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| Image courtesy of: Wikipedia Commons (I love you guys.) |
In the dream, we were driving by our old house (the one we officially sold a couple of weeks ago), and Geekster said, "Hey, I still have a key. We should go check it out!" And then I said, "You're not supposed to still have a key, Geekster," and then he ignored my statement about legalities and pulled into the driveway.
We went inside - some of us more reluctantly than others - and started walking through the rooms. The place looked like someone had just moved in. There was no sign of the couple we sold to, who I guessed were at work or perhaps breaking into their old house in an attempt at universal balance.
The boys ran in front of us, picking up things that didn't belong to them and commenting on half-finished renovations. "Everything looks different," commented a confused Geekster, who was starting to worry me about as much as the time he eagerly said 'I do' to a girl who now puts her dreams on the internet.
"That's because this is not our house," I emphasized. "Now let's go."
But we didn't. Instead, Geekster and the kids decided to do really creepy things straight out of a made-for-tv stalker movie, like eat the new owners' food and sit on the couch and watch television. I kept waiting for someone to boil a bunny or try on some lingerie.
The day was wearing on. I suddenly realized the new owners would be back soon.
"We have to go," I pleaded in a very sensible tone. Never mind the out of character B&E. This is the part where I should have started to realize I was dreaming. I am rarely sensible. In fact, I'm certain Jane Austen wrote Sense and Sensibility in 1811 because she knew I wouldn't be alive for a very long time yet and thus she could avoid getting tweeted about how disconnected I feel from the title.
"But we haven't really sold this house yet..." Geekster mused.
I waved my arms around at all the things that were not our things, and all the painted walls that were not our painted walls because I wouldn't be caught dead with a chartreuse dining room no matter how many HGTV designers use it. "Uh, yes, we have. We signed the papers and handed over the keys, remember? ... Well, most of the keys."
My husband put another chocolate bar wrapper on top of other chocolate bar wrappers on the counter. I started to wonder if maybe it was the undiagnosed diabetes talking. I was running around picking up all the mess my family was leaving behind. There was garbage everywhere. This part was basically like real life except I would have been yelling that no one bothered sharing their candy with me.
"You know," he said between mouthfuls, "I never realized how much this place meant to me."
"What?"
He continued: "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I miss it. Let's see if we can get out of this sale and move back in."
I just about died/strangled him with the handle of a chartreuse paint can. This was the man who fought me tooth and nail for years to move to the city we live in now. This was the man who spreadsheeted the shit out of our finances to prove to me we couldn't afford to keep living in an old fixer upper in a province that cackled with glee every time we filed our income taxes.
And now he was acting like a total douchebag, which should have been clue number two that I was dreaming. Normally, I'm captain of the douche canoe, thank you very much.
This is about where I lost it (see "douche canoe captain" above) and started telling him how this wasn't our home anymore. "We don't live here! We live in Ottawa! I like Ottawa! I like our new house! Stop this-- and stop eating so much fucking chocolate! What is wrong with you?"
It's funny, because I'm the one who cried about leaving and then cried about leaving some more and then wrote about how I cried about leaving on the internet for thousands of my closest friends to read. And now I was convincing him we couldn't be here anymore. I was telling him we have to go back to our suburban two-storey on a postage stamp because it's where we belong now.
And that's when the new owner pulled up and I had to go outside and do damage control. "Ok, I'm pretty freaked out right now," she admitted with wide eyes when I walked out of her house. I explained that I just needed to coax my husband with apparent blood sugar issues back into the car. This somehow became ok with her, and she gave us a tour, introduced us to extended family members, showed me some of the (often strange) improvements they had already made to the place.
The whole time, I felt completely disconnected from the experience. This was not my house anymore, and I couldn't wait to leave and get back home.
Hours later, I finally managed to get my family out of there. I had to first let them go through people's drawers, then rename a puppy (who mysteriously popped up just as we were about to walk out the door), but eventually they piled into the car and I drove us home.
I woke up relieved it was all a dream, and kind of wanting a puppy.
My husband initially found the whole thing amusing, then less so when he realized I was mad at him most of the day for not sharing dream chocolate.
I'm no dream interpretation expert, but I'm thinking my subconscious was trying to tell me the following things:
- I'm starting to let go and move on (this is a good thing)
- I'm growing quite fond of our new 'hood (and not just because I'm here)
- Must start subtly counting my husband's keys before and after real estate transactions
- People should always share chocolate with me
- I apparently really hate chartreuse
- I could murder someone with a paint can if I had to, which is impressively MacGyver of me