Minnesota, here I come.


Tomorrow morning at 8 a.m. I will be on a plane for the first time in my adult life — and I say adult life because I was on a plane when I was eight months old. I’m pretty sure that doesn’t count. Peter invited me to travel to Minnesota with his family for their reunion. I am terrified for no apparent reason.

I met most of his family when I attended his sisters’ weddings last fall. They are all incredibly sweet and accepting. Now I get to meet the extended family on his mom’s side and the people who weren’t able to make it to Florida on his dad’s side. Not only that, but I have been enlisted to take pictures. I know I should just relax and enjoy the time that I’ll be spending, but I’m definitely stressing about getting good pictures for them to be able to remember every little detail of the great times they will have. Peter’s mom is already talking about creating CDs for each family member with pictures from the event as a memento. I’m so worried the pictures are going to suck and everyone will stare in wonder and disbelief as they think to themselves, That girl wants to be a photographer?

My dreams for the past two nights have been terrifying. Both nights I’ve woken up sweating, confused and nauseas. The night before last, I dreamed that I was at a party in a very old house and the second story collapsed. There were so many people calling out for help, but I had to get my family to a safe place because there was an ice storm moving towards us very quickly. Candice (my sister) and I found an abandoned house to hide in. We hid in a dark room while the storm passed, surrounded by old fur coats and thigh-high leopard print boots. My mom was trying to put the boots on and freaking out because they were “so rad” but her thighs were too big to pull off the look. When she would zip up the boots her leg would look like a piece of asparagus: skinny until the top, then BOOM. We heard the winds die down and decided to venture out into the main room of the house. Candice and I went out first, while my dad stayed behind to help my mom take off the latest pair of boots she had tried on. As we moved into the main room, with its high vaulted ceilings and sweeping bay window, we realized that something had launched through the sliding glass and been frozen there. Walking forward to investigate, we could hear what sounded like two ice cubes rubbing together. It made my teeth clench. There, lodged in the sliding glass door, frozen half in and half out, was a man. We could see his mouth moving as he tried to eat his way through the six-inch thick layer of ice that surrounded him. We both began to scream when we realized that not only was there a man stuck in the sliding glass door, but he was also alive. My father came running and tried to get him out, but as he did the sun came out in all its brilliance and began to melt all of the ice from the storm.

Here’s where it gets weird.

A great flood descended upon the land — no, seriously, it did. There were wild, rushing currents pulling at everything, taking it down one street, to the next, to the next, until at last all of the separate streams joined together in one great rushing sea. People were clinging onto bits of driftwood and other floating objects, trying their best to stay above the water. Underneath, the current was so strong that there was no chance of survival if pulled down. I was holding onto a piece of a roof when I saw Peter go by, sitting comfortably atop a raft made of shutters, playing the guitar to a satyr. He was singing “The Rake” by The Decemberists.

And then I woke up. Any ideas what it means?

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