The Weirdest Dream EVER

For those of you that have been reading my new and improved blog, you’ll know that my pipes have frozen up for most of the past two weeks.

They thawed for approximately 20 hours the other day and we threw a party, complete with showers, laundry and dishwasher running.

Yeah!  I have a mop and I'm ready to party *said no woman ever*

Yeah! I have a mop and I’m ready to party *said no woman ever*

I mean, really, when I get excited about cleaning the house, you know it’s been a ridiculous time for us. I mean, I hate housework. No, that’s not right. I LOATHE it, with a passion usually reserved for Stalin and idiot racists.

But, that’s not the point of this post.

Because the pipes froze, we have been unable to shower at the house. Yes, the shower was out of commission, the toilet was not refilling, the washing machine, the kitchen sink and dishwasher were all out of commission. Pots and pans are stacking up, we’re eating with plastic silverware and off of paper plates to keep the dishes to a minimum.

But it was the showers that were killing me. Or, lack thereof.

Not to say that I wasn’t keeping clean, shaving all that needed to be shaved. Applying soap in all the necessary places.

Needless to say, it wasn’t anything like Julia Roberts in Beverly Hills.

No, it was more like Laura Ingalls in her Little House.

I would boil a tea pot of water on the stove. I had to fill said tea pot in the bathroom sink because it was the only one with running water. I then had to wait for it to boil. Then, take it back to the bathroom and pour it into a bowl, a little at a time, and use it to wash my hair (mixed with cold water, obviously) and shave, and PTA bathe so that I could be seen in public.

It was a ridiculous amount of work and got old very quickly.

Obviously, the idea of the shower not working was taking up a lot of space in my mind, consciously and subconsciously, as evidenced by the dream I had last night.

I dreamt I went to a whorehouse. No, I didn’t work there. I was a customer.

Yes, women can frequent whorehouses, too

Yes, women can frequent whorehouses, too

I talked to the lady at the desk and paid my money. I then stuck my hand in a big jar, a la Hunger Games the reaping

I came up with a doozy. It was the perfect man. Beautiful blue eyes, hair that you want to run your fingers through, amazingly straight teeth. And, he spoke fluent French.

Yes, I drew out the name Bradley Cooper.

Who wouldn't volunteer to be with him???

Who wouldn’t volunteer to be with him???

Bradley Cooper, who is an orgasm on a stick, was to entertain and please me all night long.

It was my personal wet dream come true.

So, I took the name that I had drawn out, picked up my bag (cause you never know what you’ll need for a night of sexual fun and pleasure) and stepped through the curtain into the whorehouse proper.

And immediately stopped.

I never got to have my night with Bradley Cooper. I never knew his sweet, sensual touch on my skin.

Because the whorehouse had the most spectacular showers on the face of the earth.

Do you understand? I gave up a night of sexual healing with Bradley Cooper to TAKE A SHOWER.

I chose a SHOWER over BRADLEY COOPER.

There is something so wrong with that.

Now, excuse me while I boil some water. I need to clean up the remnants of my dream….

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