I'm going off the rails on a crazy train

I have been having the most bizarre, vivid dreams lately. Not nightmarish at all - just really...real. The one I had the night before last was so real that I actually dreamed that I had a dream, and in the dream I woke up and realized that it wasn't a dream at all. As you can imagine, when I really woke up from the actual dream, it took me a good two to three minutes to shake it off and realize that it was a dream.

Still with me? I was hoping the italics would help...?

The weirdest thing is not the usual dream oddities that make you embarrassed to even tell someone about the dream, such as how you were eating an ice cream sundae out of the toilet that was on your high school English teacher's back porch (which, by the way, looked more like the boat from Gilligan's Island). No, it was that there wasn't very much odd at all - it was believably real. And that's what made it so hard for me to shake the dream off and realize it wasn't real. (Again with the italics. I know. Not helping.)

Anyway, this was the dream.

Paul was an actor. And he had an on-screen kiss with this not-particularly-attractive girl with a hawk nose and long, brownish hair. This upset me. I didn't like it. But I was willing to let it go. Until...

I somehow found out he'd also slept with her. Like, in the biblical sense. Just a one-time thing, he said. He's all "oopsy" and casual about it.

I was hurt, humiliated, and rip-roaring mad. But he felt that I should just forgive him and let it go. I angrily told him to pack his things and get out of the house.

He smirked as if I was being ridiculous and calmly said: "I will," and proceeded to sit in my rocking chair. He covered himself with a bath towel, closed his eyes, and said, "I'm just going to take a nap first."

I, of course, wanted to kill him. I felt my hands were tied and it was very frustrating. It's not like I could push him physically out of the house! He was so obviously trying to piss me off!

In the meantime, each time I looked through this one window of the house, I could see the offending girl through a window in the house next door. She was on the second floor, making faces at me and snickering. It made me feel very belittled.

The first person I decided to tell, in my dream, was my friend, Sue. We were at a bar, on these high barstools with backs. We ordered margaritas (because that's what always helps release the hard truths), and I began to tell her what had happened. Suddenly, in the middle of what I was saying, before I could even get to the point, she falls backwards for no apparent reason, and she and the barstool end up on the floor. Instead of jumping up to help her and see what's wrong, I sat there seething because I hadn't been able to tell her what had happened, and dammit it's an important story to tell! Strangers rushed over to see if she was okay before I did. I felt a little guilty about that. But not so much, because I was really annoyed with her for FALLING in the middle of my fricking STORY.

This is the point where I dreamed that I woke up and hoped that it had all been a dream, but I realized it had actually been real. And I got this horrible feeling in my gut because I knew that I had to deal with this situation. Then, I really woke up. I sat up and tried to figure out if I was still dreaming about waking up or if I really woke up in all actuality. (See slanty words for clarification.)

I heard Paul coming upstairs to get ready for work, and I slowly start to realize that it didn't happen. It was a dream. Really. So, of course, I say to Paul in a groggy voice, "Wow, you were SUCH an asshole last night!" Paul, not particularly surprised to be greeted like this in the morning, was just like, "Hmm? Did you say something, hon?"

So anyway, usually I'm all befuddled by such dreams and I keep thinking, "But what does a snake in the refrigerator drinking Tabasco sauce mean?" This one, however, I was able to psychoanalyze immediately.

Paul as an actor: It's a bit of irony, because in all actuality he's the WORST candidate for an actor. Any time he's ever tried to pull one over on me, he has this permanent "doh!" look on his face and it totally gives him away. He really needs to give it up, and never play poker.

The girl with the brownish hair and the hawk nose: Clearly, it was a Giada DiLaurentiis look-alike. I don't find Giada to be particularly attractive, but Paul has made it clear that he thinks she's hot. (He never really told me this, but the drool trickling out of the corner of his mouth while he watches her making gnocchi has always made me wonder if it's about the dumplings or...the dumplings, if you know what I'm saying.)

My telling Paul to pack his bags and get out, and his smirky, casual attitude about it: Any time we've ever gone to bed mad, I absolutely cannot get the man to go sleep somewhere else. He insists that "it's my bed, too, and if you don't want to sleep with me, you go sleep somewhere else." (Which is the husband version of "I know you are but what am I.")

His saying "I will" and then sitting in my favorite chair to take a nap: He always says "I will" whenever I ask him to do something, but he refuses to do it right away, as if to say you're not going to tell me what to do, sister. And usually he's doing something I'd rather be doing myself, like lounging on the couch watching t.v. or using the computer, while I'm sweating over a hot stove: thus, the favorite chair metaphor. Are you following?

Covering himself with a bath towel: Okay, I'm still pondering this one. But I'm sure it's just another symbol of some other annoying thing that Paul does.

Seeing the girl in question through a window in my house: We have a window that has needed a shade for, oh, about eight years now because it provides a direct view into my house for anyone who happens to be on the second floor of my neighbor's house. Thankfully there isn't much nudity and debauchery going on in my kitchen (most days).

Sue, falling off her barstool in the middle of what I was trying to tell her: This is so obvious. Being a stay-at-home mom, I don't run into many opportunities for real, adult conversation during the day. So, when Paul comes home, or on the rare occasion that a friend comes over my house to visit, I am DYING to talk to someone about SOMETHING. And it drives me INSANE the way my kids interrupt every. single. thing. I. say. before I can finish a frigging SENTENCE. It's like mental torture to be CONSTANTLY interrupted by little people asking asinine questions and to have to keep trying to remember where the hell I was in my thought process and go back to the beginning of stories over and over until you know what? NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR THE STORY ANYMORE EVEN THOUGH I'M STILL ITCHING TO TELL IT!!! I have been known to say, as the person I'm speaking to is jumping up yet again to see what the kids are up to, "Listen, if there's no blood involved, let's ignore them and PLEASE JUST LET ME FINISH SAYING THIS ONE THING!!!"

Not that that's a big "issue" of mine or anything.

So! That's the official psychoanalysis of my dream. Don't get me wrong, Paul is a great guy regardless of the fact that my dream makes him out to be a jerk. And, truthfully, he's more than welcome to have himself a little fling, as long as it involves skinnydipping in the Amazon. Because any guy who cheats totally deserves a penis fish.

(If you're completely confused right now, you are obviously not a Grey's Anatomy fan, and, sadly, I have nothing better to offer you as a conclusion to this post. Move along now. Scoot, scoot.)