It's 3:00 am and about half an hour ago, my doorbell rang.
At least I think it did, but my spouse thinks I was dreaming. I remember that I was dreaming but about eating pastries while being handed a wad of twenty dollar bills. Who interrupts a dream about eating pastries and getting free money by dreaming the door bell? Some kind of Freudian diet police?
My reaction to the doorbell ringing was swift. I woke up my husband.
And then I lay there all cozy and warm in our bed while he went downstairs to investigate. I even muttered (somewhat sheepishly), "Be careful."
It was like something from one of the sitcoms I watched when I was growing up. Except that by then it was the seventies and eighties and in the sitcoms the wives would tiptoe downstairs behind their husbands.
And the men would usually be clutching a baseball bat.
We don't keep a baseball bat by the bed. We don't even own a baseball bat. The only thing close at hand that would be the approximate size and weight one could swing at an evildoer would be the dog. Who, incidentally, wasn't barking. I suppose one could take that as further evidence that I was dreaming.
So T. went downstairs and checked the front and back doors. There was no one there.
I think that whoever it was ran away. T., as I said before, thinks I dreamed it.
Fortunately, my dear spouse fell back asleep almost immediately. He's snoring now, as I type this, wide awake. Some kind of karmic justice?
The thing is our doorbell did ring, at around this time, last Saturday night when I was out of town. It was also the night before Hallowe'en, which at least in the telling, makes it creepier. But that's a story for another blog post.
Maybe now that I've confessed, I'll be permitted to return to dreamland.