Feeling Sluggish?

So here's the latest in my semi-regular series of Fellini-esque dreams: My husband and I were trapped in a post-Apocalyptic nightmare set in a $3,000-a-night suite located in a high arch connecting two halves of a plush and elegant hotel somewhere in Dubai. Whatever it was that plunged our world into survival mode had turned the rococo lobbies and garishly ornate fixtures into amorphous purple and black blobs that were eerily backlit with yellow and from which billows of pink steam arose. Walls were liquid-y, and nothing was as it appeared. We were able to jump 20 and 30 feet at a time, but often were suspended in midair like video-game characters on a computer that needs upgrading.

Our world was populated with strange creatures — some benevolent, others not so much. Normalcy laid just outside the perimeter of what had been the hotel grounds, but a band of large, levitating, fanged slugs — whose random appearances were heralded by the sound of blaring alarms — was intent on devouring us before we could escape to it. There were rules to this survival game, but we had to figure them out as we went along: Accept nothing from anyone, because the Tricksters would present unsuspecting humans with what appeared to be helpful tools that in truth were homing devices that brought the Slugs directly to you. Give away nothing, because once the Tricksters gave the Slugs something of yours — be it a pen, a single hair or even a fingerprint — they were able to find you. Also, never allow your photo to be taken — for the same reason.

But just as there were rules that spelled certain death, there were those that could save us. The surest way to survive a slug attack was to cozy up to one of the featureless monks who meandered in and out of our line of vision. Having one by your side when confronted by a ravenous slug would instantaneously liquefy the vile thing.

Steve quickly befriended one of the elusive holy men, thinking if he held me closely enough when the alarm sounded we would both be safe. But monk power, apparently, extended only to the original befriender. So I was eventually snatched out of Steve's arms. While he fought to get free of our monk's superhuman, protective grip and save me, I was putting up a pretty good fight on my own, caught between two huge yellow fangs, trying to punch and kick my way free, and yelling obscenities and anything else that came to my wildly determined-to-survive brain, including at one point, the words, "Let me go, you nasty #*$%-er, I give money to the Wounded Warrior Project every month! And the ASPCA!" At that, the slug turned into a tall cascade of briny liquid and seeped down between the tiles below us. I fell in a clump on top of my husband from about 15 feet in the air, and we scrambled away, presumably to safety. Seriously?

I woke up thinking that 1) maybe the cold pineapple and jalapeno pizza before bed was a bad idea; 2) I really need a vacation (but not in Dubai); and 3) maybe it's time for me to once again remind our readers about the importance of pursuing recurring gifts. Hell, if merely being a monthly giver saved my butt from being eaten by a giant slug, imagine what having a bunch of them could do for your organization.