The girls and I ended up talking about dreams last night, and how some people remember them when they wake up, or some people can figure out mid-nightmare that they are dreaming and turn things around. Me? I can't usually remember my dreams. Nor can I tell that I'm dreaming when it's happening.
Actually, I used to have a bit of a problem with waking up, not realizing that my dream is over and then acting on it.
Case in point: I will probably never live down the time that I scared the snot out of my roommate. I used to live in this old historical house in Downtown Edmonton. I shared it with two guys and another girl. Two of them were frequently away, but the one guy almost never left. His name was Marcel. Marcel was, to put it nicely, a very lazy guy. He did not help out with house work. He didn't cook, and he certainly didn't do dishes. He mooched our food, let us do the dishes and thought nothing of letting the others clean up after him wherever he went. It was a problem.
So, when I had a dream one night that there were a treasure in our house, it should come as no surprise that everybody in my dream helped out with the search but Marcel. I don't remember the specifics, but in my dream we had been informed that a large pile of money had been hidden somewhere in the nooks and crannies of the house. The two roommates who were rarely home and I started a thorough search in an effort to find it, but Marcel did nothing.
That was the dream. It ended when I woke up at some point around 2:00am. I didn't realize that it was a dream, though, so I continued to act it out. I got out of bed, went to the door of my room and opened it up. I called out in a whisper "Marcel. Marcel!" until he woke up and came out of his room.
The exact moment when Marcel opened his door was when I realized - in real life - that I was wearing the ugliest pajamas on earth, and that I shouldn't let Marcel see me like that. So, I slammed my door closed. Marcel called after me, wanting to know why I'd woken him up. Still on a mission to find the money but not wanting him to see the hideous sleepwear, I opened my door a crack. I whispered urgently "Check the house!" before closing the door, going back to bed and falling into a deep sleep.
Not being in on the dream, Marcel had no idea that I was chewing him out for not assisting with the search for the treasure. No. He thought I'd heard noises and wanted him to check the house for prowlers. And amazingly enough, he did. Even better, when he got to the back foyer, he realized that the door was unlocked.
Marcel got zero sleep for the rest of the night. I slept like a baby with the knowledge that I'd finally convinced him to step up and help around the house. And that, folks, is a most excellent way to screw with your roommate's head. And probably another one of many reasons why I should live alone.
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