Dream

Sometimes, I have trouble sleeping. Sometimes it's because my darling dear snores like a diesel truck climbing a steep uphill. Sometimes, I fear it's because those doggone female hormones are shifting around, waiting for their chance to rear their little fangs and nip me into staring wakefulness. Some nights, I'll wake up at 1:30AM, then at 3:00AM, then at 5:30AM, at which point I might as well write off the whole illusion of a good night's sleep, because I'm bloody well getting up at 6:00AM, anyway. I guess that last half hour of robbed sleep just makes me grouchier. I try to get out of bed so I don't smother my snoring Mr. ShellHawk with his own pillow out of sheer jealousy of his superior sleeping ability.

There are a few nights I actually do sleep all the way through, and am awakened by the rising sun coming through my window. They are infrequent enough that I bless them, and wish they would invite more of their friends to stay for an extended visit.

Every so often, I dream. Correction: I should say that I remember my dreams every so often. Like many of you , I often don't have a clear starting point to the dreams I have, and often, they're interrupted by the alarm clock. Every so often, they're interrupted by Mr. ShellHawk's snores. (I once remember having a conversation with someone in a dream, only to watch her jaw drop in mid-sentence and then I'm hearing this horrific snoring noise coming out of her mouth, and I was so very confused and strongly motivated to solve the mystery of this new snoring language. I woke up a moment later to realize it was my sweetheart's chuffing coming out of this dream-person's mouth.)

A couple of months ago, I had a zombie dream. I don't often have horror-movie-style dreams. When I do, they're usually terrifying and pretty graphic, and at some point in the dream, I realize I am completely frozen and unable to move at all as whatever doom I'm dreaming somehow overtakes me.

But this one was different. I was in control, because dammit, I can bloody well handle zombies! They are flipping easy. Double-tap is the key...

I remember having a major argument with Mr. ShellHawk about how to handle the zombie outbreak in the neighborhood. He was pooh-poohing everything I had to say, though I thought I made sense; we'd grab our neighbors from across they street, because Neighbor V's husband is a prison guard and quite likely to have all manner of weapons, including, quite probably, the weapon of choice for all zombie slayers: the shotgun. I knew Neighbor V could handle herself in a bad situation, so of course she'd be welcome. We had our shotguns in the Garage of Doom's attic space, and somehow I knew that our house had been breached by the hordes of the undead. Mr. ShellHawk was expounding all kinds of advice about how to handle the situation, but my only response was:

"WHO is it who watches all the goddamned zombie movies, exactly?! Oh, that's right! It's ME! Not you! So shut up and load the freaking shotgun already and get your ass up into the attic space and bring the ladder up after you! Christ! Must I do EVERYTHING?! " (Apparently, I was feeling very put-upon at this point.)

Perfectly sensible thinking, to my mind. I have no idea how the dream would have ended, as the alarm went off at that very moment, but I did have a lingering sense of confidence that stayed with me all day.

Nothing like a shotgun to make a girl feel confident.