. When I looked at the phone, I couldn't make out the numbers, as all of the writing on the keypad was worn off through years of use. I couldn't even estimate the numbers because the pad contained a few extra digits and wasn't a standard 10 key configuration.

 I never did wind up making the call, and this comprised the bulk of the time I spent in the dream. I calculated the effect of just not showing up vs. showing up late without calling vs. what the hell would I tell them when or if I did ever make the call. Certainly, I would lie and just say that I was sick. 

The next thing I remember, I was back at my old house in Paradise. Nancy Leon was there attempting to make some kind of cake using cardboard cutouts that she had left lying around on the coffee table. I was rooting around looking at them, and she admonished me to not mess them up. 

I went out back to the little jam room that I had set up many years ago. I was going to show my nephew Morgan the room where I'd done so much creatively during those years. It was in complete disarray: dark, empty of anything of value, the floor wet with pools of blood, cat urine and vomit. I still tried to complete the tour, but avoiding the mess on the floor was a bit off putting to say the least. 

I spent the last part of the dream trying to enunciate the phrase "Trappist Monk," for no apparent reason. It was like a mantra that I was to wake up with as my keyword for remembering the dream, though there was no apparent connection to anything that happened. Be'duh buh dee, be'duh buh dee, that's all folks.