I've been taking Advil at night, just a regular two pill dose, because I'm starting to feel a bit arthritic these days. (It runs in the family). An interesting side effect of the pills seems to be extremely bizarre dreams. (See the post that precedes this one).
Last night's installment involved three separate but bizarre snippets of dream. In the first part of the dream, my friend Jenn, who lives in a different state, was supposed to come visit me. But when I go to the airport to pick her up, she doesn't show. I'm kind of flummoxed---she's usually really good to be where she says she'll be. I can't seem to track her down the rest of the day, but the next morning, a cab pulls up in front of my house and there she is, dressed to the nines and acting very mysterious. She insists we take a tour of my town immediately--and she's driving. Apparently in that weird dream state where you don't question why a woman who's never been to your town before thinks she can drive around in it, I gave her the keys and off we go.
We then proceed to end up in the seediest part of town, with people shooting at us. Jenn's saying, "Trust me, I know what I'm doing," and I'm saying, "Um, no you don't, now give me the darned keys!" (Only, I'm pretty sure I didn't say darned).
From there, the dream segues, inexplicably, to a really nice condo somewhere in town, where a gay couple, let's call them Mark and Matt, have started their own designer pasta business, making ravioli squares with their designer imprint on it. As dream logic would have it, the designer ravioli squares are all the rage, and they want me to do some graphic design work for them to promote it. But, horrors! A competitor has come out with their own branded ravioli squares, only theirs are a trendy, chic navy blue. Needless to say, Mark and Matt are beside themselves with outrage.
But, alas, I didn't get to find out what happened next, because the dream shifted back to my house, where I walk in to find my mother and my dad there--my dad who died two years ago. Of course, being a dream, I don't really question this, either. But the lovely homey scene isn't enough for my Advil-addled brain. Because Oprah Winfrey is there, bouncing my niece on her lap, talking to my parents. And my dad keeps calling her Okra (which, if you knew my dad, you know he'd totally do, just to show he's not THAT impressed with the richest woman in America).
Then I woke up.