Urgent Toilet Dreams

By the title of this post you might get the idea that I’m going for a cheap laugh involving toilet humor. Well shame on you. I’m stunned and wounded by your supposition. Daisy Dexter Dobbs is above that sort of thing.

**pausing to wait for menacing clap of thunder**

As I’ve mentioned in the past, I’ve always had vivid dreams. So much so that I’ve actually been able to craft a number of stories from my dreams. When I dream it’s in color. The dreams seem movie-length and have intricate plots and lots of characters, with me often playing the lead. They’re often realistic, sometimes flat-out ridiculous, occasionally filled with action, suspense and adventure, and only rarely are they frightening. I usually remember quite a bit and keep a dream journal at my nightstand to jot things down before I forget them.

I can assure you the type of dream I’m discussing today is not one that has inspired any of my romance novels.

My friends, today’s post is a serious and profound one indeed. I want to talk to you about the very real concern and unique oddity of…(lowers voice to a whisper) urgent toilet dreams, hereinafter referred to as UTD. A delicate subject, indeed, but one that simply cannot be ignored.

I have no doubt that many of you have experienced this sort of dream wherein you’re frantically in search of an acceptable toilet because you really have to pee. Bad. UTDs usually occur when your bladder is full. Your subconscious is trying to send a message that you need to get your lazy, tired ass up out of bed and go to the bathroom to relieve yourself. Sometimes, however, we don’t listen to those messages and are in danger of using the dream toilet--the toilet that isn’t really there. Big mistake.

In UTDs you might go from place to place, seeking a useable toilet only to find there are none. In public restrooms the stalls might all be full; or the toilets are flooded or dirty; or you ask directions but can’t find the bathroom; or you can’t get access for some reason; or everybody is staring at you; etc.

I imagine this would apply to females rather than males, who can pee most anywhere they damn well please. Think about it:

“No urinal available? No big deal, I’ll just pee right here on the wall instead. Hmm, let’s see how many cracks in that wall I can hit if I aim real good… No toilet paper available? No problem, I’ll just give a little shake and shimmy and be on my way.”

It’s not the same for us womenfolk, uh-uh.

Last night I dreamed that the only toilet available was reserved for pregnant women. When I pointed out that no one was using it and begged to use it just for a moment, a bitchy prison matron forcibly led me out of the area. Aretha Franklin, who ran the prison’s chocolate candy kitchen, whispered to me about another toilet she knew about that I could use.

I drove there in my shiny blue toy pedal Cadillac car on the tracks of Chicago’s subway, careful not to go on the third rail because I could get electrocuted if the car tipped over and I toppled out. Finally, I reached the destination. It was a deep hole in the kitchen floor of an old San Francisco mansion that I couldn’t access because it had been boarded up with plywood and nailed tight all around.

I searched for a crowbar but all I could find was the flimsy bug zapper my husband gave me and that didn’t do much good. Besides, I was afraid that if I got it wet I’d electrocute myself. (For some reason I was unduly concerned with being fried in that dream.)

So I kept searching around the room which had now morphed from a mansion’s kitchen to the living room of a dilapidated cabin in the woods. I saw an axe and started hacking away only to have the axe turn into a long licorice whip. I munched on the licorice, glad that it was fat free, while trying to pry off the wood with my fingers, which were suddenly equipped with steel robot fingertips. That’s when I realized I could ask my great grandmother (who’s been dead for decades) to just kick in the wood with the heel of her orthopedic shoe.

That worked but then all her friends and neighbors, and all the kids in my 8th grade class, sat there watching me and I couldn’t pee in front of them. In fact, when I looked at the hole in the floor it reminded me of an icky outhouse and I didn’t want to go there. Plus I was afraid I’d fall in and it would get boarded up with me down there.

I ran deep into the forest. When I found a secluded spot behind some bushes, I remembered that I wasn’t a man and that if I tried to pee standing up, or even squatting, it would be running down my legs and get into my shoes and I’d get leaves and grass and ants stuck to my legs and then everybody at my booksigning would know that I’d just peed out in the woods and I’d be mortified.

Just before I got desperate enough to do it anyway I woke myself up and went to the real bathroom. I had to make sure I was really awake and that it wasn’t a dream-toilet trick before I went. Everything was a-okay after that.

Aside from having the wisdom to limit intake of liquids a couple of hours before bed, is there a moral or poignant message regarding UTDs here? (*insert sound of disbelieving laughter here*) Of course not. This is Daisy’s blog, remember?

So how about you? I know I can’t be the only one who’s had the occasional UTD. Have you had this happen too?