Dream 1. (note: I drive an old beater 1994 gray Lincoln Continental, Phil has been a 2000 Chevy Prizm) So. The dream is, I’m driving my Lincoln. I pull up at my destination, pop the trunk, and get out. Someone is driving by slowly, it’s someone I know, and they say, “Wow. How on earth did you do that?”
“Fit Phil’s red car in the trunk of your Lincoln?!”
“I don’t know, it’s what we always do when we have to move the car.”
Dream 2. I was not the bartender, but s/he wasn’t available. There was a customer sitting at the corner of the bar, I was standing where bar lifts up (where the bartender would enter.) I am shaking a stainless steel martini mixer. I pour the contents into a martini glass and then I slide the glass over to the bald, black man and realize it’s Maurice. He gulps it down, asks for another, gulps that one, asks for another and has like five drinks this way. Finally he says (in pure Maurice fashion) “Listen.” His one eyebrow is raised, his head is cocked, he’s going to give me the what-for. “Is there any reason I can’t have my ice IN my ice water?”
Now I’m totally confused. He wants me to stop shaking and pouring his ice water? Seriously? “Well, sure. I suppose. It just really never occurred to me to do it any other way. This is the way I always do it.” I start looking around for an appropriate glass and find and over-sized clear plastic beer mug (fashioned to look like a chilled mug, only the kind that you’d get as a souvenir with a t-shirt in it, and it was huge.) The establishment actually used it for a napkin holder. When I looked at it, I looked back at Maurice and he nodded an elitist “yes” with his eyebrow still raised. I dumped the napkins out, washed the Charmin-like residue of napkin fuzz off the rim and inside of the cup, filled it with ice then water and handed it over.
That was it.
Dream 3. We were swimming and cold. We didn’t want to sit on the grass, so people figured out that the brick road held heat. I joined three others already sitting on the road and a really tall guy walked behind me. I looked to see who it was and he seemed to be a mixture of people so I can’t say for sure who he was. He looked down at me, smiling, and said, “Damn! Those are some nice boobs you got!” And squeezed the one with my Mickey Mouse tattoo. I playfully backhanded him and told him to shut up.