Call Me Ishmaeled

I’m a recently cured insomniac. If you’ve been a sleeper your whole life, you’ve also been a dreamer. Not me. This dreaming thing is a world of wonder for me.

Here’s one dream I had several weeks ago. Remember Carolyn Hill and Doug Rogers. That’s it. I woke up one night from this dream—or shall we say commandment—I muttered my way to the bathroom carolynhill dougrogers carolynhill dougrogers carolynhill dougrogers carolynhill dougrogers, got back into bed and have continued to say this to myself since. I don’t know a Carolyn Hill or a Doug Rogers. Not yet. I believe I am destined to meet them and have been looking for them on social media. This annoys The Husband, “It was a dream,” he begs, “Carolyn and Doug are not real.” I wave him off as I sign up for a $99 online people search.

Another dream I had two nights ago had me embattled with a great white whale. In my twilight sleep I knew that I would be the victor if I could just yank harder. HARDER! Meanwhile (and possibly related), my slumbering husband was awakened to calamity of his pillow being torn out from under his head. Even though it was incredibly violent, The Husband who is the Grand Poobah of sleepers stirred only slighted then drifted right back to sleep leaving me in the clear. I thought.

The next morning we were about an hour into a nine hour drive and he queries, “What was it you were doing with my pillow last night?”

I do my best to sound indignant, “I was…Ishmael…I was Ishmaeling.”

“Ishmaeling is not a thing,” he accuses, eyes hooded and judgy.

We reached our destination yesterday evening and as we got into bed I Clint Eastwood to him, “Keep your pillow on your side of the bed and nobody gets hurt.” Several hours later, he rolls over and smacks me in the eye. His claim is that we were in a smaller bed and he didn’t know I was there. I don’t even have to puzzle about it. I was revenge-Ishmaeled.

I can’t wait to tell Carolyn and Doug.