At Least They're Committed

Trying to scream, trying to scream, nothing coming out until my husband shakes me and asks me if I’m OK. I gasp, awake. Awful, awful, trying to shake the images. . .

I recalled to D and DSII later that morning in the car how I’d dreamed we were on a cruise, on the deck, with bright Caribbean scarves and hats and skirts and flowery drinks. But despite the cheery music and pleasant, portly passengers, there was something simply wrong, as if a shadow of foreboding told of things to come. We looked on our drink receipt and realized our pina coladas were five times more expensive on this deck as they had been on the other side. Disconcerting at the very least! And then, then the green and orange plastic lawn chairs we were on were much too small! Child sized! And while I was able to maneuver my body between the fragile arm rests, D was wresting and ended up collapsing the chaise lounge, embarrassed.

Trying to keep our spirits up, I suggested we walk around a bit and do some shopping. It all seemed all right then, walking, smiling, wasn’t that woman on the other cruise we’d been on? A large, shaggy, black, white and gray mutt trotted at our heels. Beautiful people, cheerful faces! We headed to a novelty shop with colorful tin lizards, sunscreen and bright gauze dresses. D headed in, but I stopped at the restroom right outside. I slipped inside and it was like walking into a portable outhouse, with poorly flushing toilets clotted with used tissue, tampons, crap . . . and a side of hand sanitizer. I used my left foot to hit the button to flush. The water twirled and rose, but then like a vicious shit demon the toilet exploded, jettisoning wet clusters of feces at me. I quickly turned as the wave of excrement, piss, clods of drenched toilet paper and bloody cotton pelted my back, splatting and streaming down the escape hatch. Oh my God! Did everyone on this cruise eat corn? I clawed at the door latch feeling the warmth and cold of the waste soaking through my clothing, clotting in my hair. Frantic I tried to scream but could not. The slimy latch finally gave way against my urine drenched fingers, spilling me and torrent of filth onto the deck, the toilet still belching projectile intestinal foul out of the restroom door. On all fours I scrambled, unable to gain my footing in the slick sludge spewing and stewing around and beneath me. I couldn’t get away! And again I tried to scream and I couldn’t and I only grunted again and again until I was awakened . . .

And as I told D and DSII this story on our way to work and school, we started to laugh. I mean, like, even before I got the whole story out we were cracking up and D said he was grossed out and was sorry he’d wrapped his arms around me to comfort me when he woke me up.

So, is that funny? Right? I’m trying. Really I am! And as an afterthought, I think maybe this is why one of my therapists once told me to avoid watching the news.