My sister was asking this morning what seems wrong to me.  (Well, technically, she asked, “What seems wrong to you?”–“you” meaning not only me, but everyone who was not her, but also including me, so technically, what I said before was correct.  I was just making her question very personal.)  I said one thing on her blog (well, technically, I said two things, but neither of them is the thing I’m about to say–wait for it!), but the thing I’m thinking now that seems wrong is that I should love food so much and still not know what I want to eat for dinner tonight.

Note:  I don’t think it seems wrong that I should love food and not know what to make for dinner.  I don’t want to make anything. But that I should not even know what I want to eat seems ridiculous.  If I could come up with something I wanted to eat, maybe I figure out what I would be willing to make.  Maybe my stupor of thought stems from the fact that not only do I not want to make anything, but I am also unwilling to eat anything I could possibly make.

Or, alternatively, maybe I just don’t want the responsibility of deciding what I will eat.  This may be because I have made some poor food choices, or at least regrettable food choices, over the last few days.  I had a deli sandwich from the Safeway for lunch yesterday because I just didn’t feel like eating anything I made for myself.  I thought that if somebody else made it, it would automatically taste better.  I was probably right, it probably did taste better–but it just didn’t taste good enough.  How many calories were in that sandwich?  I have no idea.  I just have the feeling that there were probably more than I needed, more than I imagine there were, and that the calories:good ratio was unfavorable.  I don’t mind a so-so-tasting sandwich if the caloric intake is in the responsible range, but there was bacon and avocado involved.  Also focaccia bread.  I know, how could it go wrong?  With bacon? Well, it didn’t go wrong so much as it just went…eh.  And that was unacceptable to me.

Then last night, after tap class, I went to the chocolate cafe and instead of having a hot chocolate, I had a milkshake.  Because that is what you should always do after a workout–negate it.  Render it moot.  It was a delicious milkshake, by the way.  Caloric intake likely well out of the responsible range, but tasty, so…possibly worth it.  Except that I had a stomachache later because maybe the thing to do after a workout is not have a big heaping glass of dairy product.  I dunno, I’m ordinarily very lactose-tolerant, so common sense often doesn’t apply to me, but whatever.  My point is not so much the stomachache, but I had some crazy, crazy, crazy dreams last night.  Actually, not so much crazy as disturbing.  Horrifying.  Make-you-wish-you-could-go-to-sleep-and-start-over-again.  And that was no good.  I don’t ordinarily subscribe to the idea of food giving you nightmares, but I just don’t know how else to explain it.

I don’t usually try to figure out what my dreams mean, but I like to try to figure out where my dreams come from.  Like the time I dreamed about Homer Simpson being in the CIA and also playing Michael Jackson in that old Pepsi commercial where his hair caught on fire.  Why would I dream such a thing?  I don’t remember, but I do remember figuring out where each of those ideas had come from–the Simpsons, the CIA, Michael Jackson, Pepsi (or commercials…or pyrotechnics)–when and where those things might have gotten lodged in my subconscious, and then I was at peace with the whole thing.

So last night I dreamed I was watching television.  I often dream that I’m watching television.  A few weeks ago I dreamed I was watching this awesome television show–and I actually woke up just as the plot was thickening, and I thought, “Dangit! I really wanted to know how that ended,” but then I fell asleep and I finished the dream.  I know!  When does that ever happen?  But it happened to me, gentle readers.  It was a REM period miracle.  And no, I did not dream that I woke up and went back to sleep.  I really did wake up.  I went to the bathroom and everything.  For real.  I didn’t just dream that I went to the bathroom–although I do that a lot, too.  It is actually a miracle that I have never wet the bed as an adult, considering how often I dream about going to the bathroom.  That might mean something, but I don’t want to know what it could be.  (And I am already anticipating my husband’s comment, “Who says you don’t wet the bed?”–so don’t even bother, honey.)  Where was I?  Oh, yes.  I need a new paragraph.

So I dreamed I was watching television, as is my wont.  (Dreaming about watching TV is my wont, I mean.  Actually watching TV is not so much my wont, interestingly enough.)  And I was watching this very disturbing program with very violent storylines.  The first story was about this girl who was a murderer.  The second story [content excised because I just don’t want to go there].  Where does any of this come from?  It was such a horrible, horrible, horrible, disturbing dream, and I’m inclined to blame the milkshake.  Because I’m not the sort of person who blames the toxic rhetoric of our public discourse.  But I’m also not a habitual milkshake-blamer.  I have always been a friend of milkshakes.  Why would I turn on the milkshake?  Why would the milkshake turn on me?  What is the milkshake trying to tell me?

Now I have to get my daughter ready for school and also go grocery shopping even though I’m very tired from having such a disturbing dream and also don’t know what I want to eat for dinner.  Wish me luck.