I used to have two repetitive dreams. First, that my family and I were being chased by something we couldn't see, but that we knew was big and scary. At some point, my mother would decide that we were safe, and stop running even though I knew we were still being chased. The other one changed more, but always involved being the only one who could see the huge wave(s) that was (were) coming towards shore. Sometimes I would try to get away, but other times I would try to bodysurf them.
I also used to be able to either fly or glide across the floor without actually walking. Some of these were so real that until I was about 9, I secretly believed I could fly.
being back at the WotC offices with a pulse rifle because the critters from the Aliens movies are attacking.
Strange how those random co-workers look like Aliens.
I did, however, have a Buffista sex dream just the other night. It was good. Three times.
And then it somehow segued into a Batman and Robin dream, which is so NOT surprising.
Teppy's dreaming about boinking Plei again, I see.
First, that my family and I were being chased by something we couldn't see, but that we knew was big and scary.
You used to dream about being on Lost?
Strange how those random co-workers look like Aliens.
Some of them? Not so far off.
For most of the first two trimesters, I had horrible pregnancy nightmares. They only got worse when I was on bedrest. I'd dream, quite vividly, that I was bleeding and had to go to the ER again, then would wake up and realize that no, not really.
Last night I dreamed I was with all the comicsverse writers I know, frolicking in a river before going back to the hotel for a slumber party, where I managed to oversleep and wake up late for my NST. Of course, after the misadventures of finding a car, I got to my appointment an hour late, only to discover that thanks to Daylight Savings Time, I was actually on time.
(In real life, I was 15 minutes early for my NST this morning, and they're short staffed, so it wound up not starting for another half an hour.)
Fun with The Guardian
[link]
Under the headline "Reader, I shagged him." I had to click on it after that.
As the 150th anniversary of her death on March 31 1855 approaches, it is time to rescue Charlotte Brontë. She has been chained, weeping, to a radiator in the Haworth Parsonage, Yorkshire, for too long. Enough of Gaskell's fake miserabilia. Enough of the Brontë industry's veneration of coffins, bonnets and tuberculosis. It is time to exhume the real Charlotte - filthy bitch, grandmother of chick-lit, and friend.
How is the Princess?
Refusing to remove her foot from my ribs? Other than that, just fine. The NST looked pretty much like all the other NSTs, my BP was still stable, and there was no real weight gain for me since my Tuesday appointment, so it looks like I haven't had a sudden jump when it comes to the fluid I'm retaining.
Next week, she's officially considered term, so we start talking about the whens of induction.
