I’ve always been a firm believer that if someone, even with all the best of intentions, feels the need to unburden last night’s dream on you over coffee, it’s ok to end the friendship there and then. They’ll understand. If not, in time they will. They will.
But being the massive hypocrite I am, I’m now that friend, the one with the dreams, and I just have to talk about it.
The other night I had a dream where I had to mediate the Weasley Twins from Harry Potter as they navigated a polyamorous relationship they were in while identifying as pansexual and admitting an attraction to each other because they’re turned on by the whole being related thing. This ongoing issue was further complicated by the fact that Jon Snow’s alive head had been left in my care and he just wouldn’t go to sleep, no matter how many times I drove him around the block. He also didn’t like being bounced up and down by the knees. It was a nightmare, a literal nightmare.
Or how about the dream from last night where, after not falling asleep until 4am, Samuel L Jackson, Devon Sawa and myself found a secret castle just of the Burnley Tunnel Richmond exit, where Holly Valance was being held hostage by a guy I knew in high school whose claim to fame was his calf muscles. In order to free her, Samuel and I had to embark on a 15 year career as exotic dancers in Singapore. We were quite the act, but my biggest concern was how I was going to get back to my parents in time for Sunday dinner. I finally made it home from my erotic oddessy only to be disowned by my family, with my father vowing never to speak with me again because he was forced to throw out the lamb due my tardiness. Oh and for some reason Tom Cruise was there and he was mad at me as well.
Now because I’m not an asshole, before I inflicted these dreams on my partner and friends I turned to the internet, mummy blogs and forums to be exact. WTF? What fresh hell are those things?! It’s like someone took all the judgement in the world and gave it a landing page.
Typing in ‘bad pregnancy dreams’ I was met with mixed responses that ranged from:
- ‘Oh don’t get me started on crazy pregnancy dreams.I had one the other night where tiny angels appeared to me, looking, I kid you not, like Blue Ivy #beyonceforeva and they whispered into my ear as I slept peacefully, the names Ebony and Archer, which is crazy because my husband and I were thinking of naming our twins those exact names. Crazy right?’
- ‘Bad dreams are a sign your baby will be born with severe communication problems. To learn more about the dangers of vaccination…’
- ‘I just ate more carrots before bed and they disappeared, now I just dream of acceptance, oh and Peter Rabbit :)’
DIE ALREADY – yes, I’m judging them..so what? When in Rome…
Nowhere could I find what I was looking for, a kindred, someone who had also dreamed of going to a Beyonce concert at Rod Laver arena only unable to find a carpark had to move to Ireland, join the IRA and live the rest of their life under a new identity (in that dream, I also had to get reconstructive face surgery without anaesthetic). I also was unable to get a refund on my Beyonce tickets. I woke up crying.
So I was forced to turn to a friend. My non-pregnant, gay male friend, but someone I was certain would have a concerned ear I could bend.
‘…and then mum said they wouldn’t pay to get my ears pierced and Hillary Clinton agreed and said she could do it herself but we needed to go to Greensborough to get the equipment and I didn’t have a valid Myki card on me – ‘
I could barely finish the sentence, as a shaking hand gripped my decaf weak long black, with extra water.
‘ – and there was nowhere to recharge it in Australia, so I never got my ears pierced and Hillary was so angry she wouldn’t let me go to Hungry Jacks with her. And she’d promised. She’d promised!’
My disinterested confidant frowned.
‘Are you telling me about your dreams Lou?’
I gulped. Damn my transparent demeanour.
‘I thought we had an agreement about stuff like that.’ He pushed.
‘I thought that was only boring dreams, not horrifying scenarios involving various pop culture icons that will inevitably come true knowing me.’
‘A dreams still a dream Lou. What if I told you about my dreams, how would you like that?’
I feigned interest in the name of self-preservation.
‘I’d love to know about your dreams. I’ve changed. I’m cool with stuff like that now – puppies, potpourri and vision boards, bring it on I say.’
He knew I was lying, but we’re the sort of friends that would never call each other on stuff like that. True friends.
‘Great. So, I had this dream last week where my dad just turned up at my house and we spent the week just hanging out. I even learned to fish.’
‘Cause dad was only here like last week and we talked about going fishing but we never actually got around to doing it.’
‘Yeah, it’s like my subconscious knew what I hoped we’d done and made it a reality for me. Dreams are amazing.’
‘Dreams are amazing like that.’
‘That hurt you a little didn’t it Lou, listening to me talk about my dream?’
I paused, letting out a deep breath/burp-fart.
‘Can I be honest?’
‘Of course Lou’
‘I died a little inside.’
‘Your dream wasn’t even a dream. It was at best a memory, a distorted memory, but, and I say this with the utmost respect, it was no dream.’
He took the barb well, toying with his gluten free pistachio cupcake, for which he no longer had the appetite.
‘We can’t all dream about the universe being constantly disappointed in us.’
‘Is that what you think my dreams are about?’
‘Absolutely, I mean, take the dream about Hillary Clinton not taking you to Hungry Jacks – ‘
The waiter came over, refilling our water.
‘ – are you sure you have time to talk about this?’
My friend adjusted his glasses.
‘Plenty, now back to Hillary and the fact you’ll never reach her heights of success and your own ongoing inadequacies…’
I couldn’t help but smile, maybe talking to friends about dreams wasn’t so bad after all…