That's What Dreams Are Made Of

In my last post I told you that my back went out and I went to see Dr. Mountford, a chiropractor.  Since then I have been in many times, and we are chatting it up so much that I am worried my x-rays will come out with a blurry mouth because I cannot seem to hold it still.

          But there’s something I haven’t told him.  Oh, yes, I told him I’ve had whiplash seven times.  But I haven’t told him about the last time.  I did, however, put it in my book, Funeral Potatoes--The Novel .  Readers probably thought I was making it up, but those of you who know me know this is unnecessary, as my life is dialed to the Lucy Ricardo setting permanently.

          Here is the absolute truth of what happened: One night I had a horrible dream that I was hit by another car going full speed.  It was so scary that I sat straight up in bed, woke up, realized it was just a dream, and then lay back down and went back to sleep. 

But in sitting up so fast, I must have pulled my neck and back muscles out.  So the next morning I could barely move, and found myself at the chiropractor’s office, wincing in pain.  The receptionist asked me to fill out a form, which included a description of my injury. Well what could I say?  I wrote, “I dreamed I was in a car accident.”  The next thing I knew the doctor himself came into the waiting room and said, “No one has ever written that on one of my forms.”  Welcome to Joniopolis. This is where crazy things not only can happen, they will.  Time and again.  And if this makes my insurance rates go up, you can bet you’ll hear about that here.

Buy my books and you’ll see why I say that every minute of the day is a win-win: Either things go well, or it’s material.  Usually it’s material.