A seed-spitting contest would have been more civilized

Mom's been gone for over two years now, and I still dream about her on an almost-nightly basis.

I'm the last person who would classify my dreams as anywhere in the vicinity of "normal" - if I shared most of my nocturnal subconscious adventures, you'd all probably track me down and team up to lace the straitjacket - but when Mom makes her appearances, it's usually as a casual observer to whatever demented scenario my brain cooks up for my dining and dancing pleasure.

But not this time.

Several nights ago, I dreamt that I was walking down a flight of stairs, and noticed little pieces of watermelon scattered all over the steps, the floor, on the railing...it was MelonPalooza (which would be an excellent name for a topless bar, but I digress). When I inquired as to the source of the haphazard fruit explosion, I was informed that my mother and my sister had gotten into a knife fight. With each other. Apparently, the watermelon was a proverbial innocent bystander, a victim of "I rolled into the wrong place at the wrong time."

Rushing into the adjoining room, I found Mom and Squirl, disarmed and unharmed after their impromptu slashfest. They'd been told to sit down and calm themselves, get control of their tempers, and there they both were, sullen but less stabby expressions on their faces...each with a plastic champagne cork in her mouth. The plastic corks, you see, were to help regulate their breathing and chill them both out. Obviously.

Sure, it was only a dream. Just to be on the safe side, though, I'm being extra nice to Squirl, because one never knows when one's sister might lose her shit and cut a bitch. Or a bitch's melons.