Tag Archive: dreams


I’m not sure what’s going on lately in my brain but something isn’t right.

I think my problem is that I haven’t been sleeping well.  I’ve been pretty much a mess since I’ve been home from Europe, but I feel like my internal clock should be back to normal by now.  This weekend, I pretty much just slept when I felt tired, which was at weird times. And then Sunday I basically slept all day.  I don’t think that’s a problem though because I was still suffering from jetlag then.

Lately, things have just been cray cray.  Weird stuff has been happening, stuff I haven’t experienced in my sleep before.

Usually, when I sleep I never remember my dreams or even really feel like I had been dreaming. Lately, I wake up and I know I’ve been dreaming. I still never remember my dreams but I think that’s because every time I wake up, I’m waking up in a panic so the memory of my dream gets pushed away quickly.

In the past, I don’t even really remember waking up in the middle of the night all that often.  Sure, I’d wake up right before my alarm went off, but that is totally different than waking up at 3am and wondering what the hell is happening. It’s not even like there’s an alarm or a noise or some kind of event that occurs to make me wake up in the middle of the night. I just all of a sudden become awake and freak out because I don’t know what’s going on.

For instance, last night, as has been the pattern for the last three or four nights, I wake up at, like, 3am and have absolutely NO idea where the hell I am. I wake up all confused and disoriented and it takes a hot minute to figure out that I’m at home in my own bed, sleeping alone. I don’t really know where I think I am when I wake up all confused, but I know that it’s very disturbing.  I am so confused that I literally sit up and try looking around, and then get out of bed to get my bearings. That’s when I realize, Oh, no, it’s okay. Go back to bed, you’re fine. You’re at home.  On another note, I also am not sure why I start freaking out about why I’m in my bed alone. I wake up in a panic because whoever I think is supposed to be next to me suddenly isn’t anymore.

I’m not even kidding. I spend a good five solid minutes every night, in the middle of the night, trying to figure out what the fuck is happening. And then because I get so worked up, I have to spend another five minutes trying to calm the fuck down and coax myself back to sleep.

I guess I’m just gonna hope for the best and keep my fingers crossed that this behavior eventually just stops and I can resume my normal sleeping behavior.  And quickly.

Please keep your fingers crossed that I can sleep through the night.

I’ve finally done something cool.

For once in my life, I have engaged myself into a trend that is actually cool.

For once in my life, I have done something cool to my hair.

And putting sun-in in my hair in sixth grade with a girl from school and getting grounded for doing so does not count.

There’s this new craze that’s all about feather extensions.

I’ve been hearing about it for at least a couple months now and I finally decided to be brave and get some feathers stuck all up in my boring brown hair.  Now, I’m fine, fresh and fierce with my fancy flying feathers.  Oh em gee, that was probably one of my most successful almost-alliterations.  That was a fuck-ton of f’s up in that sentence.

Also, the birds in my backyard and I have something in common now, so that’s pretty sweet.  I’m sure it’s not long before I sprout some wings and fly far, far away from here.  I’ll fly all the way to Hogwarts and become friends with the post owls in the owlery and if Hogwarts won’t take me I can fall back on being a post-owl/weird flying girl with feathers in her hair.  Clearly I have my life all figured out.

Anyway, it took like three whole seconds for Wen to put the little metal bead/clipy-thing onto my hair and to seal it with the three feathers I picked.  Picking my feathers was the thing that took the most time.  In fact, I changed my mind like 4 times.  I was originally going to be a pansy-ass scaredy cat and get all brown tones but then I was like, wait, you should get a light colored one so it’ll at least show uppppp. But then I saw a black and white one and was like Dude, that is MINE.  And it was Wen who told me I needed to have the purple one because that way I have something fun, awesome and colorful but it’s not so overpowering and it still will blend in a little bit.

So, yeah, I ended up choosing a black and white feather, a two-tone brown one, and a purple and black one.  As you can (kinda) see here: I took a picture to show you how it’s clipped in my hair.  I should note that I got all three of my feathers clipped in the same metal clip thing, but Wen really tried to get me to put each feather in separately all over the place.  I was much too chicken-shit to actually do that, so I clipped them together in the same place, somewhere it would show when I pin my “bangs” back.  It goes in this metal bead type of thing, and it holds the feathers and a tiny, tiny section of hair and then gets tightened so it can’t move.

See?

You can hardly tell!

It’s super cool!

The other thing that’s cool about these feather extensions is that they’re supposedly super low maintenance.  I can wash my hair just like normal, and blowdry and flat iron the shit out of my hair like I normally do.  They curl right along with the rest of my hair, too; I tried it out today.  Wen and what’s-her-face who owns the salon I popped into today to have them done told me that they last for a really long time also.  The lady who owns the salon had two in and she’s been wearing them for six or seven weeks and they looked fab.  So, if and when I’m ready for them to come out, I’ll just pop back in and they’ll take my feathers out for me.

Except, fat chance because if I lose my feathers there goes my plan of flying away to Hogwarts and my future as a post-owl.

Here’s what they look like when I don’t do shit to my hair:

Ps. How awkward is this pic of me?! Lolz

Peach out, lovers.

For Christmas, I gave Nikki a gift card to a salon/spa with the intent that we would get pedicures together. Well, as fate would have it, as a birthday activity, Nikki and I went to get pedicures yesterday afternoon. For an hour and a half, we sat in cushy, black recliners while we soaked our feet in warm water and got to have our toes painted.

I happen to be very, very ticklish, a fact I always seem to forget until someone is touching my feet.

Anyway, yes, for an hour and a half my feet were very well taken care of. And then I put my socks back on and shoved my feet into my boots and we ventured back out into the Michigan snow.

Later that night, I slipped my stocking-covered feet into some black ballet flats while me and my gal pals terrorized East Lansing once again as we tried to “re-do” new year’s eve.

My toes were perfect. Not a chip or a smudge.

When I went to put on some fuzzy socks I noticed that something is not quite right with my toes. I think it has something to do with the fact that the three toesies in the middle on my left foot also kind of hurt.

I’m sure you’re wondering why that might be.

Don’t worry, I’ll tell you.

This morning, after I woke up and told Megan that I had yet another dream where I was about to die, and after I asked her if she wanted me to give her a wet-willy, we decided we’d venture downstairs to reunite with the last leg of our Tripod. Megan left the room and headed down the stairs before me because I turned back thinking I would bring my fleece love-knot blanket and LP down with me. Then, because I realized that my hands were already full with a three-quarter of the way full plastic cup of water and my crackberry, I decided I could live without LP and good ole fleecey.  At least for the time being.

I had taken maybe two steps when I turned my head to say, “I’ll come back for you!” in a whisper to LP when all hell broke loose.

Before I knew it, I was in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs with nothing but an empty cup in my hand.

I’d just like to point out that Megan’s stairway is very, very steep and it’s probably a safety hazard. I’m not just an idiot who doesn’t know how to do steps.

Megan came back from wherever she had been and then started laughing when she saw that I wasn’t actually hurt. Apparently, all she heard was a big thuddddd and a “whoa” and knew she needed to check on me.

After I picked myself up off the floor, I went to go tell Seneca that I had just bit it down the stairs but my first question was if she was even awake. The response I got? Something along the lines of “how could I not be?!”  While she didn’t hear the “whoa” punctuating my fall, she did hear me whine, “Ohhh, now I’m all wet!”

I’m pretty sure I’m not telling this right because I was laughing my ass off as the three of us regaled the hilarity it was to know that I took a tumble down the stairs.

My point is, now one of my toenails is a tiny bit chipped and there’s some degree of rug burn on my three middle toes on just my one foot.

If we could have filmed me busting my ass like that, I totally could have won some money on America’s Funniest Home Videos.

I pretty much just need my own camera crew, a few corporate sponsors and a reality show/development deal with a major TV network. I’m pretty sure I’ve got my life all mapped out.

Once upon a time….

baha just kidding.

I couldn’t think of anything to write. And I’ve been wanting to write that for a long time. The trouble is, even though every time I start a new post I want those words to start it out, I never have anything to follow them with. Maybe someday I’ll have something to follow “Once upon a time.” Even today, when I attempted to have something flow gloriously from typing “Once upon a time” it was complete and utter crap that came out. I randomly busted out some crap story about dinosaurs. And then I tapped the shit out of my “backspace” key because I thought, Katie, what the hell?! No one wants to hear a story about how you like dinosaurs but know nothing about dinosaurs nor do you really have a good story about why you like dinosaurs. So then I had to think of something else.

And now you got that story.

Actually, I’m gonna do something a little… different. And weird. And awkward.

I started writing something. You know, one of those secret things. The kinds of secrets you don’t tell anyone about. Not even your best friend. Because it’s one of those things that is scary to share because you love it so much and would absolutely die if someone told you it was stupid or that you should just give up your dream right now because there’s no shot in hell you’ll ever be good enough. It’s one of those dreams that you put away in a secret drawer to keep safe because it means that much.

But I’m gonna be brave, friends. I’m gonna share my special drawer-secret with you.

It’s brand new, this one is, and I wanted to share it. (I also didn’t know what else to put up for a post today.)

So here we go. It’s untitled thus far. But it’s mine.

—-

I was riding my classic Schwinn bicycle when I saw him step out of the car. The car was red and one I had never seen before. I didn’t pay any attention to the make or model because it never made any difference to me; I didn’t know cars. His brown hair was longer than I had remembered but it looked nice all the same, albeit a little greasy. My skirt billowed as I rode against the breeze and I felt my beachy curls begin to tangle. I had gone to visit the old lady with all the books, as I called her, and was coming home because my brother was due to show up that afternoon after his last final let out. Before I left, Mrs. Covington (the old lady with all the books) had filled my palms with caramel and butterscotch, just as she had done for the past fifteen years. Since I didn’t have pockets, I put them in the basket on the front of my bike.

He obviously had not seen me as I cruised past the driveway. His face, I noticed, bared no emotion. The hard line of his strong jaw was straight and his eyes bore ahead of him towards the front of the house. I was so surprised, I could not, for the life of me, think of anything to say to even get his attention.

The candy in the basket scattered on the grass when I hopped off my bike and left it in the yard. I didn’t pick it up. Instead, I ran as fast as my flats would carry me into the kitchen, where I knew my mom would be preparing dinner.

“Why didn’t you tell me Patrick was coming home?” I asked her.

It sounded more like an accusation, like she had deliberately held information from me and I had just discovered the truth. She did not like how I spoke to her, I could tell, because her face clouded with confusion and then slid into the expression I recognized as her disapproving of the tone I had used. “Patrick McKenna?”

“What other Patrick would I be talking about?” I snapped at her without thought.

“I didn’t know Patrick was coming home,” she told me as she reached for her glass of chardonnay. “Kath didn’t say anything on our walk this morning about him coming back.”

“Well,” I said impatiently, standing squarely in the kitchen, obviously flustered, “he’s here. He’s back. I just saw him get out of his car and go inside!”

Just then, Jack, my step-dad, strode into the kitchen and tossed his keys on the counter. It was a Friday, so Jack had finished early for the day and headed up north for the weekend. It was the common practice for summertime. He pulled the hem of his polo shirt from the waist of his khakis as he leaned in to place a kiss on my mom’s cheek and I wondered why he had so much fun playing golf every Friday.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said to me with a nod in my direction. “What the hell’s your bike doing in the lawn like that with all that candy everywhere?”

“I was in a hur-” I began.

“Patrick came home,” my mom told him, interrupting me. The significant glance between my parents was not lost on me.

“McKenna?” he asked immediately. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

—-

Thoughts?