Last night I dreamed about John Larroquette.
He was the parking lot attendant of the hospital, where I had gone to pick up my baby ("Here's your baby, Mrs. Palma!" "Thanks! Bye!"). Apparently my brain isn't ready to contemplate actual childbirth and instead has turned it into a transaction not unlike picking up a reserved book at the library. What's that you say? They don't just hand you a baby? Hmmm. Just so you know, the baby in my dream was a boy. And extremely well behaved. Larroquette was dressed all in black, and he helped me put the baby in the car seat. The parking lot was a maze - I recently went to the Grove shopping center, and it was a bit like that, only much worse.
The rest of the dream I've pretty much forgotten, though I do remember at one point yelling at Patrick to pick up his clothes and put them in the hamper.
Please note that while Patrick does, from time to time, neglect to put his clothes in the hamper, I rarely, if ever, yell at him about it.
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