WTF?

First, I want to thank everyone who's been reading and commenting and following.  Every one of you is awesome.  Truly.  Second, I meant to update last night, but fell asleep instead.  This has proven most fruitful as it's why I have this little gem to share with you.  I'll probably have deep regrets over this one in the morning, but at 3 something, posting it seems like a great idea.  And let's be honest--we needed some funny. 
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"Wha...?  What's happening?"  I wonder out loud, taking in my surroundings, trying to pull them close and hold them.  The air is thick and tense and hazy.  It's a color, but I can't really describe what that color is, somewhere between red and brown, something I have an overwhelming urge to describe as burnt.  And there's a sound (loud!  That's the sound of loud!) and a smell--

But before I can register what the smell is, understanding punches me in the face:  I'm in a dream.  Oh, fantastic!  I love dreams!  Even better, I have a distinct feeling that this dream is heading in a rather PG-13 direction!  Alright!

In the distance, something beckons me (wake up!) and I fight against it with every fiber of my being, because I'm so warm and so comfortable and right now a PG-13 dream is just about the best thing I can imagine.  My eyes flit about, searching through all the burnt, landing on something fuzzy, yet somehow determinedly male. Before I can process this, however, something shifts.  Confusion presses in as some far off, semi-existent narrator hands me a name--

"Flynn Rider."

Wait!?  What?  No!  My avidity for PG-13 action thins, at least half replaced with some dream world version of guilt and shame.  I'm still alone, trapped in all that burnt, which suddenly loses its magic and simply becomes wrong, but I'm still alone and this triggers an argument.

Oh, just shut up and go with it, my internal dialogue rages.  There are pleas from the real and rational me who knows that even the vaguest level of sexy with a cartoon character will leave me feeling dirty and uncomfortable in the morning, but as is almost always the case in the realm of my dreams, those pleas go ignored.  I'm convinced that the licentious Ms. Go-with-it will win, but before she can, that ghastly narrative voice summons me again--

"Flynn Rider Doll!"

And that does it, 'cause while I can think of perfectly acceptable deviations concerning me and 12 inches of synthetic material, none of them involve tiny plastic features and suddenly this particular instance is nothing but obscenely wrong--even for me, which says a lot. 

I claw for the surface, eyes popping open, sounds draining away, and all that godawful burnt dissipating into the black of my bedroom and when everything is finally clear, I am no longer alone.  I register the tiny form hovering inches from my face and pull back with a sharp, jerking motion.

"Mumma, I'm askin' you where's my Flynn Rider doll?"

I rub at my eyes, trying to make sense of this.  "I have no idea."

We search the heaps of blankets on my king sized bed, and finally, I am the one who finds him.  I gingerly pick up the doll and tuck him next to her, on the side my husband will lay next to, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened. 

On one hand, I'm annoyed.  Her misplaced good night toy ruined what could have been the best dream I've had in months.  On the other, I don't think I knew I was dreaming until she started prodding me for her toy.  The sheer absurdity of all of this is too much and I laugh, loud and hard.  From the living room, my husband asks if I'm okay.  I respond that I am.  I have one final thought on the matter, as I pull myself from my bed:

I really need to follow through on making her sleep in her own bed.