Last night Rob and I watched a movie in bed as is our Saturday night wont. The film of choice was Hugh Grant’s About a Boy, which I had not seen. It was cute and coincidentally thematically related to a post I was updating for submission over at 50 something Moms.

The basic story line was about two boys, one a grown 38 and the other a growing 12. Both were odd, marching distinctly out of step. Neither had much by way of a support system in terms of extended family or friends and by chance, they find each other through a series of odder events and by the end of the film have helped each other fill in the missing links in their lives. Like I said, it was cute and mildly poignant.

This morning after being awakened at 7:30 by DNOS who was just getting around to returning a Christmas day phone call, Rob says,

“I had the weirdest dream last night.”

Rob is one of those people who claims to rarely dream and when he does, he almost never remembers the content beyond the feelings it evoked.

“Weird how?”

“Well, I think that movie must be the root cause because I dreamt I was a millionaire playboy.”

In the film, Grant’s character lives idly off the royalties of a mega-one hit wonder Christmas tune written in the 1950’s by his father.

“Really, what else?”

“Oh well,”he got a little sheepish in tone and then,”I sex with some girl who was trying to get me to marry her.”

It’s only a dream but a woman only wants to hear that her man is having sex dreams about her, and despite the fact the night before I’d dreamed about some strange man massaging my bum, I was a bit jealous.

“That’s out of character for you.”

“I can’t always dream about chopping wood and geo-thermal energy.”

He had me there. I dream like most people watch tv, which is constantly, and I never dream about the practical or the earth saving.