Thursday, January 3, 2013

Never trust an Irish dentist

So last night I had a dream about my book and it was kind of weird.  There's this character in my book named Declan Byrne, sort of hot mess of an Irish actor.  Not a real actor, just someone I made up, although I'm sure there's loads of guys somewhere with that name in real life and here's hoping they don't sue me.  But anyway, just a fictional Irish movie star with a predilection for sex, drugs, and vampire movies.

In my dream, though, I walked into a room full of real-life Irish actors.  And they were pissed.  At me, for inventing my own actor instead of using one of them in the book.  Which seems a little whiny on their part, but all I know is that one minute I'm walking into an abandoned warehouse, the next minute Liam Neeson's chucking a vat of dill pickles at me.  And not the good kind, like crunchy and garlicky; the crappy kind I bought on sale for Christmas lunch and nobody ate.  Apparently cheap pickles will come back to haunt you; lesson learned the hard way, thanks very much.

So I'm dodging pickles, grown men are yelling at me - and it should be terrifying except their accents are so damn cute, it's not really scary.  Plus, I mean, it's a dream.  Then there's the Irish peridontist from the office where I had my root canal done last year.  Not the angry one who actually performed the procedure and yelled at me to stop squirming, which if you ask me, is a mean thing to say to someone who's taken two Halcions, but that's another story.  Anyway, the damn dentist is shaking his finger at me and that's pretty odd. 

Then Colin Farrell dumps an entire Gatorade thermos of Guinness on my head, and I'm all, "joke's on you asshole; that shit's good for my hair!" And I'm about to throw the thermos right back when I feel these little tiny arms and legs on my back.  All I can think is "holy shit, they've unleashed leprechauns on me!"  So I start fighting the leprechauns and the warehouse fades to black as I peel off these nasty, kicking legs and feet.

And then I wake up.  The Irish mafia is gone, replaced by my six-year-old kicking me awake, demanding apple juice.  As I stumble into the kitchen, push the button on the coffeemaker and grab some juice, I trip over something.  It's my crappy little paper calendar/planner thingy.  I pick it up, flip to today's date where in bright red Sharpie letters I read, "Dentist 9:30."