Dreaming in Four Sequences

Dreaming in Four Sequences

They say everyone dreams. Some say we’re living a waking dream. Whatever real life is, it’s nowhere close to the weirdness I just slept through. Most dreams fade like smoke when you wake, but not this time. This is what I get for having Lucky Me pancit canton and powering through The Walking Dead before bed.

In my first dream, I was in a group of men, women and kids having to fight another group for territory. Or something. I wasn’t clear on the whys and wherefores, but they sent us women out first because we were “expendable.”

I was armed with a pencil. Mongol No. 2, bright yellow and freshly sharpened. I stabbed someone with it and gained pliers, the heavy wrenchy sort. I must’ve brained someone with it because I then gained a gun. Meanwhile, someone was peeling the face off of someone else with a cleaver. (This was not a good dream.) Then my brother, whom I was protecting, got wounded and I woke up.

It’s just one of those scenes that seems so intense it wakes you, and you lie there for a second because you’ve jerked out of REM sleep so fast you need a minute to recalibrate your whereabouts. Anyway, I lay back down and immediately got into the next one, where I was in a theatre. Wasn’t sure if I was with Le Hubs, but I knew I was watching something with Whoopi Goldberg of all people.

As dreams do, the whole theatre scene segued into having really amazing sexy times in a glade straight out of a Midsummer Night’s Dream with the love of my life, who is not Whoopi Goldberg, and the glade turned out to be an island which we eventually left. I could run on water, while he could swim really fast.

And then we were underwater hiding from some psycho young girl who had come into the room to get a doll we had gone there for. I left Le Hubs –  who at this point was no longer Le Hubs, he was the vampire guy from Twilight – to hide under the table, while I snatched the doll and trapped psycho girl in some magic net.

It turned out that psycho young girl was a vengeful ghost and the doll was her anchor to this world. How I figured this out, I had no idea but I grabbed the doll, surfaced into some sort of attic (wtf?) and just as she’d escaped my magic net (again, wtf) I smashed the doll, it broke, and she disappeared. Then I woke up again.

Before last night, the weirdest dream I can recall having was treading water someplace that looked very like the Manjuyod sand bar while alligators swam just beneath my feet.

Who needs horror movies, shrooms, or the clown from It? I don’t often recall my dreams, and I can see why – if that’s what’s going on in my subconscious, I’m better off not knowing.


Image from TinyFry.com

To Hef and Hef Not

To Hef and Hef Not

Playboy wasn’t the biggest part of my adolescence because I’m a girl. Everyone knows Harlequin is girl porn, not Playboy magazine. I may not have owned the prerequisite well-thumbed copy with some pages suspiciously glued together, but I did get to sneak peeks here and there. Centrefolds, tits, strategic posing, sanitized sexuality, but sexuality all the same.

I wasn’t too familiar with Hefner the activist, the savvy editor, the guy who pushed for access to birth control and saved the Hollywood sign from being torn down. The Hef I’m familiar with is the kindly old man in The Girls Next Door, the one who had three pretty blonde girlfriends and was content to let them hog the spotlight while he worked on his scrapbooks. I liked that Hef. He seemed like the kind of guy who’d accomplished what he’d set out to do and was enjoying the fruits of his labour. Sure, having three girlfriends who weren’t just old enough to be his daughters but were also varying degrees of sameness (blonde, busty and tan) was … weird? Eccentric? Greedy? They were all consenting adults. His girlfriends seemed happy enough with their lot in life and certainly profited from it.

So Hugh Hefner has gone to the great big bunny ranch in the sky. Some think heaven to Hef is likely meaningless after all his time on earth. Some say he’s already gone through his allotment of seventy-two virgins and he didn’t even have to commit jihad to do it. Either way, there doesn’t seem to be a great outpouring of sadness. Certainly not from me – not that I’m glad he’s dead or anything. I just feel like a guy who spent a third of his life  in a bathrobe hosting crazy bacchanals in a giant mansion, sorting through a bevy of blonde girlfriends, can’t have missed very much in life.

Continue reading “To Hef and Hef Not”

Double Trouble

I’m making up for missing out on the Laver Cup by going through their Twitter. I wish I’d gone to Prague.

Coached by a legend (Bjorn Borg!), led by legends (Roger Federer! Rafael Nadal!), Team Europe’s victory was pretty much assured. It’s hard to face a team with two up and comers in Misha Zverev and Dominic Thiem, stalwart top tenners Tomas Berdych and Fernando Verdasco, and the aforementioned Fedal.

I didn’t know very much about it because my zeal for tennis pretty much fizzles out after the US Open. Good job, me! I missed out on the gloriousness that is Fedal. Obviously I am on Team Nadal forever and ever, world without end, but this year has been a throwback to when these two ruled the tennis world and Rafa’s intensity is never quite at peak level the way it is when he’s facing Federer across the net. But seeing two legendary rivals and intense competitors come together as doubles partners and put that intensity to work as a team is a wholly different experience.

That’s it, I’m sold. Team Fedal forever.

At World’s End, v1.0

Nibiru would hit the planet, they said. Hide your wives and children, they said. Welp, the world didn’t end.  And the only things of cataclysmic portent that emerged over the weekend were:

Hurricane Maria.

Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer teamed up to form a doubles team for Team Europe and went on to nab the first ever Laver Cup. Annnnnd I missed it. Curses.

Just look at them. Le sigh.

This Toronto heatwave. All that’s hanging in my closet are knits because I am way too eager for fall, so I spent my weekend hissing at Facebook photos of people at the beach.

Kylie Jenner is pregnant.

I knew it. Kylie Jenner is Nibiru.


Game of Thrones Season 7, Episode 5 Recap: Inglorious Bastards

Game of Thrones Season 7, Episode 5 Recap: Inglorious Bastards

Need to refresh your Dornish wine? Check out the Episode 4 recap here.

Do you speed through the opening credits of Game of Thrones? With that swelling orchestral score and educational bird’s eye view, I almost always linger. The places featured in the opening are almost always a sign of where the action is going to be. Eastwatch shows up for the first time, so you know something’s going down out on the East Coast tonight.

Continue reading “Game of Thrones Season 7, Episode 5 Recap: Inglorious Bastards”

Game of Thrones Season 7, Episode 4 Recap: Enough with the Clever Plans

Game of Thrones Season 7, Episode 4 Recap: Enough with the Clever Plans

Need to refresh your Dornish wine? Check out the Episode 3 recap here.

Still stewing over Olenna Tyrell’s big reveal, the Kingslayer is busily, if not grumpily, getting down to the business of paying off Lannister debts with Highgarden gold. Wanting more than a saddlebag of gold coins (“it’s not a castle”), Ser Bronn makes a play for the home of the now extinct Tyrells, but is rebuffed with a terse “we’re at war.” They never let Ser Bronn rest. Will Ser Bronn ever get any rest?

We’re going to have to see.

Continue reading “Game of Thrones Season 7, Episode 4 Recap: Enough with the Clever Plans”

Random YouTube K-Hole: Hail Marriage, Full of Grace

Blake Shelton’s latest is out and it’s the whitest thing ever. Not complaining, I’ve always had a soft spot for country – traditional, family-based, blue jeans and pickup trucks, apple pies, cowboy hats, good wholesome love. Country comforts me. It’s like a nice warm blanket on a cold winter day. There’s only so much gritty, urban realness a girl can stomach. All that smacking my bitch up and things.

I don’t know about you, but having Adam Levine and Co. crash my wedding … on the one hand, holy crap on a cracker. On the other, how emasculating can that be? Watching your bride go nuts for Adam Levine on your wedding day, brutal.

Doesn’t matter how hard they try. Nothing will ever beat the sheer genius of this. The Prince cuffs. Boy George. Steve Buscemi. Are those love seats rattan? Alexis Arquette as George of the One Song is the best wedding singer ever. Never forget!