Can I take comp time for this one?

We are toiling in a great, churning factory of a workplace. We're making newspapers and I'm in the weeds, falling behind and getting into deadline trouble. There's a big tour group there, watching us work. My family is there too. They are all wondering how the heck we do what we do. I'm also supposed to be managing a group of workers. I stand to make an announcement and one of my team members is laughing and having a grand time without paying attention to me. She's disruptive and I say something snippy about how they need to listen up before I get pissed off. I instantly know it was an amateur thing to say and I can tell I've lost the crowd.

As I go back to work and talk about what I'm doing, I can tell that people are leaving. I've turned them off.

And older gentleman comes up to me and tells me he really admires what I do, but that he has one piece of advice. Don't yell at your staff in front of other people. My ego is feeling sore so I don't appreciate the advice but I know he is right.

I take off to try to find a more private place to work but this giant churning place is full of people and every nook and cranny is occupied. It feels like a train station. I can't find anywhere to go so I head back to my original workspace.


The worst bartender ever

I'm at a bar, but I think it's a bar and a deli. (Do those exist? Because that kinda sounds like a good idea.) My husband is around somewhere, but he's getting ready to leave on a trip for a while. Maybe we're at the airport?

I'm hovering around the bar waiting to order a drink. It's very bright in there, reminiscent of school cafeteria lighting more than bar lighting. The bar has a white counter and a light wood railing. A very cheap oak, maybe Formica even. I order a mixed drink and an inexperienced bartender starts to make it. I see her messing it up, but I don't say anything.

Either while I'm paying or right after I've paid, a short, fat man without much hair is standing in front of me behind the bar. He holds a napkin over his hands, and then holds them out over me, over my lap. I see a drop of blood fall onto my leg and panic, but when he points out he pricked his finger (and it wasn't my blood) I calm down a little. As I start to ask him why he did that, he holds the needle toward me and grazes my arm with it.

My skin doesn't break, but there's a scraping sensation and a line where it was scratched. Somehow, I find out the man has HIV. He's laughing at me. I am stunned and can't move for a minute. The panic rushes back in.

I race out of the bar to find my husband and tell him what happened. I look everywhere, and just when I am about to break down in tears I find him and he begins to reassure me everything will be OK. We'll get it taken care of. We'll figure it out.

Always a bridesmaid

A close friend or family member of mine (feels like a sister, maybe?) is getting married. I don't know who this close friend represents in real life; she doesn't resemble anyone I know. It's the day of the wedding and I'm some kind of bridesmaid, getting ready frantically and trying to help set up decorations.

We're running late and the wedding nearly starts while I am still hanging halfway out of my dress and trying to get my hair fixed up. I beg everyone to please slow down and delay the start so I can finish getting ready. The hectic feeling is overwhelming. Finally I'm done getting dressed (and I look like some kind of cracked-up hayseed with my insanely messy braided hairdo) and we can commence the marryin'. We head toward the altar, which is presumably down some sort of hall, but the landscape of where we are keeps morphing and changing and we never get to where we are trying to go.

It's now an hour after the wedding's scheduled start time and the bride and her party are getting increasingly frustrated and desperate because we don't know what's going on. We're carrying tons of balloons and ribbons with us and getting our fancy dresses all dirty and sweaty.

I get riled up and tell the bride to call the venue and demand a full refund, and then give her lots of "you go girl!" encouragement as she rants on the phone.


Not dead yet

Well, internet, it's been a few years and a few Blogger upgrades and many many many undocumented dreams since last we exchanged stories. But I couldn't let this site just go away.

We compiled a treasure trove of brain activity that I still love reading through. Nothing like being reminded of a crazy dream you had a long time ago and reliving it because you got all the details written down.

I've been noticing lately that my dreaming is increasingly sporadic (a lack of consistent, good sleep has a lot to do with that, I'm sure, and that stems from my demanding schedule as a mom and a manager). But I can't help but think that because I am not spending any time remembering and documenting my dreams, I am not feeding the meter, so to speak, for my future dreams. I'm not watering the little potted plant that is my subconscious mind and it's done a bit of drying up because of my neglect. Considering how much I love dreaming and lucid dreaming in particular, I feel like this is a horse I need to get back on.

 I will give you a second to count the dumb metaphors I just used.


I have given the site a bit of a visual facelift and updated it so that it's more responsive both for basic browsers and on mobile. Truthfully, I wanted to port this baby over to a free Wordpress domain but they aren't so keen on the hyphens in the URLs and I didn't want to spend a lot of time thinking of a new name. (The name without the hyphen is taken, of course.) So I will use this as a chance to get reacquainted with Blogger and possibly even Google+ (just kidding; get that shit away from me).

So here begins the effort to rekindle my dream blogging. I'm going to invite some of the authors of the Nocturnal Admissions of yore to do the same, if they are still hip to this blogging thing that more or less disappeared thanks to the Facetubes.

 Dreams are still the kind of thing you can't capture in 140 characters so let's get it down in long form, shall we?