This is all her fault...
Jul. 21st, 2006 06:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
doc_destructoI say this with the incontrovertible confidence of a man who knows water is wet. The who and the what are but minor factors in the whole equation.
As you can see, I am utterly justified in placing all the blame upon her shoulders.
The who is my lovely and thoughtful wife--who apparently consistantly dreams of me being a complete and utter dick. Like a sociopathic-pushing-you-down-the-stairs asshole nutcase. Her own subconscious picking on me apparenlty wasn't enough. No, now she's enlisted MY subconscious as well.
How else could I reasonably explain having a dream about, not only CRAFTING (en entirely valid art and form of expression, et cetera), but about her dragging ME into a crafting competition, where we foolishly allowed ourselves to face one another.
This competition, it must be explained, took the form of two combatants attempting to be the first one to put stickers on the other. STICKERS, people. Maybe it was brushing off some of the ol' kung fu yesterday that led to the Mortal Combat-style tournament, but come on. Stickers?
Anywho,ne_today is all hyped up and excitied, because apparently the prize is this certification to teach crafts somewhere that isn't Michael's. And then it's our turn. The stickers we'd had at the start of the damned thing aren't sticky anymore, so we get new ones. The Wif gets some rainbow colored heart stickers. Yes, I remember that level of detail. I remember something like 3 dreams a year and THIS is one of them. I, however, make due with a couple pads of post-it notes that, aha, have no glue to them. The outcome of this match seems pre-ordained, doesn't it? That is until I decide to launch them all at my wonder wife ala 52-card pick up and cover her sweater in post-it notes.
What comes next is the most horribly gut-wrenching expression of confusion as whoever the hell the lady who ran the craft store announces that I'm the winner andne_today looks at me and then down at her sweater and then back at me. THEN, as if that wasn't enough, she tries to act like it's not a big deal and isn't depressed and ready to cry while I'm smacking myself for forgetting my cardinal rule of married gameplay "Put up a fight, but always let her win."
And then I'm woken up, still feeling like a grade-A schmuck. And when I regail her with this tragic tale of woe, she laughs. Aha. Aha. STOP MESSING WITH MY HEAD!!!!
How else could I reasonably explain having a dream about, not only CRAFTING (en entirely valid art and form of expression, et cetera), but about her dragging ME into a crafting competition, where we foolishly allowed ourselves to face one another.
This competition, it must be explained, took the form of two combatants attempting to be the first one to put stickers on the other. STICKERS, people. Maybe it was brushing off some of the ol' kung fu yesterday that led to the Mortal Combat-style tournament, but come on. Stickers?
Anywho,
ne_today is all hyped up and excitied, because apparently the prize is this certification to teach crafts somewhere that isn't Michael's. And then it's our turn. The stickers we'd had at the start of the damned thing aren't sticky anymore, so we get new ones. The Wif gets some rainbow colored heart stickers. Yes, I remember that level of detail. I remember something like 3 dreams a year and THIS is one of them. I, however, make due with a couple pads of post-it notes that, aha, have no glue to them. The outcome of this match seems pre-ordained, doesn't it? That is until I decide to launch them all at my wonder wife ala 52-card pick up and cover her sweater in post-it notes.What comes next is the most horribly gut-wrenching expression of confusion as whoever the hell the lady who ran the craft store announces that I'm the winner and
ne_today looks at me and then down at her sweater and then back at me. THEN, as if that wasn't enough, she tries to act like it's not a big deal and isn't depressed and ready to cry while I'm smacking myself for forgetting my cardinal rule of married gameplay "Put up a fight, but always let her win."And then I'm woken up, still feeling like a grade-A schmuck. And when I regail her with this tragic tale of woe, she laughs. Aha. Aha. STOP MESSING WITH MY HEAD!!!!
As you can see, I am utterly justified in placing all the blame upon her shoulders.
