Bad Dream Joe

Real Joe could end up with this new bed.

So my husband is a pretty good guy. He’s an attentive father; he’s funny (on occasion); he makes a killer jalapeño margarita. Do I wish he could summon important facts involving his own flesh and blood as easily as he rattles off that 5-foot-3 Muggsy Bogues (no relation) was a first-round draft pick in 1987? Well, of course! Most definitely.

But he is still waaaaaaaaaay better than Dream Joe. That guy’s a real jackwagon.

Who’s Dream Joe? He’s my husband’s alter ego who only comes out at night, to wreak havoc in my dreamlife. 

He is — how shall I put this? — quite the turd.

Sometimes, after a nightmare of his exploits, I’ll wake up, heart racing, blood pumping and in such a hot rage that it’s all I can do not to punch him. The rational side of me knows it was a dream and not real and not his fault, but my bigger, more spiteful side can’t help but stare daggers at him.

It also doesn’t help matters when this is how he responds to my wrath.

Real Joe: ”What’s wrong?”

Me: “DREAM JOE!!!!!”

Real Joe will smile: “Ah, Dream Joe. He knows how to have a good time.”

There was that time something went horribly awry and the Earth split open and these huge craters opened up and people fell into them, screaming, and I was panicking. He was just chilling, obliviously playing video games, while I scrambled around trying to find the kids. OUR KIDS. Yes, I think this dream occurred after watching “San Andreas” and no, I can’t explain why Dream Kristen wasn’t saved by the Rock. I guess I’m just not very lucky, even in my unconscious life. 

Most often, though, Dream Joe is busy gettin’ busy.

There was the episode where not only did Dream Joe have a chiquita on the side, but he let No. 3 in on the secret and MY OWN KID KEPT IT FROM ME. That time, I was way angrier at No. 3.

Then, there was that other time, Joe just left the freshness seal from a gallon of milk carelessly discarded on the counter and didn’t bother to throw away the empty plastic wrapper from his turkey sausage breakfast sandwich. He also pulled a few sad, slimy pieces of blue Irish Spring Moisture Blast soap shrapnel and left them to weld onto the top of the toilet tank.

Oh wait. That last one wasn’t a dream, that was REAL Joe. 

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