In Which My Husband is a Creepy Dream Stalker

Image courtesy of: Wikipedia Commons
(I love you guys.)

I had this really weird dream the other night. This is odd, because normally my real life is crazy and my dreams are normal. That's how I know I'm dreaming, because I'll be doing things and all of a sudden I'm like, "wait, my clothes match" or, "wait, my desk is inordinately tidy," or, "wait, how am I talking without making others uncomfortable?"

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

Dear Chubby Kid at the Park

Dear Chubby Kid at the Park,

Yeah, you.

The one looking sad the other day. The one who was so nice to my little boy. The one so obviously filled with sweetness inside that quiet shell. The one who was getting picked on by those other kids. The one who said not a word as they were teasing you, adding "fat" to your name, calling you over and then running away because they might catch your "fatness." The one who looked so incredibly hurt while the wolves tore into you. 

The one who broke my heart.

There were so many things I wanted to say to you, so many things I wanted to do besides what I did. Nobody deserves to be talked to like that. And my son? He's only six. I watched him watching you, watching them, watching me to see what my reaction would be. He's learning what's right and what's wrong, and I sure as hell wasn't going to teach him that the proper thing to do when someone is getting bullied is to sit on the bench, play with a smartphone and pretend it's not happening.  So I stepped in, and I gently told them they needed to stop, and that it wasn't funny, and that I was the one on the receiving end of words like those once upon a time, and it hurts in ways they probably don't even realize. 

It stopped, of course, but who knows for how long? And that's why there was so much more I wish I could say to you.

First of all, I'd tell you I've been there. And in some ways, I'm still there. I mean, I'm kinda still chubby, in case you hadn't noticed. 

Alright, fine: I'm downright obese. You could probably even throw "morbidly" in front of that and no doctor would bat an eyelash. 

But guess what? They don't actually care that you're overweight, dude. They're just looking for a way in, and that happens to be an obvious one. But it could be anything. Anything. Trust me. I wasn't always two Kit Kats shy of a Costco crate, and kids just like those ones still found stuff about me to tear down.

Today I walked into the school yard - your school yard - to pick up my kids. I do this every day, and I have yet to talk to a single parent. They all have their little groups formed and none of them chat outside of those groups. Adults can be just as cliquey as kids. 

And while I was walking, I tripped and fell onto the gravel. Bare legs met rock. A bunch of people noticed, but not a single person asked me if I was okay. I got up, dusted myself off and walked the rest of the way into the yard with blood trickling down my shin. No one said a word to me. It was like high school all over again. 

But here's the thing: I'm at the point in my life where I realize those are their issues, not mine. Kind people show concern for others. If they're not kind, they're not worth my time. The good news is that the school yard isn't my entire world these days. It's only tiny fraction of my afternoons. The rest of my life is filled with friendly people, helpful people, wonderful people. I hope you have people like that in your world, too.

You are worth so much more than those boys at the park realize, and probably more than you realize. I saw your hopeful look when they called you over to the play structure. They had just finished going back and forth between hurling insults and ignoring you, and yet you still hoped it was all a misunderstanding, that they were going to make everything right and be your friends.

I've had that hope. I've wasted time on those who weren't worth it. Until you realize you deserve better, you won't seek out better, you won't insist on better, you won't receive better. You have to invite it in. Those guys are not worth your time and energy, even if they sometimes pretend to be your friend. And if you waste that time and energy, you won't have it for someone better.

I have great people in my world today because I'm a great person. I know this for a fact. I'm not a perfect person or a gorgeous person or a wildly successful person, but I'm great. Seriously.  I really want you to know that you are, too. You shine brighter than you can ever imagine, but that light is on the inside. You have to stoke the fire of awesome until it grows big enough to be seen from the outside. It can take a really long time to build a fire that big, but you do it a little bit at a time. 

First, you tell those boys where to shove it next time they tease you. Find your voice, find your power.  There's some kindling for you. 

Then, you start walking taller every day, and you start smiling. More kindling.

You speak up when something's not right, you mentor a younger kid, you volunteer somewhere and meet other amazing people of all ages, you give a damn good presentation and wow your class, you hang out on the weekend with that other quiet kid in class and build a real friendship, you go into that park without fear... and before long, that is one incredible fire in your belly, and it's shining everywhere.

I was you, little dude (except with pigtails), and it's not an easy way to grow up. It can be lonely and dark and you might feel like it'll never get better. But what you're going through right now, while painful and challenging, is going to give you wisdom and strength beyond measure, if you let it.

Confidence is a hard thing to hold onto when people always seem to be trying to beat it out of you. But once that fire gets going, believe me, it would take an ocean to extinguish it. 

Trust me. I'm full of it - confidence, I mean. I'm The Maven. Or, as you probably know me, The Weird Lady at the Park who Distracted Those Boys Just Long Enough That You Could Get Out of There That One Time.

I hope you went off to find some kindling.

What. The. Cluck.

I'll admit to having done the big ugly cry a few times lately, particularly around the signing away of our old home on Friday.

And that afternoon I was feeling rather melancholy. Not in a "I regret moving" kind of way, but more in a "I hope I'll feel as at home here as I did in our old place" kind of way. 

Then I went outside to mope and do some yard work.

And then, I suppose, the Universe decided I needed a sign. A big, flashing neon sign that screams THIS IS DEFINITELY YOUR HOME, MAVEN. NOW STOP BEING A DRAMA QUEEN AND GET OVER YOURSELF.

Or something.

And that's when I spotted this in the grass:

Dear Maven,
Your prayers have been answered.
You're welcome.
- Universe

I don't know who she is or where she came from, but she's clearly had... life experiences. For one, she's  missing a limb.

Possible reasons:
Shark attack while surfing
Cujo
Pole dancing/stiletto mishap
Machete-wielding clown

Oh, but it gets better. If she was just a rubber chicken, I would have thrown her out.

But she's wearing a bikini. And... and...

It took everything I had not to Photoshop some tassels on there.
See? I can be mature sometimes.*
(*while posting cleavage shots of dismembered rubber chickens.)

SOMEONE DREW NIPPLES ON HER WITH A SHARPIE.


And just when I thought it couldn't get any better, I turned her over and this happened:

TRAMP STAMP!
Things this ink could possibly be:
Flames
Deformed crab
A drunk phoenix
Sinking of the Titanic

That is totally something I would have done if I had a rubber chicken and a permanent marker and was the type of person who still giggles every time she hears the word pianist (I do. Every time. Try it sometime.)

Except I didn't do it. That's the best part. Someone else who was in this house has the same sick sense of humour I do.

Oh, right. The as of yet nameless rubber mascot of my life has a point. It's important that we not judge this poor chick. Who knows what her story is? Not everybody gets the same opportunities in life, you know. Maybe she never made it through poultriversity. Maybe the roosters she roosted with were dicks. Maybe she just loves wearing a bikini because it shows off her ink and, uh, nipples. That's what feminism is all about, people. We need to support our sisters. Empower them. Lift them up. Take pictures of them standing next to solar lamps on the deck.

All I know for sure is that she was my sign that I need to be here, in this house. This treasure was undoubtedly meant for me, and I'm certain the two of us will spend lots of time together.

Outside.

Several feet away.

Because I'm pretty sure my new BFF is filled with toxic spores and shit.