Cheese Dreams

We all have them. Don't look at me like that. You've had one at least once.

I'm talking about Cheese Dreams. (Yes, those words placed together require capitalisation).  You know, where you eat a load of cheese (usually brie, or blue or something smelly and strong and DELICIOUS) after 8pm and then go to sleep and have really vivid, quite freaky dreams, about the most random events.

Just for shits'n'giggles, allow me to share last night's Cheese Dream with you.

I was on a train with a guy I met in NYC a few years ago.  (In real life, we became mates, nothing more.) Anyway, in my dream we were on our way to the movies and there was a guy sitting opposite us who had a briefcase open on his lap. We were pulling into a station, when he closed his briefcase, reached next to him for his carry-on-sized suitcase and slotted one side of the briefcase into the suitcase, extended the handle and proceeded to leave the train.  But there was another wheeled-suitcase still sitting there where he'd been and all of a sudden there was a woman with him. I decided to be a good citizen, and jumped off the train with the suitcase, calling out to them that they'd forgotten their bag. They were talking, so took a while to acknowledge me, but then claimed the bag wasn't theirs - they'd never seen it and it had been sitting on the train when they got on earlier. At this point I turned to get back on the train, but the doors slid shut and it pulled away from the platform leaving me stranded without handbag, wallet or phone (and a friend who didn't even appear to notice that I was no longer seated next to him).  I turned around again and started berating the couple for ruining my date (yes, suddenly this guy was my boyfriend and we were on a date); but they'd disappeared, so I looked around for somewhere to leave the bag - a lost property counter or the like.  By this stage I'd worked out that I was in Paddington Station in London, and I made my way over to the customer service counter, only to be redirected to what can only be described as a market stall selling animal hides. The woman at the counter, who smelled rather strongly of pot, gave me a lecture about never touching abandoned luggage, then proceeded to open it and extract a load of lacy Victoria's Secret-style underwear.

The next thing I knew I was at home (my home here in Melbourne) and was about to go and lie down (being worn out from having walked all the way home from the station, I presume... I didn't have any money, or a phone to call anyone, plus I'd realised that I didn't know ANYONE'S phone numbers off by heart like I used to when I was in my early 20s, so I don't know how else I would've managed to get home); when there was a half-buzz at my door. 

(Incidentally, the buzzer into our apartment block is only half-buzzing at the moment, so it was all a bit too life-like.)

So, anyway, I answered the door and in walks my friend, carrying my handbag and telling me he'd figured out what was going on and thought I'd come home eventually, so went and saw the movie without me.  (To which I say hrmph. How rude. I'd never date a bloke who did that to me.)

Next thing I know, I'm taking a miniature pet pig for a beach walk.  Yes. A PIG. The pig was super cute - white with black spots and her name was Lily. She was on a leash and would come into the water, but wouldn't actually swim. She'd just sit there, with the water over her head, and look up with these mournful eyes... apparently able to breathe underwater.  Facially, she looked just like the pig equivalent of a friend's French Bulldog, who coincidentally, is named Lily.  I'm sure there's a connection there.  Anyway, I took Lily-the-pig out of the water to dry her off and next thing we were in a school, attempting to fit six identical, real-life Barbie dolls into a locker.  Well, I was trying to fit these Barbies into a locker - Lily was sitting beside me snuffling and snorting.  Let's just say, shit was getting weird by this point, so it's just as well it was then that I woke up.

I grabbed my trusty notebook, which sits on my bedside table and started scribbling it all down.  Of course, given I was in a suddenly-awoken state, my handwriting is almost illegible, but I think I got it all.

So... yeah.

Cheese Dreams.

Freaking me out since, well... always.  

What's your freaky Cheese Dream story?

How Many Blog Posts Does It Take...?

Yesterday turned out to be a bit of a big day for me.  I woke up in the morning and, has been my norm of late, reached for my phone to check email, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.  Before I even got out of bed.  As I was doing this, it suddenly struck me that I'm wasting a good half hour or more each morning - time that I could spend sleeping in a little longer, or writing, or exercising... doing anything except waste time on social media reading about the lives of people who are really just acquaintances.

I really don't know what kicked me into action, but by the end of the day yesterday, I'd deleted all the photo albums and important information from my account, sent an email to the twenty or so Facebook friends who are actual friends, letting them know of my decision, and deactivated my account.

Within 10 minutes I'd received an email from one of those friends (who lives in Edinburgh) checking up on me to make sure I was ok and sending me her love; and this morning I received messages from three other friends, supporting my choice.

I'm a little intrigued to see if any of the other 300 or so Facebook friends actually notice my absence and if they do, bother to contact me by some other method. Most of them have my email address and mobile number - some also follow me on Twitter and Instagram (which I'm keeping for the moment - foregoing all social media would be too much of a shock to the system!), so if they really want to know what's going on in my life, it will be fairly simple for them to find out.

I don't deny that Facebook has been a great way to reconnect with old friends and keep people abreast of what's happening in my life. But it was starting to take up too much of my life and I've had enough.  It's time to get back to basics. Communicate with my friends properly (with the added advantages of technology like Skype of course). If people want to know what's happening in my life, they can pick up the phone, or email, or text me (or even, gasp!, write me a letter!).  And, by eliminating Facebook from my life, I can (and will) spend more quality time on the friendships I value most.

It's also no surprise that when I started Facebook-ing, my commitment to this blog waned. Quite dramatically. I'm hoping to change that. Just before I went to sleep last night, I scribbled something in the notepad beside my bed:

"How Many Blog Posts Does It Take To Write A Novel?"

Below that, I'd made some bullet points:

- All the pages written when I used to do Morning Pages

- All the words typed in blog posts

- All the Facebook status updates

= how many thousands of words written?

It's quite a sobering thought really. Over the last few years, I probably could've written a novel, but instead I've written lots of short things (and nothing of note).

I think it's time that changed.

Don't you?

Flying Figs

Things I could care less about today:

Offspring and the hoo-haa surrounding the death of some character named Patrick. Honest to god, you'd think half of my facebook friends had lost a their real-life partner. Even I (who as we are all well aware, is apt to get caught up in many a fictional drama) think everyone's gone off the reservation and back to crazy town on this one.

Mumford & Sons and their use of Jason Bateman in their video clip to try and coerce me into listening to their pathetic-excuse-for-folk-music muzak.  I could give you a link to the clip I'm talking about, but I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.  As much as I adore the Bateman, I would rather stab my ears with sharp objects than listen to Mumford & Sons.

Tony Abbott.  For many, many reasons, but today it's for this reason in particular. Tony, you're an arsehat.

Facebook status updates about how many hours sleep your child had, how many times a day they pooped or what they ate for dinner.  Seriously. I have facebook friends who write this shite. I don't care if "little Johnny pooped six times today and then ate mushy peas and a whole banana for his tea".  Really. I don't. Nor do (I suspect) most people.  I've decided on a three strikes principle for these people - that is, if they post three times in a row about their kids' culinary habits, they're unfriended. Harsh? Probably. But life's too short to give a flying monkeys about a random toddler and their ability to eat and defecate.

People bitching at me about my potty mouth. I know I use the "f" word a little to freely, but honestly, I'm not as bad as Malcolm Tucker.



Right, now I've got that off my chest; things that have cheered me today:

While we're on the topic of Malcolm Tucker... THIS. Fucking genius. I must say, I'm very much looking forward to Peter Capaldi taking control of the TARDIS. I've never been terribly fond of Matt Smith and have barely watched even a dozen of his episodes.  The appointment of Peter to the role has given me reason to tune in again.

My new haircut.  It's taken me five years of living in Melbourne, but I've finally found an awesome hairdresser who not only didn't bat an eyelid when I showed him pics of how I wanted my hair to be, but actually delivered the goods.  Extremely happy.  And not ridiculously priced, given the salon is smack-bang in the CBD.

Arriving home to the delivery of an eBay purchase - a very pretty designer frock which I nabbed for the bargain price of $25, plus postage. I have a very swanky wedding to attend in Sydney in September where the minimum frock price will be about $500. I should fit right in - but for a fraction the cost. What can I say - I'm a girl on a budget. Now for shoes.

Oh and I'm also due to start my new (one day a week to start) job next week - super excited about that!

So.

How was YOUR day?