by Tatiana on August 27, 2009
Girl Talk Thursday is a weekly event run by Maria of Mommy Melee. This week, we’re discussing dreams.
I’ve written about dreams twice before. Interestingly, those recurring dreams don’t happen as much anymore. Now that Maia’s here, there’s a whole new set of strange going on in my head.
I had a really fucked up dream the other night. I dreamt that my parents, who have been split up for something like fifteen years, got back together. Now, to be clear, I don’t remember ever wishing my parents would get back together (I think I understood that a divorce isn’t a lightly undertaken process) but if I have, it sure as hell hasn’t been within the last, ohhh, fourteen point nineninenine years. In this dream, though, my mom kept saying to me, “It’s okay Tatiana, just give him another chance.” My dad kept pleading, “Please let me hold my granddaughter,” and I was FREAKING OUT, screaming at him: “You’ll never hold her! Never!” Fucked up.
And although sexy dreams have been absent for several months, I’ve had a few of them lately. I’m kind of ashamed to admit that only one of them has featured Chris; the others have featured celebrities. I’m totally not a celeb fangirl type, but I guess I am in my sleep (hellooooo Colin Farrell, and no I don’t care if anyone thinks you’re dirty, like the Paris Hilton of the male celebrities, I’m totally okay with that).
Now, speaking in a loftier way of dreams — what are my dreams?
Obviously, I dream of health, happiness, long life, and prosperity for my family and everyone else I love.
I dream of having a career that leaves me feeling fulfilled. I dream of going back to school. I love learning. What is that career, though? Sometimes I think I’m meant to be a chef, but other times I’m certain I’m meant to write, and yet others I know I was born to be a teacher.
I dream of growing old with Chris (also of him cancelling his WoW account). I want us to be that little old couple walking, bent over, slowwwwwww as molasses, along a sidewalk under falling leaves in the autumn, holding hands.
I dream of our little Maia growing up strong and beautiful, of holding her baby in my arms.
I want to say that I dream of a world free of discrimination based on gender, race, and sexual preference. It needs to be clear, though, that I speak of mutual, informed, consensual sexual preferences. I’m not cool with the stuff that’s illegal for a reason.
I don’t dream of world peace. I genuinely don’t believe it’s attainable. I WISH it were, but so long as people use religion as a justification for unjustifiable behaviour, man needs natural resources, and psychopathic mental illnesses exist, world peace cannot happen. Sad, but true.
by Tatiana on January 2, 2009
So, I’m not a red meat eater, but for Christmas, my brother-in-law got Chris & I a gift card for The Keg Steakhouse & Bar. I’ve eaten there before and quite enjoyed it, and since my birthday is on Monday, I called the restaurant yesterday to make a reservation for Saturday night (Monday we’re going to a home birth class… what a great present).
They don’t accept reservations for Friday and Saturday night. What? I mean, seriously? Those are the nights that restaurants make a ton of cash, so why can’t they accept a reservation? Maybe they lose money by holding tables for people that are late or never show up? I didn’t really ask questions because honestly, we’re going in at around 6pm and I expect most people meet for dinner later than that.
So last night, I have this dream. Chris and I go to the Keg, where we’re seated in a waiting room with four other people, all holding gift cards as well. A waitress comes in and says we will all be seated downstairs, and to please follow her. We follow her down two flights of stairs into a bright white cafeteria packed with boxes and those shitty little folding tables that are in elementary school cafs, lit with florescent lights. I say, “I’m not eating under these florescent lights,” and she replies, “You’re right!”
We keep walking through the cafeteria and when we leave, we’re in a greenhouse, but there are no plants — just dirt. The girl pulls something out of her pocket and a console shoots up out of the ground while gardening hoses spray water all around us. She pushes a button on the console and another passageway appears, which she escorts us down. We walk up one more flight of stairs and she opens the doors with a smile: “You can use your Keg gift cards here.”
We’re in a country line dancing club. It’s full of old people dancing around and for some reason, there’s a bowling ball alley here too. These people are really bad at bowling, so the balls are just randomly sliding across the floor and it’s like playing Frogger or something. I turn to tell the woman, “I’m not eating here,” but she has already slipped back through the doors behind us and locked them.
Well, we are pissed, and when we look outside we realize we’re at least five kilometres away from The Keg, and for some god-forsaken reason our puppies are in the car in the parking lot there. So we wait at the doors for the waitress to escort the next group of gift card wielders into the line dancing club, and demand to be returned to the restaurant. She agrees to bring us there. Then when we reach the greenhouse again, the garden hoses shoot up out of the ground and spray us in our faces.
Then I woke up, furious.
I think I have some sort of deep-rooted psychological issue with the fact that they rejected our reservation.
