Dream Hangover

"Guess whose hand you're going to shake today?" asked the voice in my head when I woke up this morning. If that sentence makes no sense to you, imagine how I felt when I heard it.

Some mornings begin with a smile; others start with a sneer. I may stumble into the loo only to discover I forgot to buy toothpaste. That's a bother. Other mornings, my search for espresso finds only empty boxes. That's disaster. 

I was awakened this morning by that taunting mystery voice. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Princess Amy was in a snit. Earth's foundations were crumbling.

Amy followed me to the kitchen, looking like she’d had a rough night. Her shoulders drooped, accentuating the downturn of her lower lip. To be fair, I hadn’t exactly waltzed out of bed refreshed either, but I was doing my best to shake it off—not an easy task with morning breath and no coffee.

"Cheer up, Amy, old girl. Why the long face?" I said, adopting my most cheerful, back-slapping tone. I refrained from any actual back-slapping—she’s not equipped with a dorsal side.

"Oh, I don’t know," she replied, her tone full of the kind of melodrama I’d rather avoid first thing in the morning. "Could it possibly have something to do with being bored as far as manic psychosis?"

My ears pricked up. Amy, when bored, is a dangerous thing. When her mind idles, she has a habit of engineering pranks so diabolical they border on intergalactic warfare. Death Stars come to mind. Immediate action was required.

"What would you like to do?" I asked, emotionally preparing for damage control.

She shrugged. "Got any ideas?"

"I'm going out to scatter peanuts for the squirrels. You can join me if you like."

Another shrug, but she followed me outside, where we scattered squirrels by scattering nuts. It’s impossible to stay glum when surrounded by a squirrel circus, and by the time we re-entered the kitchen, Amy’s mood seemed to have lifted.

"What I don’t understand," I said, "is how you woke up in a foul mood, and I didn’t."

"I had bad dreams," she said. "Several of them."

"Ah," I nodded sagely, like one of those world-weary detectives in an old black-and-white film. "A dream hangover."

"Describes it pretty well," she admitted. "I dreamed of the cats. Sad dreams."

"Oh, our cats?"

"Of course, our cats. I don’t have memories of any other cats."

At that moment, out of nowhere, I had a stroke of brilliance—the kind of idea that arrives unannounced and has nothing to do with the conversation at hand but is, nevertheless, an absolute winner. It's quite a common occurrence for the Genomes. I remember my great-uncle Carl did it often.

"I have just the thing!" I declared. "Wonder keeps one of her special elixirs in the fridge in case I get blue and need a pick-me-up. You should try it. It’s one of the wonders she’s known for."

Amy eyed me warily. "What’s in it? I’m not drinking anything with a raw egg in it."

"She keeps the ingredients secret," I admitted. "I’ve identified a few, but the rest remain a mystery."

I poured a small measure into a tumbler and handed it to her.

"Don’t sip it," I warned. "Bottoms up!"

Now, when I drink the stuff, I often feel as if the top of my head has blown off, and my eyes seem to bulge like Slick Joe McWolf's. These effects are accompanied by the sound of the Flintstones' steam whistle signaling the end of a work shift. Judging by Amy’s expression, she was experiencing much the same effect.

"What is that?" she sputtered, shoving the glass back at me.

"Well, I know for certain there's cayenne," I said, "and I suspect turmeric, ginger, and lime juice. What else is in there remains a mystery."

"Yeah, well, it’s got Blenheim’s ginger ale in it, too. I’m sure of that."

"Feeling any better?" I asked.

She considered. "A bit, yeah. Give me another shot."

I questioned the wisdom of her drinking another glassful. She'd already had more than the recommended dose for anyone over the age of twelve. Still, I felt really bucked from the effect of spreading goodness and light. 

I poured a second tumbler and handed it to her, asking myself, What could possibly go wrong?