Weird

Chris, unfortunately, got sick this weekend. Actually, that's not true. He got sick two weeks ago; got better last week; and then relapsed on Saturday. So, naturally, when Monday morning rolled around, guess who else started to feel achy and sniffly?

Me.

But I think the real indicator that I'm on my way to a potentially severe cold and/or sickness is the insane dream I had last night.

I was working the front gate of a mansion--checking packages and signing for deliveries. This usually isn't too difficult, but all of a sudden an enormous armored car showed up with a whopping 249 packages that needed to be signed and accounted for. They were all valuable pieces from an auction that the mansion owner had purchased; most of it was jewelry.

So, I start counting and labeling and sorting and what have you, when I see my coworker let about 100 packages through the gate--without counting or labeling.

"What are you doing?" I cry. "You can't just let them through."
She raised an eyebrow and then laughed.
"Did I not tell you? I only count and label for deliveries that are 5 packages or less. You know, as an exercise to pass the time. You don't have to do it for massive deliveries like this."

Because this was a dream, I have no idea how long I was working--or if I was happy or annoyed by this revelation. But I remember giving the driver permission to enter, and watching the enormous truck wind along the driveway and disappear.

All of a sudden I was transported to my mom's old suburban. The one she used to drive when I was in 8th grade. It was teal with grey interior.

Sitting in the front seat was my uncle Henry, who passed away when I was fourteen. I couldn't see who was driving. This is all I remember:

"Oh my god! What are you doing here?"
"I got some time to come back."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'd really like to see Aunt Betty."

Then the driver dropped me off outside my grandmother's house, who died in October of last year. Uncle Henry and Mom's teal suburban slowly drove away, and so I decided to enter the house. When I walked into her living room--there she was, clear as day.

"Oma?"
"Yes, schott. [This is a dutch term of endearment.] Have a seat."

I don't remember her exact words, but she proceeded to tell me that she'd been in Hell for 5 minutes. But she was out and really enjoying heaven.

Then I woke up.

I scare myself sometimes.