That Darn Freud ... He's Never Around When You Need Him.

So last night, worn out from my new job, I had a really weird dream.

I dreamed that one of my favorite bloggers, who shall remain nameless, was living in my neighborhood. I'd always admired her house, but I'd never been in it. Then one day, the kids and I were headed somewhere in the car, and there was a "For Sale" sign in the blogger's front yard. Apparently, I considered this sufficient license to just go in and take myself a little tour.

Even though she wasn't there.

Even though I hadn't been invited.

Even though I was accompanied by two teenage boys who don't even read her.

I loved her house. Beautiful colors. Just my style.

And then I headed for her kitchen. The blogger had recently written about these great cookies she'd been eating, and I wanted to try one.

The cookie package was in her pantry. The kids and I tried them. They were the best.

They were so good, in fact, that I stole them. I took the bag to my house and, with my children's help, finished them off.

I'm a little fuzzy about this point, but somehow the blogger found out that I was the cookie bandit. For some reason I had thought she'd find the whole thing funny. She did not. Instead, she told me they were her children's cookies, and I had made her kids very sad.

I know why there were cookies in the dream. Last night about 8:30, Billy had to run by the grocery where he works. I'd asked him to bring me home a cookie. He forgot. I was as sad as the blogger's kids.

What the cookies symbolized, however, I'm not so sure. I'm afraid it means I've been plagiarizing or something. The problem is that if I am, I don't realize I'm doing it.

If you've been my victim, I apologize.

And if you bring me a cookie, I promise I'll never do it again.