…and I’m pretty sure it indicates that my mind is eternally messed up. And now I’ll share it with you.
In my dream, S’ and I went to visit his mom, who all of a sudden lived in Pittsburgh (don’t know why, I’ve never even been there). After a nice visit, S’ decides he wants to go kayaking in the misty, monster-infested marsh. It’s getting late, but I agree anyway.
We kayak our little hearts out, seeing lots of wildlife, teasing each other on being slow or for running into trees, and then it gets dark. Being the smarties we are, we didn’t bring any lights. But we see a glow up ahead so we decide, hey, why not? Let’s go toward the light.
Finally we come upon a beach (yes, a beach in the middle of PA). People are standing around having a grand ole’ time, so we park our kayaks on the shore and head up to figure out where the hell we are. There’s a creepy music-filled carnival going on just up the road with ferris wheels, strange games, roller coasters, and people pretty much getting it on in the middle of the street, so we walk around, have a good time, totally not concerned that someone has probably stolen our kayaks back at the beach. It’s a weird festival that I know is inspired by Anne Bishop’s Ephermera series and the Den of Iniquity (or, the carnal carnival) since that’s what I was reading before I went to bed last night.
I ask someone where we are and she says, “Fitchland Burns.” Where is Fitchland Burns, you ask? I have no idea, since Google couldn’t tell me when I checked on my phone. So I start panicking figuring we just kayaked our way into some kind of hell when I see an information booth.
According to the woman at the booth, we are about 7 hours from Pittsburgh. HOW did we kayak 7 hours away in such a short time? I blame the misty marsh. Before we can decide what to do, one of S’s friends appears out of nowhere. Turns out he lives in Fitchland Burns and is more than happy to show us the way home because, naturally, we have decided to walk.
Why didn’t S’s friend offer us a room to stay for the night? Why didn’t we call a taxi, or S’s mom to figure out what to do? Why didn’t we go back for our kayaks? I have no freakin clue. No, walking was a much better solution.
So, we set off for the open road. We’ve walked a couple hours when S’ decides he’s tired and is going to sleep. “You can’t sleep in the middle of the road, idiot,” I say, annoyed. “Someone will rob you, or kill you.” S’ then says, “Well, you can carry me.” Of course, why didn’t I think of that?
But S’ is too heavy for my weak arms to carry. “And how am I supposed to do that?” I ask. To which S replies, “I’ll make it easy for you.”
Here’s where it gets really weird, people. How does S’ make it easy for me? By turning into a large pile of sticky spaghetti noodles. Oh yes, a pile of noodles. But dream me doesn’t find this weird, so I gather the noodles in my arms and keep walking.
Fast forward some 5 hours later and I’m walking down the sidewalk in the early morning light. It’s a pleasant little town with cobblestone walks and shops lining the street. People greet me warmly as I pass and when I see a bakery I decide to get some breakfast. Glass of OJ, chocolate-covered donut, and a sprinkle donut hole.
I resume my walk, enjoying my treats, when I realize I’m no longer holding my noodles. I start to panic, searcing all around for my poor lost husband. The noodles were nowhere in site, my hands filled with nothing but fried ddough deliciousness. Before I could start a mad search andd rescue, I woke up.
So, yes. I left my poor noodle-form S’ somewhere between Pittsburgh and Fitchland Burns, more concerned about my donuts than his safety. Luckily S’ found this dream quite hilarious and told me I’m one of the biggest weirdos he’s ever met.
He better be careful. I might leave his noodles somewhere more dangerous next time. Like a boiling pot.