I don't know whether or not I was naked.
I usually avoid the LiveJournal while I'm at work, but ... well, it's Friday ... and I'm bored ... and this is kindofsortofalmost work-related ...
You see, I had a dream last night.
I was at work, but this was one of those dreams where a familiar place is actually in a different place, but you're not distracted, disturbed, or disoriented by that fact. So, instead of being on the third floor, my office was on the first floor, and rather than looking out on a street and NPR's Boston studio, my window looked out on a park or park-like space.
On this particular day, I needed to prepare some sort of food ... but I don't remember what. Maybe salsa? Anyway, the key ingredients were sun-dried tomatoes, but because I wanted them to be spicy, I decided to dry them myself. So, before leaving for the day, I took two tomatoes and left them in a bush outside to dry out overnight.
My subconscious does not seem to understand the concept of "sun-dried."
Needless to say, when I returned to work the next morning (which seemed to happen instantaneously in the dream, for what that's worth), the tomatoes were still plump and juicy. As I was in a pickle (not literally ... I guess you need to be specific about things like that when describing a dream), I decided to go to a gardening-supply store and ask for help. The employee I talked to was Kevin Costner. Of course.
Mr. Costner's advice was to take the tomatoes out of the bush, and put them in an empty dishwasher with vegetable oil and cinnamon (in the soap dish, I assume). Before I could ask the obvious question -- for how long should I run the dishwasher? -- Mr. Costner anticipated my query and told me to run it for ten minutes.
Armed with the gardening wisdom of the man responsible for Waterworld (which, in all fairness, is not as bad as its reputation), I returned to the bush. And then things got weird.
Because instead of tomatoes, I started gathering spiders. Spiders. I hate spiders. And these spiders were especially large and disgusting. They looked like the hideous spider in that terrifying children's movie where a spider and rat conspire to help a pig win the State Fair, so as to spread the swine flu and wipe out humanity.
So there I was, standing outside my office window with a bowl, trying to capture large, and probably disease-ridden, cartoon spiders. Fortunately, this was the point where my brain decided that the world was broken. Abort! Abort! And I awoke.
I wish I knew what this dream meant, but try as I might, I've been unable to tease even the faintest hint of meaning out of The Adventure of Kevin Costner's Dishwasher-Safe Sun-Dried Spider Salsa. Aside, of course, from the obvious hint to avoid his dinner parties.
So what say you? Does my relocated office symbolize my hidden desire to find a new job? Do the tomatoes represent rebirth? Is Kevin Costner a stand-in for my father? For my father's penis? For your penis? For your mother's penis?
Whoa. Where did that come from?
You see, I had a dream last night.
I was at work, but this was one of those dreams where a familiar place is actually in a different place, but you're not distracted, disturbed, or disoriented by that fact. So, instead of being on the third floor, my office was on the first floor, and rather than looking out on a street and NPR's Boston studio, my window looked out on a park or park-like space.
On this particular day, I needed to prepare some sort of food ... but I don't remember what. Maybe salsa? Anyway, the key ingredients were sun-dried tomatoes, but because I wanted them to be spicy, I decided to dry them myself. So, before leaving for the day, I took two tomatoes and left them in a bush outside to dry out overnight.
My subconscious does not seem to understand the concept of "sun-dried."
Needless to say, when I returned to work the next morning (which seemed to happen instantaneously in the dream, for what that's worth), the tomatoes were still plump and juicy. As I was in a pickle (not literally ... I guess you need to be specific about things like that when describing a dream), I decided to go to a gardening-supply store and ask for help. The employee I talked to was Kevin Costner. Of course.
Mr. Costner's advice was to take the tomatoes out of the bush, and put them in an empty dishwasher with vegetable oil and cinnamon (in the soap dish, I assume). Before I could ask the obvious question -- for how long should I run the dishwasher? -- Mr. Costner anticipated my query and told me to run it for ten minutes.
Armed with the gardening wisdom of the man responsible for Waterworld (which, in all fairness, is not as bad as its reputation), I returned to the bush. And then things got weird.
Because instead of tomatoes, I started gathering spiders. Spiders. I hate spiders. And these spiders were especially large and disgusting. They looked like the hideous spider in that terrifying children's movie where a spider and rat conspire to help a pig win the State Fair, so as to spread the swine flu and wipe out humanity.
So there I was, standing outside my office window with a bowl, trying to capture large, and probably disease-ridden, cartoon spiders. Fortunately, this was the point where my brain decided that the world was broken. Abort! Abort! And I awoke.
I wish I knew what this dream meant, but try as I might, I've been unable to tease even the faintest hint of meaning out of The Adventure of Kevin Costner's Dishwasher-Safe Sun-Dried Spider Salsa. Aside, of course, from the obvious hint to avoid his dinner parties.
So what say you? Does my relocated office symbolize my hidden desire to find a new job? Do the tomatoes represent rebirth? Is Kevin Costner a stand-in for my father? For my father's penis? For your penis? For your mother's penis?
Whoa. Where did that come from?