I’m a good sleeper. I love sleep. Sleep loves me. I need a good nine hours to wake up happy, and ready to go. Picture Snow White, as she scrubs pots and pans, all with a smile on her face. That’s me, well rested and prepared to tackle all the grumpy, sleepy, little dwarves in my family.
Hush now. This is MY blog. I get to write it the way I want to.
I tossed and turned last night, and walked in and out of strange disconnected dreams. Usually, when that happens, I can’t remember the details of the ebbing images once my feet hit the floor.
Oh, but not this morning. No siree Bob. I remembered.
It was one of those dreams that starts out quite lovely. I was walking in a vineyard. My husband took me to Italy, and sometimes I dream about our long walks through tiny churches, villages; stopping only to drink wine. We stayed close to a little town called Montepulciano, in Tuscany ( In case you aren’t a huge Twilight fan like me, this is where New Moon was filmed).
I like to refer to this trip as the No Carb Left Behind mission. I relish my dream escapes from reality, where I travel back in time, but they come about as often as receiving checks in the mail.
I rubbed my dream hands together in delightful anticipation. It was going to be an Italy night! I haven’t had one of these dreams in a while. O goody-goody gumdrops!
It was going so well. I could smell the rich soil, and see the brilliant golden fields of sunflowers just over the hill. I was eating and eating. Past full, but not wanting to disappoint the little old Italian lady that was watching my love affair with the food she cooked, with an air of satisfied approval at my every bite.
And then, I was suddenly ripped out of my authentic Italiano, only to be unceremoniously dropped in front of my computer. In South Dakota. Huh?
Have you ever noticed when you are in the dream world, you don’t find the nonsensical journey your mind takes at all alarming? And like a good little dreamer, I just soldiered on, and got with the program.
Well, here I am. I think I’ll do a little Pinterest, I thought.
As I entered my login, the screen flashed back at me: Request an invite.
I tried again. Request an invite.
In estimated dream time, I tried to login to retrieve my precious pins exactly 2,345 times. In the end, I realized the way my own personal nightmare would end.