Shelley made a cameo again in my dreams the other night. She has been popping in with increasing regularity and I have no idea what it means in terms of my reality or my subconscious. If it’s not her, it’s my father, and I am aware enough of the fact that I am dreaming to note that neither of them technically belong in my dreams as active players.

It’s becoming typical for the setting to be university, or a version of my university days. Iowa City takes on a half nostalgic/half-modern day design, but I am twenty something again and the other players devolve accordingly in relationship to my appearance.

I am always moving in these dreams. Out of one apartment to another or from a dorm to a house. The new accommodations are in disarray and I am charged with renovating or unpacking and putting things in place.

Rob is always there. I can’t recall a dream these days where he isn’t a player, which is so odd because until Rob, I rarely dreamed people I knew. If I did, they were always secondary or even little more than set dressing.

He was busy. Off to class or work and waved off my questions about something to do with organizing a room – or maybe decorating it, which is terribly ironic as he is far more concerned with those things than I am. I was annoyed but Shelley, who was apparently living with us – there were a lot of people living with us – just patted me on the arm and said,

“Don’t worry about it. Just do what you want, he’ll adjust.”

Shelley in my dreams is interesting. She doesn’t interact with Rob and he actually seems unaware of her. She is my friend, and she reminds me so much of Edie except for the red hair. Shoulder length but bouncy with a slight under curl.

I didn’t tell Rob about the dream. Partly because I am not sure what she represents or if she is simply making her presence known to me via them. But fast forward to yesterday and I am making a futile attempt at cleaning up the disaster zone aka our kitchen.

Cooking, cleaning or anything else kitchen ranks somewhere below having my teeth cleaned by the ham-fisted dental hygienist. Counter space is premium and the less time I have to spend at anything in there, the better. Frustration levels are high enough – even with the end of reno in sight – that I try not to tempt the furies.

As I tried to remove the cap from Rob’s water bottle, I met cement like resistance. He replaces caps and lids as though an evil genie needs to be sealed inside for a thousand years. The cap would not budge, so I left it for him to do when he got home.

After dinner, as I swept hurriedly through clean-up, I asked him to open the bottle and was ribbed about my “weenie arms” as he strained to loosen the cap.

“Put that on a bit tight, didn’t I?” he said.

“You always do but the seal is quite good with these bottles and it’s not necessary,” I replied.

The conversation continued as I pointed out that the death grip he applies to lids is probably overkill, which he duly noted and reminded me that I had duly noted to him several times in the past. I simply reiterated my stance and the hope that we wouldn’t have the issue come up again. He sighed but stopped short of an eye roll though he did walk away.

“Why is it my fate in marriage to be constantly reminded of the way to do things?” he mused as he headed out of the kitchen for the office.

“Constantly?” I queried over my shoulder.

A few minutes later he returned with a box for the bean bags we use as ice packs. They are dual purpose – hot or cold – but to heat them, the instructions are very specific or the bags could be ruined.

He flipped the lid and there was a note on the underside – from Shelley – to him:

That note was written years ago, but I have a feeling that it’s reappearance wasn’t for Rob’s benefit alone.