I had the strangest dream

Seriously. It was a weird dream. Well, the part I can clearly remember was pretty weird. Given how strange that part was, I'm disposed toward accepting the very reasonable hypothesis that the rest of the dream must've been pretty damn weird as well.

That, my friends, is logic.

So here's the weird part of the dream that I recall...

I'm standing by the kitchen sink. It was my kitchen, my sink, none of that, "Huh. That's not actually my sink, except in this dream, it is my sink," crap. Thank goodness, too. If I had to try and discern the meaning behind having a kitchen sink in a dream that wasn't actually mine, I'd Thelma and Louise myself straight into the Grand Canyon.

Anyway, my actual kitchen, my actual sink. It's a single-bowl porcelain farm sink, by the way, with a trendy stainless steel, single-handle-on-the-side faucet, set into a solid oak counter top. The oak counter rests above white, faux-beadboard cabinets. I say 'faux' because that sounds classier than 'imitation.' After building up the image of a very chic kitchen complete with a farm sink, fancy faucet and oak counter tops, I would be remiss to just say 'imitation beadboard cabinets.' It'd be like ordering Shasta with a steak dinner at a 5-star joint. I'm too honest to deceive you, but I still want your approval, so 'faux' is the word for it. Hopefully, after describing my kitchen, complete with faux beadboard cabinets, you'll think, "That Scott guy's got a little class. Sure, he hasn't hit the big time yet. No custom cabinetry in his 672 square foot house. But you know what, I think that his day will come, and he will be a classy SOB when it does."

If you aren't thinking that, it's OK. I wouldn't be, either. In fact, if I was you, I'd be wondering when in the hell I was going to get on with the damn dream.

Well, fine. If you're going to be that way about it...

So there I am, standing by the sink, holding out my left hand. The palm of my hand is completely covered with these tendrilly weeds, the type you'll usually see growing up between the cracks in the sidewalk. Long tendrils extend outward like a face-planting octopus, and little round leaves run down both sides of each tendril.

If you can picture what I'm talking about, you've most likely seen them in the sidewalk cracks outside of your home. You've probably noticed them in a, "Yep. Nature will always prevail," sort-of way, and continued to give them no additional brain space at all until your wife suggested that since the weather was nice, you should help clean up the yard.

"Sure," you'd answer, always the dutiful and helpful husband. "I'll mow."

But this time, things got a bit tilted. "Nah," your wife says. "I've been sitting all day. I'll mow. It'll be good exercise. You can weed."

Weed. I hate words that are simultaneously nouns and verbs.

So you head to the sidewalk (yeah, that's right. I changed verb tenses, bitches!), and there are those tendrilly weed plants that you have to weed. That's ok, though. There are worse weeds to weed. These suckers, you can just gather up all the tendrils, wrap them up in your hand, twist, pull and, wallah! the tap root comes up out of the crack. Little ones usually have a root that's only a few inches long. Satisfying in their way, but not truly anything to write home about. But then you work your way to the big one. The huge sucker that, if left unchecked, would most likely swallow your little one-bedroom, one-bathroom bungalow you lovingly call home. So you wrap up those tendrils, twist, pull, twist, pull and - finally! the taproot comes free of the soil it had been so greedily clinging to. Those big ones could have a tap root that's easily 6 inches or even longer.

I know, right? Damn. And to think that think fit into the crack in the sidewalk...

Oh, right. The dream. So now you've got this picture forming in your mind, yeah? Me standing by my sink: Check. Tendrilly weeds that grow in the cracks and have this impossibly long root in the ground: Check.

So here's the thing. My left palm is covered with the tendrilly weeds. Covered. Like what the Jolly Green Giant warned Sprout about when Sprout hit puberty, only it wasn't like that. The dream was weird, sure, but not like that kinda weird.

Anywho, I'm casually pulling and twisting the weeds, and those crazy long roots are coming out of my hand! As each root clears the skin of my palm, a hole about the size of a pencil remains. No blood, just this fleshy hole where the weed's root use to be. Each weed that I extract I toss into a glass in the sink. It's a little 8-ounce Ikea glass, kinda like a rocks glass, wider at the top than the bottom, with a few large colored bubbles in the glass. If you've wandered through Ikea, you've seen 'em. Some have blue translucent bubbles, others, a nice shade of green. The dream glass had green bubbles, two of them; a large one covering most of one side of the glass, and a smaller one marking the other. This asymmetrical craftsmanship is what makes them such a find. They really do look nice.

So here's this classy little glass in my sink that I'm filling up with weeds. Despite twisting, pulling and tossing weed after weed, the glass isn't filling up and my palm isn't weed free.

And then, like a grave that's dug in a TV show where somehow, in the span of an hour, the WB-handsome twenty-somthing protagonist tosses out the last shovel-full of earth and climbs out of a perfectly rectangular hole in the ground with smooth, vertical walls and not a speck of dirt on him besides that one little smudge on his forehead so you know that he was actually working very hard, and at one point even had to stop and wipe his brow with the back of his hand...

Where was I? Oh yeah, that jerk that digs perfect graves in an hour. So just like that, my hand went from Chem-Lawn poster-child to completely weed free. Looking at it, I was surprised to notice that there really weren't even that many holes from the roots. I also couldn't help but notice that the glass was full, but not overwhelmingly so. It's like the Ikea glass really was the perfect size for the whole ordeal.

Told you those glasses really are a find.

Now one more detail to layer onto this coconut layer cake...

At no point during this whole surreal ordeal did I feel any pain. Each twist and pull, each inches-long root being drawn from the flesh of my palm, none of that caused any pain. Slight nausea, yes. In the dream, my stomach had that "I'm about to go over the top of the biggest rise in the roller coaster and plummet down, I'm sure I'm gonna be sick, I just know I'm gonna be sick," feeling. But I didn't actually get sick. I was just stuck in that pre-nausea nauseous state of being the whole time.

So that's it. That's what I remember from my dream.

Weird, right?