How do you think they do those prison tats?

Finally I can remember (most of) one of my bizarre dreams. Before I get to that, though, I want to just say, "Hi y'all! How've ya been?" I've been up to A LOT, including a long road trip with four kids, a 20th high school reunion, and various and sundry other things. I'll probably even get around to posting about some of it after the kids start back to school (Sept. 9th). In the meantime, enjoy the blessed silence from my little corner of the blogging world (except for today's post, of course).

Anyway, I had to post this morning because when I woke up, I actually could remember my dream, and my first thought was, "I think this comes close to one of Shauna's." Though frankly, some of her real life sightings would rival some of my weird dreams.

I was awakened from my dream by a truck-in-reverse beeping noise, though at first, in my half-asleep haze, I thought it was my oldest daughter's alarm clock. Since she was spending the night at a friend's house, I went to her room to check. By the time I looked out my bedroom window to find the its source, the noise had stopped and an ambulance was pulling away from a neighbor's house across the street. I have a somewhat amusing story about that neighbor, but it seems inappropriate to relay it here, juxtaposed as it would be with the whole ambulance thing. I'll try to remember to tell you that story later.

So, my dream. Yes I am FINALLY getting to it. I was sitting in a cafe-type restaurant with a friend of mine that I only see when I go to SC. We walked up to the counter to pay, and standing there was Jerry Bruckheimer and his wife.



I don't know how I knew it was Jerry Bruckheimer and his wife, since I wouldn't know them if I ran into the on the street and in my dream he looked like Larry David.



Anyway, I knew it was him, so I paid him for our lunch and I asked him for his autograph. For some reason, I had with me a pen and a pad of 8 1/2" x 11" ruled paper, and I started flipping through the pad to find a blank sheet. My oldest daughter is somewhat of an artist and she had drawn on EVERY. SINGLE. SHEET. Finally I found a sheet she had missed and turned to it. [At this point, I should note that I was wearing a sleeveless, spaghetti-strap type top (which I never wear), which will become important here in a moment.] I turned the pad to face Jerry (we had been talking and joking, so we were on a first name basis), and handed him the pen. He took the pen, then reached out and scrawled his signature across my chest with a big flourish while saying, "We are Bruckheimers! What do I want with paper?" To which I responded as I looked down at my chest, "Yes, but I can't KEEP this one." So he autographed my paper as well, then said his farewells and walked into the back room. At that point I bent over in pain, saying, "Owwwwwwww!" His wife, who had been standing there observing the entire exchange asked what was wrong.

Me: This is a ball-point pen, not a felt-tip.

Her: Oh, ouch.

Me: Yeah. Do you think any of this will be tattooed on me?

Her: What do you mean?

Me: Well, it broke some skin, like a scratch in the shape of his name, and the ink...

Her: Oh, I see...

My friend: Yeah, definitely could happen. How do you think they do those prison tats?

And cue the wake-up.