In which a Muppet otter gives me bad advice

Lots of people find their own dreams endlessly fascinating and want to share them, much to the eye-rolling irritation of the people around them. Usually when someone tells you about their dreams it’ll be something like “I was in this place that’s part of my ordinary life, but there was something non-ordinary about it!” And dreams are weird and feel real, so of course these kinds of dreams will stand out to us. We want to share the experience. Chances are, nobody else wants to hear about it.

Upside Downton Abbey

I wasn’t a Muppet, however. More on that later.

So if you don’t want to hear about yet another stupid dream I had, you can go ahead and close this tab now. My feelings won’t be hurt.

THAT BEING SAID. OMG you guys, I had the weirdest dream.

I was the housekeeper in a mansion in, I believe, Santa Barbara. (A lot of my dreams take place in random locations in California, for some reason.) But I was the Downton Abbey era of housekeeper, where I was in a senior position over a lot of other staff. Those staff were Muppet animals and they were as impossible to work with as you can imagine.



But it got worse. This particular mansion had a room in it that was a nightmare jungle. I’m fairly certain this part of the dream was inspired by a movie that I shouldn’t have been allowed to watch as a small child but I was and it traumatized me for life and just looking at screencaps now made me cringe. I don’t think my mother’s ever been into horror movies, so I probably saw this at my cousin’s house and now I totally got them in trouble.

The owner of the house and our employer was in the nightmare jungle room, because of course he was, and we had to go and retrieve him from his own stupidity. During our excursions into the nightmare jungle room, various members of the staff would disappear. During one  of these rescue missions, I found a group portrait of all of the missing staff. I realized it was actually a magical portrait that was holding the staff captive, however, because their noses were running with real snot. I…I don’t know. Maybe that’s how magic works.

They had a wingspan over  6 metres (20 ft).

They had a wingspan over 6 metres (20 ft).

I grabbed the portrait, which was giant and difficult for one person to carry so I brought in help, and began my trek back out of the nightmare jungle room. All the while, I was scared that a tiger would jump out at me. Instead IT WAS A PTERANODON. It swooped down and grabbed a scullery maid (because, obviously, you want to bring a scullery maid with you into the jungle). Dream Me is endlessly more badass than Real Me, as I leapt into the air, grabbed onto the pteranodon’s creepy bird neck and broke it.

What the hell? This is how my subconscious deals with dinosaurs? Just running around snapping necks? I’ll take it, of course, but a slightly more believable secret move would’ve been nice.

Seriously? There really was a Muppet badger?

Seriously? There really was a Muppet badger?

We didn’t succeed in dragging our stupid employer out of the nightmare jungle room, but we were able to rescue our coworkers from the magical portrait, including a grumpy old badger.

It turned out that the grumpy old badger and an otter on staff were old business partners, because members of the weasel family gotta stick together. They liked to run shell games and other small cons down at the beach. However, as Muppet animals, they were discriminated against by the police and would be harassed and thrown off the beach, or even picked up by animal control.

As their friend with human privilege, they wanted me to get a vendor’s license and set up a booth down at the beach so they’d have a legitimate front for their criminal operations. I told them that I couldn’t possibly do that. Why? Not because it was illegal (I apparently didn’t care about people who were stupid enough to be conned out of their money by two cloth weasels), but because I was too damn busy. I had writing to do.

Except, y'know, he was in beach wear.

Except, y’know, he was in beach wear.

I explained all of this to the otter as patiently as I could. There were too many books to write. I needed to “diversify my portfolio.” It simply was a better long-term investment for me to work on writing than on ripping off tourists. My little otter friend gave me a disgusted look (you’d be surprised how expressive a Muppet can be) and asked me seriously if I really wanted to write romance novels for the rest of my life, when I could instead be having fun on the beach.

Well, I’d much rather write romance novels than be a con-artist, yes. But beyond that I had so many other things I wanted to write too! There was my YA novel about fairies in Vegas. Or my NA novel about a Trickster god in Minneapolis. And then there was the epic fantasy series I’d someday finish! There was so much to write, and it’d be difficult to do all of that if I was always running from the law and ripping off tourists for a few bucks here and there.

Alas, the otter wasn’t impressed. He assured me that being a criminal was a far better investment of my time and talent than writing and I’d really regret not joining with him and the badger. Despite all this, I still turned him down.

The end.

No, I didn’t have anything harder than a cup of chamomile tea before bed. I really don’t know WTF.

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