Dreams, man.

Yeah, I know. Reading about someone else's dreams is about as interesting as watching their wedding video. Again.

But I'm a little rusty at this writing thing and I need some practice to get the idea logjam freed up. Humor me.

For Christmas, my sister sent us the Curry gift set from Penzey's and last night D tried out the Rogan Josh recipe. OMG, delicious. But very spicy. Very. And it had to simmer for a while, so we didn't eat until late.

Spicy food + 9:30 dinner time + pregnancy ---> You see where this is going right?

I'm known for crazy dreams on a good day. It's a family trait that I got straight from my dad. And, aside from constant whining, it is my number one pregnancy symptom: the crazy gets crazier.

I won't bore you with the details, but the dreams seemed to have been heavily influenced by House on Haunted Hill (if you haven't seen it, run don't walk away from it. It's awful, but it clearly stuck with me.) and ended with a voiced-over epilogue about the last person left (not me or Damian, we got out alive) eating their own head before the place burned to the ground. Then D turned to me and said "How does someone eat their own head?"

Curtain falls.

Sadly, this dream was the better part of the night, the part when I was not laying awake having imaginary arguments with authority figures at work or working my way through the alphabet. Last night's category was Living Things That Start With A.

Aardvark, Abalone, Acorn (kind of a stretch), Adder ...