The Importance of Dreamcatchers: A Scientific Study

4 Oct

I’ve been having dreams lately.

Like, really detailed yet highly improbable dreams that make me feel like my brain is a Quentin Tarantino movie.

(I should actually explore a partnership with him. Maybe do a movie where they monitor my brain and blur the lines between reality and imagination until no one can tell which is which and Leonardo DiCaprio and I are “unfortunately” stuck in dream limbo…“doomed” to spend the rest of time together. Alone. In a dream. How terrible. Also, it would be totally different from Inception. I promise.)

Anyway, I thought it would be an interesting scientific experiment to analyze my dreams. (Unfortunately, “Independent Dream Analysis” will not fulfill my science requirements. I already checked.)

Let’s begin with last night’s dream.


My friends Emalie, Leanne and I were strolling through Concord center when we spontaneously decided to pop into the Concord Hotel, which was located in the center of town.

If I know anything, it is that a town that has to vote about letting people paint their homes burnt orange (the horror! The audacity!) would rather litter the sidewalks with dog shit than put a swanky, modern hotel in the center of town.

After walking into the hotel, we spotted an older, obviously rich (because of the elbow pads on his sweater) man with a German Shepard. Leanne, bless her outgoing, dog-loving soul, decided to ask Mr. Elbows the name of his dog.


Mr. Elbows responded that his dog’s name was “Telephona.”

Hmmm, Spanish perhaps? How cultured.

“Oh, Telephone, you’re so cute” said Leanne, enthusiastically.

That’s when Mr. Elbows’ face turned to Medusa-level stone.

“Her. Name. Is. TELEPHONA! You’re saying ‘Telephone’! It’s not ‘Telephone’! IT’S TELEPHONA,” he screamed.

As the local in the group, I decided I would intervene. I gave Mr. Elbows a shove – which I hope doesn’t say anything about my position on attacking the elderly – and yelled, “Goodbye, TELEPHONE. We are LEAVING!”

My friends and I walked out onto the street to decompress after such an upsetting incident.


Analysis: Who wants to take a stab at analyzing that one? They say that dreaming in another language is an indication of fluency. Perhaps I picked up Spanish somehow during my time abroad in…Switzerland…?

Or maybe I listened to Lady Gaga’s song “Telephone” and my 50% less-than mentally stable brain thought, hey, that’s a great name for a dog!

I think I also must have a deep love of burnt orange and harbor some resentment toward my town for their cream-colored inclinations. In other words, in Dream World, I’m a rebel.

As for Mr. Elbows: the sweater he was wearing can be purchased at Nordstrom for $225.00.

Now, let’s go back in time to Wednesday night.


A modern day Dylan Sprouse (from The Suite Life of Zach and Cody) and I were snuggling in my twin bed at home.

Suddenly, we heard my dad screaming in the basement. So, we rushed downstairs to find him sitting on a Pilates ball, cupping one of his ears with his hands.

“Your father has an excess of earwax and now has a massive headache because he attempted to do Pilates through the pain,” my mom explained.

(Pilates Through the Pain: the title of my impending self-help book.)

Ah. Just a classic day in my household, I thought.

While the rest of us tried to excavate the pounds of earwax from my dad’s ears, Dylan proceeded to play with my dog.

And that was the last straw of our relationship.


Analysis: I really miss being a kid? (Except not really because I remember being chubby and confused all the time…which is to say that I don’t miss being a kid because you can’t miss something that exists in the present.)

And I’m also clearly obsessed with the “Twin Bed” skit from SNL.

And I also have a weird phobia of my dad being in pain from earwax? I mean, he does have Vertigo and is prone to headaches…but I’m prone to chafe and you don’t see me dreaming about my thighs being torn to bits by an unfortunate Pilates incident…

Maybe I should call my dad and make sure he has a Neti Pot at the ready…

Moving on. Let’s proceed to Monday night’s dream, shall we?


Johnny Depp came to visit me all the way from the south of France.

How. Sweet.

I was so excited for Johnny’s visit. I bought 24 doughnuts from Dunkin Donuts and even vacuumed the kitchen floor. (Oh yeah, this dream also took place at my parents’ house…homebody much?)

When Johnny arrived, however, he was nothing like I expected. First of all, he didn’t even acknowledge the doughnuts, over whose selection I had AGONIZED for 75 minutes.

He also dared to tell me he’d “stepped on a tack” in my kitchen. IMPOSSIBLE. I used a Dyson!

After a rough start to his visit, I tried to engage Johnny in some harmless chitchat.

“What are your favorite hobbies?” I asked.

“Did you have any childhood pets?” I wondered.

“Do you use mousse or gel? Does it depend on the event? Do you have a favorite brand?” I enquired, earnestly.

(I find that rapid-fire questioning is the best way to engage a reserved Hollywood legend.)

Surprisingly, Johnny refused to answer my questions! To the mousse one, he said, “I don’t reveal those kinds of personal details.” Well okay, High Maintenance Marcus…

To make matters worse, some girl who was supposed to be a high school classmate of my sister’s and whose name was “Adriana” and whose hair was very, very blonde, decided to crash my Johnny party.

It turns out, Johnny really likes high school aged blonds. The two of them hit it off and talked at my kitchen table for three hours while I read People magazine and wondered how I could turn this disappointing visit into a moneymaking tabloid story.


Analysis: None. I have nothing. All I know is that if I ever see Johnny Depp, I shan’t be speaking to him.

Oh, and also I am craving doughnuts.

Okay, last one, I promise!


I was standing in line at CVS, waiting to purchase a hair straightener that would deplete my bank account. When I got up to the counter, the cashier asked me if I had a CVS card. When I told him I “didn’t have the card itself but had the phone number,” he began to plot my hair straightener-induced murder in his head.

That’s when I opened my brand new Kate Spade wallet and out tumbled a pile of Nature Valley granola bar crumbs. We’re talking a colony of crumbs. All over the counter.

I then realized that the crumbs were left over from the night before, when I’d smuggled a granola bar into a bar and stuffed my face with it in between shots of tequila.

Let’s just say I didn’t get any coupon rewards after the crumb incident.


Oh wait, that last one wasn’t a dream. That was 105% true.

Analysis: I cannot be taken ANYWHERE.

See? I’m already blurring the lines between imagination and reality. Take me to Hollywood!


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