AT SOME POINT I will graduate to having a desk to work on instead of my bed. #then…an office #dreams
One of my issues with the 4th of July is my pedantic need to dress “patriotically”. Every year I face the same stupid ass issues as I look at my closet and try to put something together which is vaguely flag-esque or at the very least, red, white or blue.
Last night I had a dream I was stuck in some desolate town (Riverside, perhaps) walking down the street trying to find a French restaurant. I finally found one and was astounded by its luxury; gold gilded birdcages everywhere; soft pink on the walls; a refined crowd. Strange in a town which by all means implied it loved nothing more than wet T shirt contests and cheap beer. Anyway, I sat down with my friends and promptly noticed David Byrne of Talking Heads at the next table. He then noticed me and proceeded to ask me out on a date while fondling my hair which was, coincidentally, a wig.
And yes I was wearing my trademark wig/turban combo in my dream.
I also invented a pair of pants which came with boots attached and at some point in my dream, my friends Sofie and Ricky lived with me at my parent’s house. I ended up in my boot-jeans, a jersey Sof and Ricky gave me, and my wig and turban. Thinking about French restaurants, David Byrne, and birdcages.
I’m going to take a shower and wash all of this yogurt off of my face soon. Yogurt works wonders for the skin but it has to be plain. After my shower I will try to pick out an outfit which tells the world I love America even though I have immense problems with this place and the slight sliver of Native American blood I have running through my veins says I should blow off red, white and blue in favor of leather and beads and a taste for revenge.
Even when I buy things that are specifically American-themed for the 4th I never end up wearing them. All I’ll be doing today is BBQing and riding bikes on the beach, but even that means trouble for my wardrobe. Can’t wear a dress; my lace bellbottoms are probably a bad idea; I could wear shorts and heels but would need to bring flats; what am I comfortable getting sand in/on?
Some people have too much time on their hands. I better take my shower.
Happy 4th, again, and I love you.
Sterner’s Dream Diary, 4/26/10
I can’t remember the POINT of last’s night dream, but myself and some cronies were at a bar when D. Trump sits down to hang out. In this dream, I was already pals with him so this wasn’t astounding, but what was astounding is the fact the Trumpster was covered in glittering diamonds. Oooo sparkly.
So my friends are sitting around, uncomfortable, because they’re thinking myself and DT aren’t already friends, right? And they’re a bit starstruck and don’t want to say anything out of place, plus they’re awe-inspired just watching me schmooze with someone famous and incredibly wealthy like it ain’t no thang. Cut to the end of my dream: I get tired of being the only one talking so I start to introduce people, and I say to Donald “I would have introduced you right when you walked up, but I think everyone knows who you are already.” Heh! Except the Trump apparantly found that a distasteful thing to say and he just straight leaves.
Even in my dreams I am a douche! WTF, brain.
I was just yapping at Locker about her major switch to journalism and I remembered my own old, far away dreams as a child of being a journalist. I’ll spare you the details but I figured out the printed word would be eclipsed by the TV by the time I was an adult (little did I know AL GORE WOULD INVENT THE INTERNET) and then I focused on other shit, like playing with my Barbies and making magazines. What. I was 7.
However, one of my childhood idols was Ms. Nellie Bly herself, the woman reporter who went undercover in an insane asylum to see what horrors were dispersed among those imprisoned. It made her famous for her time, and also triggered rather extensive and expensive reform, unheard of in that era. You’ll note back in the 1800’s mental institutions were packed to the gills, and women especially were thought to be “insane” for shit like PMS and being too “feisty”. Seems to me the minute the average woman stepped out of line, she’d be tossed away like dirty linen as long as her family had the money to commit her somewhere.
It is easy to forget the past we come from, but as a woman, it is important to be aware of how far we have come. I am grateful.
My dad and I were rolling around on a mission for coffee and donuts, so I stopped at a donut shop filled with strange people and flies in the pastry case. Yet the donuts and coffee were really cheap so I tried to convince my dad we should stay there. He refused. I said, fine, let’s get a donut somewhere else and then stop by Starbucks (Starfucks or better is the only coffee my dad will drink…none of that diner coffee for his ass). Then I realized instead of my coffee and donut costing me maybe $3.00 total, I was about to spend $10.00 and it pissed me off.
Then I woke up.
Even my dreams are boring.