A Stubby Dream

I’m not one of those people who has a dream and then needs to bore everyone with it immediately, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about (and feeling) the one I had two nights ago.

Chooch and I were at a party for someone who was late to arrive and there was no one else there we knew, just a bunch of family members looking at us all weird. The party was in a one-room house standing on cinder blocks and all I knew was that we needed to leave.

And so we did, despite being grabbed at by white trash alcoholics trying to forcibly tug us back into the house. I kept trying to run faster but I was having a hard time because I didn’t have any feet on account of Henry cutting them off the day before.

I wasn’t mad at him for doing it though. I understand that in order for him to fix my pants, he needed to cut off my feet, but he hadn’t yet had a chance to see them back on. So Chooch and I began our search for Henry, who worked in some seedy clinic for poor people.

On the way, I ran into some people I knew who casually asked, “Why are you running around with no feet again?” and then it occurred to me that this wasn’t the first time Henry had found a need to remove parts of me and as my REM-camera panned out I began to notice the accumulation of shoddy stitch-work across my body from all the times Henry had reassembled me.

My ankles have felt tender and ticklish ever since I woke up that morning.

Then there was this whole interlude where I inadvertently left Chooch* neglected and alone in the car when we arrived at the clinic  & only realized what I had done when I turned around and noticed a couple peering at him through the window and looking alarmed. I ran back to the car and gave them my best “I meant to do that” Pee Wee impression.

[*Like anyone could just “forget” that Chooch was in the backseat. That’s kid never shuts the fuck up.]

What the fuck does all this mean, other than that I should dump Henry and someone should call CYS on me.

ETA: I SOLVED IT! Yesterday, Barb gave me an apple. I put it in my purse. Today, I really want to eat that apple, but I have a biting-into-whole-apple paranoia. And of course I don’t know how to cut an apple. Why would I?

I wanted Henry to come home from work to cut it for me, but he was all, “Blah blah, I have a job and that is more important than your nutrition” so, outraged, I decided to do it myself.

But on my way to the kitchen, I had a flashing premonition of me slicing off my hand and then Henry having to come home and sew it back on.

So my dream was clearly a reminder to not try and cut foodstuffs with knives on my own. (And also that I’m a bad mom.)

I am extremely manic today.