recent dream themes, for Ashley’s eyes only

(And for whoever else can stand to read them or who likes to interpret dreams.)

1. Again and always with the dreams that I’m tricked into living with and/or marrying my ex-husband. KHAN! Last time I had a really involved one, in which I’d won a “dream” wedding from Sears/Macy’s. When I showed up to participate in it — a little late, a little tipsy, feeling celebratory — I found that the department store had misplaced my wedding gown and wanted to offer me a shitty Miss Texas sheath, instead. By the time I got that ironed out with a late-night shoplifting trip at a nearby costume shop and a run-in with the local Mafia, I was getting worried that it was too late to marry my fiance on Sears/Macy’s’ dime.

And then I arrive and see that the groom is my ex-husband. And the preacher is preaching, and I feel like it’s rude, at that point, to interrupt the ceremony and call off the wedding. And yet I’m determined to do it. And then I wake up.

Annoying-o-freaking-rama, as you can imagine. This dream is obviously about my annoyance with my never-ending forced involvement with that person, which always occurs against my wishes.

2. I always, always dream about monster fruit plants. Usually I dream that there are monster fruit stalks growing in my dad’s backyard, or next door to his house, and I’m trying to cultivate or harvest them, but people keep interrupting me and no one seems to value the fruit like I do.

But lately I’ve dreamed that I’m trying to purchase monster fruit plants on sale from various places. The weirdest thing about it, as I already told you on the phone, Ashley, is that, in the dream, I never realize how unusually freaky the fruit plants are. In the dream, they’re just valuable/awesome/beautiful/desired. When I wake up, though, I realize that they were kind of monstrous. They’re like corn stalks covered with bunches and bunches of giant plums that are stuck together like testicles. Or, like, giant brocolli stalks covered with giant, blood red, tumorous peaches. They are fruit plants to be feared, but not when I’m dreaming them. In my dream, they’re something to covet and acquire.

I don’t know if they mean money or artistic acheivement. Maybe both.

3. I used to always dream that I was trying to ride the Metro bus somewhere, and I got on the wrong bus or couldn’t find the right bus stop, and it was getting later and I was getting into more dangerous parts of town…

But lately those dreams have shifted into something else. I ride the Metro bus and get off downtown, before it can carry me somewhere wrong. Because I know that, downtown, I can transfer to the exact right route. So I’m downtown, trying to figure out where to get the right bus, and I try to take a shortcut by going through one of the big buildings that I used to work in or used to walk through when I was a teenager.

And then it turns into some thing where I’m screwing around on the elevators. I don’t know why. Sometimes I need to get on the elevator because it’s one of those buildings where the ground is uneven and can be on G or 1 or P, depending on what side of the block you’re facing. But usually it seems that I want to be wicked and nosy and ride up the elevator to see what I can see. Maybe even to steal something. And then, eventually, the elevators take us someplace weird or scary, like a boiler room. But I don’t care. It kind of thrills me and I keep riding. And the other riders, even though they’re dressed in business casual and I’m not, don’t question my right to be there. Sometimes they even follow me, as if I know what I’m doing.

I don’t know what this dream means. Maybe that I feel like I don’t belong in Corporate America, but I’m doing well there, anyway?

4. Sometimes I dream about stealing the purses of rich old ladies. Their purses are always ugly, but I steal them. And then I feel guilty. But also excited. The goal in those dreams is always to stop someplace safe so I can open the purses and see what I reeled in. But I never do get to stop, and usually I lose the purses while on the run.

I know this dream says something bad about me, like maybe I resent rich people and have a chip on my shoulder and covet other people’s stuff.

5. Three or four times now, I’ve dreamed that we visited New York. Usually it’s by accident, maybe because Houston’s Metro bus took us there without us noticing. Once we get there, we want to make the best of it and have fun, but we don’t know where to go, and the natives aren’t helpful. Or else we’re afraid to ask them because we assume they won’t be helpful, because I read Gawker and Overheard in New York all the time, and they give me the impresssion that native New Yorkers are assholes who take pleasure in being rude to tourists.

So we end up driving/riding/walking around the city, finding our own fun. In one dream we shopped in Chinatown at night. In one we found a carnival in the middle of Manhattan. In the last one, I walked through a Lithuanian apartment complex and looked into everyone’s dining room.

This dream says that I crave adventure but don’t have the means to get it on a grand scale, maybe.

the cats, good and bad

I like it when the cats lie near me like curved slugs, with their arms and legs tucked under them.

I don’t like it when Starbuck scratches the glass patio door because she wants to go outside. Like all cats, she only wants to be outside if we leave the door hanging open so she can come back in at will. But then flies get in. So she can only go out if we close the door behind her. So she only stays out for a few minutes, then scratches at the door so we can open it. Then, of course, as all cat owners can guess, she’s back at the door thirty seconds later, scratching to get out.

And the sound of her claws on the glass is very, very, VERY annoying. So I yell at her to stop. But she seems to think that me wanting her to stop is only a very temporary condition. So she goes back to the scratching again and again, until I take more drastic action.

And that is not one of the highlights of having cats as pets.

Equal opportunity: I don’t like it when Toby acts possessive over me. Sometimes it’s funny, but then sometimes he gets all testosterone-y about it and I have to remind him that I’m a human being and not his conquest, and I have to throw him off my bed or whatever. And then he gets pissy and takes it out on Starbuck. Which is probably why she always wants to go outside all the time?

I just realized that my cats might be living in a Sartre-esque hell of my making. But oh, well. It’s better than living at the county shelter, I’m sure.

the photo thing

I feel like I’ve said this before, but need to say it again and will do so as simply and directly as I can.

1. I only put pictures of myself online if I think I look good in them. So, if there’s a picture of me on this site or on my Flickr, even if it’s not a stereotypically “good” picture, one can rest assured that I like the way I look in that picture. “I’m Gwendolyn Zepeda, and I approve this photo.” Like that. Usually, I only want to share a photo because I like the way it looks.

2. But it’s hard to say that. It’s hard to say, “Hey, y’all, I think I look awesome in this photo. Check it out. Check out this awesome picture, the subject of which happens to be me-e-e-e!” So, I don’t. I skip that part and talk about the more modest other part, like “This is how much I weigh” or “This is an old t-shirt I wear” or “This is a new hair color for me.”

3. And then I always manage to come off like I dislike the way I look, or like I need reassurance. And then people (very nice people) are quick to reassure me and tell me that I look nice/pretty/good/decent.

4. And then I feel guilty and gauche, like I was fishing for compliments. When I wasn’t. Wanting to share a nice picture isn’t the same as fishing for compliments, is it? I don’t think it is. Not for me, at any rate.

5. And then I bury the picture under a lot of other pictures or posts, because I am embarrassed.

Does all that make me crazy? No, I know: It means I over-analyze the shit out of my motivations and the impression I’m making on others.

But that’s okay.

In related news: There’s this person in my life who makes me a little nervous because she’s always commenting on things that I say or do. Like telling me to relax or telling me that it seems like I worry too much. And, when this person does that, it makes me way less relaxed than I’d normally be. And I don’t think this person does it to be annoying — I think this person does it because that’s normally what people want to hear from this person. And, finally, the other day, I had to tell this person that I liked myself the way I was, and that the way I was totally worked for me and made me a success. And this person accepted that, and I was relieved.

There are two people in my life, actually, who are always telling me to chill out and to act more confident and not to let on that I feel worried or insecure…
And I’m starting to think that these two people, who seem super confident and secure, actually aren’t. And that they’re telling me all this in order to remind themselves.

But I’m okay, really. I swear to God, if I didn’t like myself and have self-confidence and feel secure, I wouldn’t be able to talk about myself so much on the Internet, would I? Not for eleven years, I couldn’t. Really, it takes all the false modesty I can muster to keep you guys from realizing how conceited I really am.

Think about it.

Don’t worry about me, people who worry. I’m happy.

the other day

I played Rock Band with my son and his friends who’d come over for a slumber party. I played because no one else wanted to sing, and they needed a singer for extra points. “Want me to sing?” I said.

“Your mom sings on Rock Band?” one of the friends asked my son Josh.

“Uh, yeah. My mom’s, like, a trained singer,” said my son Dallas. But not in an “I’m so proud of my mom” way. It was more like “Duh — why wouldn’t a grown-up who knows how to sing, sing on Rock Band?”

So we played, and it was fun because we stopped being mom and sons and friends of sons, and became a force. A team. A rock band. We had three rotating drummers who I assigned to songs according to their skill level. Aside from that, there was almost no talking. As the evident band leader, I reminded myself to praise each member after particularly difficult songs. But that was it. And we racked up some serious points. And I felt the same feeling I have when my coworkers and I get through a really tough project. (We unlocked “Enter Sandman” by Metallica, and that’s my very best song. I’m going to sing that next time I go to a karaoke bar.)

I went to bed at 2 AM. The next morning, we woke up and went outside and saw one of my neighbors walking over from across the street. “I’m so tired,” she said. “We stayed up all night playing Rock Band.”

I’m telling you, man. The families that Rock together stay together.

I had a lot more to tell y’all but it’s night now and I can’t stay focused well at night. I’m really only worth anything (besides Rock Band) in the mornings. So hopefully I’ll wake up early tomorrow and get some novel-writing done…

Y’all have a good night, okay? Y’all have good dreams.

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Posted in cats, domestic, dreams, vanity on 07/09/2008 02:59 am

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