‘mornin

My dreams go away for years. When I do dream, I dream fucking weird. Sometimes my ghosts visit and give me advice or warnings. Sometimes their messages need to be deciphered, but they are never wrong.

For example, when he was alive, my father-in-law was never in an airport. Not once.

But he chose to meet me in an airport on three consecutive nights to warn me I should tell his son not to travel.

I was unable to decipher that message until after my brother-in-law wrecked his motorcycle.

I’ve gotten better at deciphering the messages since then.

Sorry, Brad.

Lately, my dreams have been about one of two things. Alternately. Singing and cats. In my dreams, I am either on stage singing my curtains off or I am a little old cat lady with dozens of cats.

I’m not trusting Freud with these.

When I am awake, I can carry a tune in a bucket. But I don’t always have a bucket.

In my dreams I can belt out a tune like I was born for it. In my dreams, I can sing without a tune-carrying bucket.

When I am awake, I have three cats. They want nothing to do with me. All three of them have obsessive love for my husband. I accept this because when he is occupied with the cats, he does not ask me questions he does not really want answers to.

Questions like, “If naproxen is an NSAID and aspirin is an NSAID, how are they not the same thing?”

I am slightly honored he asks me these things. Especially so because he knows how to Google.

Doubly so because, typically, the most he says to me is a heavy sigh in my general direction.

I am only confused when he asks me things when I first wake up. My answers are unreliable.

In my dreams, my house is filled with cats. They all love me. My dream house also has several rocking chairs I do not sit in. Out of respect for the cats.

This morning when I woke up, it took me longer than usual to be mentally present in this world because last night, I dreamed I was on stage singing to a room full of cats.

In my dreams I am a famous and politically correct pussy magnet.

When I am awake, I need NSAIDS, coffee, and Xanax.

If there is a message in these dreams, I have no fucking idea what it is.

If there are answers to questions like, “Do you have something I can use to make a jump wire?”

I’ve got nothing but the theme song to Cheers to sing back at him.

Perhaps my ghosts are just having a laugh. My cats won’t say.