Don't Worry, I'm Keeping My Day Job

I don't remember my dreams in the morning. I know that I dream, because every night between midnight and 2 a.m. one of the twins wakes me up to go potty or to crawl into our bed, and I am usually in the middle of some kind of dream . . . but its memory immediately dissipates like a vapor and I am telling you: I never remember my dreams by the time morning arrives.

This forgetfulness is a fairly new phenomenon. I still can vividly recall several dreams from my childhood, like the one where I fell off the bridge leading to my grandparents' house. That was scary. At some point in my adult life, though, I've lost the ability to recall my dreams. Maybe it's a byproduct of my pregnancies. Whatever. I've accepted it.

Then, this morning, I woke up and remembered every color, emotion, and word spoken from something I dreamed last night. I feel it is a sign from Freud and must share it with you:

I'm standing on a small platform in a smoky comedy club, holding a microphone. I introduce myself: Hi, I'm Kim. Not Kimberly. Kimberly is the name of a giggly, blonde-haired cheerleader. My mother was no fool. She called me Kim, which is more the name of a strong . . . dark-haired . . . Korean man.

Don't ask me what it means. However, I would like to add that the audience cracked up.

Dinner last night: margherita pizza