It's my website and I'll cry if I want to

Good morning, Internet. Today I am CRAN. KY. The weather is gray, I forgot my lunch AGAIN, and it's only TUESDAY. Wah.

I also had a bad dream. Oh wait, here's some good news. I can't remember the last time I took a handful of Benadryl to help me go to sleep. HALLELUJAH. I have now jinxed my new sleep status by advertising it on the internet, but I'm not afraid because I? can't remember the last time I needed chemical sleeping assistance! So anyway, I am remembering my dreams now. My old bad dreams used to involve family tragedies (kidnappings!) or war (I'm a photojournalist and I'm in the line of fire!) or natural disasters (my apartment is swallowed up in an earthquake!) or freak accidents (I once dreamed I was on the Lost island being chased by Lostzilla. Honest. But it was also kind of a good dream because I was being chased with Matthew Fox.)

So this dream? Not that bad. But still. Bad enough so that when I woke up, I was noticeably relieved. It went like this:

I am at work. On a Saturday morning. (I KNOW. This is ALREADY insane.) Also, I am working quite dilligently and being very responsible about some of my accounts. (I have "accounts" in the loosest sense of the word. But yes, they are there. And the money that is exchanged? Yes, I am in charge of that, even though I earned a 140 on the math section of the SAT and successfully avoided all college courses involving numbers and their associated symbols.) Anyway, I have an invoice that needs to be investigated and I can't remember how to do something in Peachtree (PEACHTREE, you guys. They let me go into PEACHTREE here.) So what do I do? I call up my coworker, She Who Is In Charge Of Money. I call her at home. And, because I am the DUMBEST dilligent professional in the world, I say, "Hi Coworker!" very very brightly and annoyingly and immediately launch into my long complicated story about stupid Peachtree. And my coworker, the person who takes the least amount of crap in my office, waits for me to finish and then says ONE thing. In the iciest voice possible she says, "Maggie. DO YOU MIND?" Eeeeeeeeek!!!

(I know, I know, it's not the WORST thing she could say or even the thing that makes the most SENSE, but this is what she said in MY dream and this is MY website.)

Anyway, Internet, perhaps you don't know this about me, but unless your name is Phillip, I steer clear of conflict. Maybe my dream conversation doesn't count, since I wasn't trying to invite conflict, but it was the same kind of "Oh crap someone's MAD AT ME!" feeling that I absolutely hate. I don't like people being mad at me. I strive for universal admiration. Some people call this "sucking up" but I like to call it "making friends". But my coworker? Her give-a-damn is ALWAYS busted. What was I THINKING calling this woman up early on a Saturday morning to ask her a question about WORK? The next time I saw her she would probably SHOOT ME.

So I wake up this morning rather dismayed at the fact that I have to go to work and face my rightfully pissy coworker, until I remember that it was all a DREAM and I have nothing to worry about. Yes, this qualifies as a bad dream in Mighty Maggie Land. Shut up.

However, the fact that my contact is scratching my left eye is not a dream. Nor is the crap weather or the calendar hissing "Tuuuuesday!"

I do have one thing to look forward to, that being the haircut I finally scheduled for this evening. It's one thing to not care about the stringy as you go about your own life, but fairly soon I will be showing up in someone's wedding photos and I don't want the stringy to crash the shiny purple wedding. Add "the last time I had my hair professionally cut" to the list of things I can't remember. I had my cousin, the Hair Priestess, give me a trim in my grandma's laundry room on Thanksgiving, but I've been avoiding it ever since. I am a veritable horror of split ends. So tonight I am paying someone to wash it and cut it and make it pretty and they BETTER make me feel PAMPERED. Ugh. Hair was a lot easier when it was 2 inches long and cut for free by your trained professional hair cutter friend.

In other news, Michael Jackson is cleared! Snore. I wonder if it's possible to die of talk radio. Just the sound of Alan Prell's voice inspires thoughts of wrist-slitting and hunger strikes.