Apparently my subconcious is thirsty.

I think that Matt must have implanted a microchip in my head without me noticing. I say this because last night I had a dream about baseball. And there is no way that would happen without some form of voodoo mind control.

The funny thing is that baseball is actually my favorite sport. I can name all of the players on the Red Sox and if it weren’t so hard to get tickets I would love to go to a lot of games. Matt agrees with this. But where we disagree is in his belief that it is necessary to watch EVERY SINGLE MOMENT OF EVERY SINGLE GAME ON TV, and on occasion where his beloved Red Sox might lose, turn the TV off in a huff and act as though someone just ripped his soul from his very being.

(Sometimes, when he has TiVo’d the game (because I’ve, god forbid, made him LEAVE THE HOUSE WHEN THERE IS A GAME ON) I like to torture him by pretending that I looked up the final score and then during key moments pretend like I know what is going to happen by sadly shaking my head and muttering things like, “If only they had made that play.” Heh. I never said I was nice.)

So anyway, last night I had a dream about baseball. I dreamt that I was an announcer for the Red Sox, and in my dream I said very intelligent things like, “pop fly to center field”, “squeeze play”, and “sacrifice bunt”.

Then, because I am a woman of many talents, I was responsible for creating a marketing promotion for Snapple and the Red Sox. Now, I get the marketing thing (because that is what I do), but Snapple? I can’t remember the last time I drank Snapple, and even then I’m pretty sure I didn’t like it.  I did, however, come up with a kickass promotion with a sweepstakes and a billboard and a catchy slogan (which I don’t remember exactly, but was something having to do with Snapple lids and baseball caps).

Well, my promotion was so good that they decided to let me interview someone on the team. I remember that they (don’t ask me who ‘they’ was, you know how it is in dreams) presented this like it was a really big deal and a great prize or something, but I was all, Whatever, don’t you remember that I am your announcer when I am not doing marketing promotions, and it is totally not a big deal at all that I am doing an interview, but fine I’ll do it if it makes you happy.

But then I got stuck interviewing Coco Crisp, and I was pretty pissed, because he would be like 423rd on my list of players to interview and I was not impressed at all. End dream.

I haven’t gotten a chance to tell Matt about this dream yet, but that might be a good thing, because sometimes it’s fun to make him guess what I dreamt about based on what I talked about in my sleep. (I’m a sleep-talker, remember?) However, if he really DID implant a chip in my head, I have a feeling that tonight I’ll be dreaming about wanting to buy him a big screen TV.

Advertisements

2 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

2 responses to “Apparently my subconcious is thirsty.

  1. allthepretties

    I’m married to that guy. Except take out Red Sox and add Tigers. And, I too, love the baseball. I love the Pudge. I want to marry that guy, and kiss on his cute face all day. I do NOT, however, want to watch him squat behind home plate for 648 hours if I am not sitting behind home plate IN PERSON. How much can a girl take.
    I draw the line at dreaming about it though.
    And, I also love the Snapple, I ain’t gonna lie.

  2. -R-

    H is like that about football. He must watch every moment of LOTS of different games. OMG. I don’t mind watching a game, but not 5 games in a row! I am definitely going to try that trick of pretending I know what is going to happen on recorded games!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s