One of my most interesting pregnant dreams featured aliens whose queen comes to earth and I [as president of the US] have to stop a giant alien migration by traveling to an office building and commanding all satellites to crash to earth thus preventing their communications and eventual tyranny over the human race.  This dream also features Kenny Rogers, that one black guy from Stargate SG-1, Will Smith reprising his MIB role, and the real life version of a Simpsons cartoon.

In my pregnant dreams I have killed my husband [gee, I wonder why!], lost my 3 year old, fought aliens, raised sheep, jumped off a building and lived, gave my unborn child to my crazy mother,  and moved to Paris.  But the weirdest dream so far I had today when I finally caught a nap.

I dreamed that I lived in this trailer park that was kind of like half trailer park half gypsy commune where people lived in wagons and stuff.  Only people I knew were allowed to live here, and everyone I knew did.  One day I was sitting in my trailer watching Sally Jesse Raphael [I remember because I was astonished she was on TV but excited because I love her glasses] when I decided to go outside for a smoke with my cat. 

Here’s the thing-MY CAT SMOKED TOO.  In my dream this little kitten just romped over to my pack and nudged one out and then put it in their mouth and went outside on my “porch” [not really a porch, more like crappy wooden stairs with a square platform at the top like some of the trailers have].  I went out there to smoke and then I lit my cat’s cigarette for them because-I thought this in my dream-*duh* they don’t have opposable thumbs. 

I was hanging out with Smokey the Cat [not named so in my dream, but I think it's appropriate to call them that] when my step sister comes by and tells me that my parents want to see me.  So me and Smokey follow her to my parent’s trailer which was a really small robins’ egg blue color.  The whole way I tried to talk to my step sister but all she would say was “nice cat” and then just ignored me. 

When I got to my parent’s house Smokey stayed outside to finish their cig and I went inside to talk to my parents and they had like this gigantic pond in the middle of their trailer.  It was like as wide as two of me would be tall!  It had rocks in kind of a half-ass pathway through it.  My step mom was sitting on the only sofa on the only spot of dry land in their trailer so I went there instead and sat down and she asked me about “the painting”.  I had never HEARD of the painting-what painting?-but she wouldn’t elaborate except to say that if I had sold the painting my dad was going to be pissed.  I told her I didn’t think I sold it because I didn’t remember even having it, but then she just told me to go talk to my dad about it and wouldn’t talk to me anymore. 

She made me go out the back door which was on the other side of the pond.  I tried to stay on the rocks, but I fell into the water and I started freaking out.  I was crying hysterically because I felt gross and I asked my step mom where the water came from and she told me that it was used toilet water which they bought because they got it cheap…only a dollar per pound!  So I freak out even more and try to crawl on the rocks but they are way too slippery and no one will help me.  Finally, Smokey the Cat hears me crying and dives in to save me with a lit cigarette in it’s mouth.  The end.

I don’t know what the hell THAT means, but it is quite possibly the funniest dream I’ve had in my entire life [after the fact].  At least I get some type of amusement out of my pregnancy hormones!

I am not so inclined. I tend not to believe that “it takes a village” but usually find the village very intrusive and would much rather avoid them whenever possible. I am Crazy Joe-that person who lives in the hut 25 miles away from the village and only goes to the village if there is an emergancy, and whom no one has seen in 15 years. I am part legend, part myth as far as my neighbors are concerned….I only exist because my husband tells them I do.

And he does. As soon as we get new neighbors my husband starts suggesting we “drop in and say hi”, which normally is recieved by much eye-rolling from me and results in him going alone to meet the new neighbors. This week it is WORSE because we have not only one but two new neighbors, which has caused the social part of my husbands brain to explode in excitement. There must have been an explosion in his brain, causing him brain damage, because that is the only way I can understand his suggestion that I make cookies so that we can go over there and meet both neighbors at the same time. [Which, I suppose, due to the layout of our apartment complex would be physically possible.]

To my husband, this is a social event. To me, it borders on lunacy. I would much rather observe them from a distance that prohibits conversation just long enough to gage whether or not they are serial killers or pervs. After that, I only go into the village for emergancies. I would have no problem going to my neighbors and telling them that their child [which I have keenly observed is theirs from a distance] is playing in a dangerous location, or if there were smoke billowing from their windows knocking to see if all was well and even calling 911 for them. However I do not want to know their name, their children’s names, their various pet’s names and species, what they fight with their husbands/wives/ex-husband/ex-wives/baby’s daddy about, how horrible their in-laws are, how much they hate their job, or that they are out of butter and would like some of mine. This is an excess of personal information sharing.

Cookies lead to the excess sharing of personal information.

That, and my oven has not been used in two months [because of paralysing morning sickness] and when I made mac-n-cheese today I almost burned my house down. That was just the stove top, I don’t want to know what will happen if I try to bake something….no, cookies are far too dangerous.

In fact, I am thinking of making code names for my family. I’ve been thinking about it anyway because I know that I will at some point have to reference them in some way on my blog and all I know about internet safety I learned from “To Catch A Predator”….which leads to paranoia about your personal information. From now on, my lovely husband will be The Man [he'll like that!] and our beautiful boy will get to keep Monkeypants. I, as always, will be Mommy M.

Oh and don’t worry all two of you who read my blog, my distain for sharing personal information and meeting new people extends only to people I have to meet in real life. I’m sure it means I have some sort of mental/emotional/social disease, but I have no problems sharing my stories with perfect strangers on the internet and being friendly back and forth. I am a proud and happy villager of the internet community….maybe it’s because I don’t have to bake you cookies.

We have called my son monkeypants for almost his whole life.  It started with my parents who perferred to call him “Monkey Boy” rather than by his given name because A.) they hated his given name, and B.) when he was little he would cling to me like a little monkey and look at you curiously with his almost-cartoonishly huge eyes.  My parents still call him Monkey Boy and, as I was informed by my dad not two whole days ago, they intend to call him Monkey until they die.

So what was Monkey Boy from my parents turned into Monkey and then eventually Monkeypants from my husband and I.  We call him Monkeypants all the time [except when he's in trouble of course, then it's FIRSTNAME MIDDLENAME!!!] it was only a matter of time that he adopted the name for himself.

My son has a habit of calling himself out of his nap.  When he’s done with nap time he will lean his head out the door and call his own name.  He’ll say “Get up Firstname…..Fiiiiiiiirrrrrrssssstttnaaaaaammmeee!  Time to get up!”  Yesterday my son stuck out his head and called to himself “Firstname Middlename Monkeypants!  Oh Mister Moooonkeypants!  Get up from nap!”

I almost died laughing.  So I let him get up from nap and then I asked him, “Hey little boy, what’s your name?” and he looked me square in the eye and said “Firstname Middlename Monkeypants.  Nice to meet you.”

Nice to meet you too Mr. Monkeypants.