Last night I had a dream that I was on Property Brothers.  Swoon!  For some reason, I was helping my parents remodel their house as opposed to my own house. We were in the process of clearing out The Back Room (aka Where All The Stuff Lives) and my (loving, wonderful) family was being of no help.  I kept asking them “Could you just help me for 5 minutes?  Just 5 minutes!” and every time I came back into the room, they would all be sitting on the couch again, playing on their phones. 

The real Back Room has a full built in bookshelf across one wall, 3 couches, and a China hutch. The Back Room in my dream had magical places where new furniture would just appear each time I left the room carrying an armload of crap. Usually the new piece of furniture would appear in the middle of the room and would be filled with a random assortment of goodies: namely a weird conglomeration of handmade Christmas ornaments (in June) and a collection of cooking utensils that can only be used while camping. 

In the process of carrying a stack of vinyl from The Back Room to my parents bedroom, I found myself walking into my grandmother’s kitchen.  She was standing by the sink, rinsing out old fashioned milk bottles.  I asked her where she found them and in an incredulous voice she said “Lindsey, these are from the old days when they delivered milk to your doorstep.”  She didn’t mean to sound like I was an idiot but I immediately began backpeddling to explain my reason for asking.  (Simply put: my coworker has a large glass bottle with a screw on top that he uses for juicing.  I want one.  Any leads?)

I walked back into The Back Room to find more tiny pieces of furniture with Mary Poppins Purse-like hiding spaces and my family on their phones again.  I explained that Jonathan (swoon) would be back soon and we needed to get a move on.  I also wondered where the magical behind the scenes crew was and why there weren’t any cameras. I also realized that I was wearing my pajamas (a tank and my scotty dog PJ pants) and slippers.  And no bra.  And I was reminded of a (true) story of when I was working at the scene shop in college in the earlys aughts when the style was for girls to wear those skinny camisole/tank tops out as regular shirts with either a completely unsupportive or completely non-existant bra underneath.  At work one day while stacking flats (“back to front, front to back, that’s the way we store our flats”) and the freshman girl working with my got her boob trapped between two flats.  Our foreman (who looked like a lumberjack and had the sensibility of a mysogynistic lumberjack) waited until she left the area and turned to me and said “YOU need to tell her to wear a bra to work.”  Freshman Girl walked back as he finished the sentence so he yelled to her “Damnit Leslie!  Wear a fucking bra tomorrow!”  Once everyone was sufficiently horrified by his outburst, our shift ended and we meekly walked out of the theater into the world.

The moral of this story is, I need a contract in Virginia. 



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