My Dream Diary

January 27, 2011

A friend, Nelda, asks me to make Sangria at a party she’s hosting, but she’s missing a key ingredient (I’m almost sure my subconscious did not mean this as a metaphor for Nelda, but Reliable Husband might tell you otherwise.) Off I go, with Reliable Husband in tow, to buy the ingredient, which I determine to be the lemon-lime beverage, 7-Up. As we make our way through a jammed-together maze of assorted urban buildings, some of which we must scale to pass, I glance up and notice a couple of fighter jets scrambling  in the sky. "Is there an air show scheduled?" I ask Reliable Husband. He makes a cursory glance skyward but, whatever he sees does not deter him from the task at hand. Keeping us on track, he points to a shop off in the distance, one that he is certain will carry 7-Up. After much walking, climbing and maneuvering through this jungle-like urban setting we reach the store. The store is something I would envision finding in a communist-controlled state, long lines of customers waiting to purchase relatively few items. While they don't have 7-Up, they do have Cherry 7-Up. For some reason I feel it necessary that I act as if I am disappointed that it is the Cherry version of the 7-Up that I must purchase, when all along I am secretly ecstatic, being convinced that the cherry flavor and coloring will greatly improve the sangria I'm to prepare for Nelda. After the lengthy checkout process we step back outside to see that there is now an enigmatic “Star Wars” now going on in the sky. Reliable Husband suggests we look for shelter, but I counter that Nelda is waiting. So, we make our way back to Nelda's. The terrain has gotten even more unnavigable and more swollen with crowds of people, a few of whom are now weeping. As we walk, we stare blankly ahead, knowing that we all hear the same frightening metal-in-distress sounds. "Quick, follow me," someone beside us urges. We look over to see our younger son, Matt. We follow him as he confidently leads, bypassing the areas we formerly had to climb over. He seems aware of shortcuts, via which he quickly and safely returns us to my friend, Nelda's, home on the lakefront of Chicago's Rogers Park. We walk through the gate and into the yard of Nelda's condo building, to a party that has morphed to a grand Gatsby-like scale, (if you give a quarter turn to that "N" Nelda becomes Zelda) that now includes a swimming pool full of adults, mostly young men I notice. Matt, as if having been on some covert mission, which is now accomplished, has disappeared. Clutching my Cherry 7-Up, exhausted and exasperated at the venture we've experienced and anxious to share the telling of it with someone, I find Nelda busily overseeing the preparation of party food in the kitchen. She glances up at me and asks, in a voice in which I can swear I detect a slight tone of annoyance, “So, is that Sangria almost ready, or what?”...

February 11, 2012

It’s the year 2016 and I am Chief of Staff to President Obama. The U.S. has suspended the term limits for the office of the president, mostly because neither the GOP nor the Democrats can come up with suitable candidates. So Obama is to run for office again, unchallenged this time. And to top it off, it’s also the celebration of the engagement of Malia. As in dreams, it doesn’t add up, as Malia’s now 22, I am a 30+ year old career woman with no children, however I am married to Reliable Husband. But, it's a dream and so I dismiss any illogicality. Anyway, the Obamas love my work ethic and they adore Reliable Husband and the two of us revel in the moment, as we work, plan, hobnob and celebrate with the elite...

August 26, 2012

It is some future date, but I am my current age. I’m gliding solo through space in some sort of intergalactic vehicle, with only a unbelievably thin piece of futuristic temperature/shatter/scratch-proof (let's just call it cosmos-proof) glass protecting the upper portion of the craft and its contents. The view is awesome, better than any of the stuff I've seen on those Neil deGrasse Tyson-hosted PBS shows. The ride in my vehicle is ultra-soft, not the rough ride I'd somehow expected. It's like gliding in a hovercraft with marshmallow-like shock absorption, over the calmest of seas and with the loftiest of breezes to propel me. Asteroids? Meteors? Space Trash? Yes, I see it but, it's all zooming off in the distance and not one bit of it poses a threat to me. I have a sense of joy and serenity as I peacefully glide along to my destination, enjoying the gorgeous vista of cosmos at my command. Suddenly, I notice that my craft is headed straight for a seemingly impenetrable wall of various undulating strings. "Avert!", screams my panicked brain, but when I look at the controls before me, I realize I haven't the slightest clue about how to operate this vehicle...

April 8, 2015

In this dream I am about 40-ish in years, an unmarried woman -without a partner.

You must first rear a half child, and

then you may rear a whole child.

I don't even know how I know this dictum, only that I know it to be true. Oh, and I so want a child of my own to raise. Well, actually what I'm wishing for is a whole child and thus, if the only way to obtain one is to first successfully prove that I can responsibly rear a half child, well, then gosh darn it, I'll do it!

And I do a pretty bang-up job of beginning the upbringing my half child (BTW, it's the top half, from the waist up.) I quickly find myself eligible to receive another child, a whole child. As they grow, both of my children seem genderless, or rather they seem to frequently change from male to female and back. And they have a chameleon-like ability to change their racial background, from curly red-headed Irish-looking kids to Asiatic kids with stick-straight black locks, to blondes with blue and green eyes, to kids with African features and such. And gosh, they are all cute, and each super-smart and funny! 

In retrospect, I find the half-child to be half the work, the child weighs less and is easier to transport, the child also eats less and is therefore cheaper to clothe and feed, yet the child seems to bring every bit as much joy to my life as the whole child. I have the sense that I am doing a pretty good job rearing my one and one half children all by myself, but as I analyze the situation I come to understand that it's because they are both still so young, being only of preschool age. I start to picture my life with them as teenagers and I find myself so terrified that I must force myself to wake up...

Perhaps I should stop watching PBS specials and Werner Herzog films and start watching Dancing with the Stars.