Tuesday, October 29, 2002

In My Dreams—Close But No Cigar!

My dreams are usually pretty messed up.

Of course I have the usual dreams where I have forgotten to go to class all semester and suddenly it’s time for the final exam and I am unprepared.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if it’s my creative side taking free license with all the images, ideas and thoughts my brain has stored—kind of like a collage. It says, let’s take your second-grade teacher, the check-out guy in the grocery store last night, and put them at the table with your parents, who are actually Margaret Thatcher and Gary Coleman. And let’s have your cat, who, upon opening his mouth sounds like James Earl Jones, be serving you dinner. Yeah. I like that.

There was the time I dreamed about my purple espadrilles getting lost on the highway. Long story short: there was a hole in the bottom of the car and my shoes fell off my feet. At this point instead of stopping immediately I thought it would be a good idea to drive on another say, 60 miles to look for them. I started locally by stopping people on the street corner to ask if they had seen my shoes.

I photocopied flyers—Missing: two purple espadrilles size 7.5—with their picture and stapled them to lampposts. Then I appeared on the 6 o’clock news making a plea and begging for their return. Ultimately after their appearance on the back of milk cartons all across the United States I received a ransom note with a small piece of the purple cording attached. They were being held hostage for $200, and tickets to see Rick Springfield with Corey Hart as the opening act. (I guess I was lost in the 80s) It was time for back up—now the police and the FBI were involved.

I was to bring the money and tickets to the food court at the mall and my shoes would be returned. The big day had arrived and everything was arranged according to the note but as soon as we put the money and tickets in the designated spot…. I woke up.

For the most part all my dreams are left unfulfilled.

There’s the “coolest guy in school” who while in casual conversation begins the sentence…. If you don’t already have a date for the Prom, I’d like to…. and I wake up! There’s the Price Is Right Showcase Showdown where I have placed my bid and Bob Barker is about to announce … “and the actual retail price is…” I wake up. There’s the one where Communication Arts magazine calls me up and says “Your print work has been brought to our attention and we’d like to feature you in…” I wake up. And, of course, one of my favorites the “I saw you in your car, with the windows rolled down singing your heart out to the radio and I was so entranced by your voice I want to offer you a recording contract with…” I wake up.

And last, but not least, there’s the dream where I’m having the most amazing first date ever recorded in history. We have that spark, that amazing chemistry, and can’t help but wonder “that spot on his neck, right under his ear—if I were to lick it—would it be salty?” Where we’ve been suggestively teasing each other all night with the lightest of touches and prolonged, intimate eye contact. Finally, we’re alone. “God but I want to bite his earlobe and then suck on it a while.” He looks at me, I at him, and as we’re about to attack…. I wake up. Ugh! Sigh!

You know, in all my life I don’t think my mind has ever seen a dream to its fruition. I wonder what Freud would have to say about that?


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