Quibbles and bits

 

I love it when I'm right about something. It's still good, even when tempered by the fact that it was something I was being stubbornly stupid about, rebelling against my own best intuition. I get to say, "See? I told you so!" or "I told me so" and feel the smug satisfaction of being in possession of The Truth. (I'll save the diatribe about absolutes for another time.) 

Last night, night 2 of no pot before bedtime proved my theory about cannabis suppressing dream activity to be correct. I "scienced" it by simply abstaining, and the result was conclusive: I dreamed. I'm still trying to piece together the fragments, but after a good 4 months of dreamless nights, they are back.

The first fragment involved a random sampling of characters, four of us to be exact, who were somehow involved in a motion picture production. I don't recall who they all were, but if I were to guess, I would say it was my mom, Denise, myself and an ex-YC Honda co-worker named Mike Cardenas, aka Carnitas aka "The Little Chocolate Teddy Bear." 

Although were all working for scale, there was a big deal being made about clocking in for each scene. I don't know how scale is supposed to work in real life, but here we were paid for each take, whether or not the footage was used. As usual, no one was clocking in, and after a lot of useless quibbling, it became clear that we were going to have just split the acting budget equally four ways. End dream one.

Dream two began with Crystal Mitchell and myself in bed. Crystal was the wife of Randy Mitchell, the drunken, barrel-chested macho man who used to run the YC Honda service department like his own personal business enterprise, offering cut rate repairs for off the books cash payments. He was an intimidating figure who, upon hearing that a fellow employee had complimented his wife, choked said employee, holding him against the wall a foot off the ground. 

Now, Crystal and I were just sleeping, mind you, no hanky-panky. But as we lay there lazily refusing to get up, a knock came at the door. 

"You'd better go see who it is," said Crystal.

I got up and peered out the front door. It was an Amazon delivery driver holding several packages.

"You Randy Mitchell?" He asked. "Sign here."

Not being Randy Mitchell, and not wanting to add forgery to my list of offenses against him, I deferred:

"No, but his wife Crystal Mitchell is here. Can she sign for it?"

As the words came out of my mouth, thoughts were racing around in my head. Why was Randy getting packages delivered here? What was his wife even doing here, and in my bed, no less? And mostly, what was Randy going to do to me when he found out? This signature business was going to be the death me. I went in the house to give Crystal the news.

The dream ended there, as my fear and pain avoidance response kicked in. I went on to have several other aborted dream attempts, but my conscious mind kept trying to get back into the drama that I'd left with Crystal in my bedroom. What, you thought I would rather get back to quibbling about wages on the movie set in dream #1? Please!