Crazy Ass Dream

Crazy Ass Dream

So last night I dreamt that I was going on a trip and I wasn't ready, which is weird because that never happens. I'm Miss List. None of the shoes I was taking matched any of the outfits I was taking which is particularly irksome. I wasn't prepared for any shoe eventuality which in my dream (and right now while I'm thinking about it possibly happening in real life) made me nervous. What if there's a bonfire? What if there's a ball? What if there's an outdoor soiree by the Seine where some famed soprano sings selections from Gianni Schicchi? You can see why I'd be apprehensive. Already this is gearing up to be a potentially scary dream.

The morning of the trip I'm running around throwing last minute things into a jumbled pile in my suitcase. Again, this is so not me. I have lists for God's sake. LISTS. Everyone else is outside waiting in the car already and I am still rushing around. For some reason, the house I'm living at has a bar built into the side... wait. That's not weird. This is MY dream. What would be weird is if I was living in a house that DIDN'T have a bar built into the side. So I keep running through the bar to get outside, then running back through the bar to grab some item I've forgotten. The people in the bar are watching a video of a Sarah McLachlan performance and the guy with his hand on the remote keeps getting a little too angry every time I block someone's view for the nanosecond it takes me to pass them.

As I run out for the last time, Whitney Houston grabs me and asks me if I'm going to her concert in Los Angeles that night. For someone addicted to coke she looks surprisingly sturdy. I tell her I can't, because even though I'll be in L.A. for the night, I'll be with a bunch of people who can't afford to buy tickets (myself included.) She insists on going outside to meet my friends, who by now have been sitting in this white Cadillac for 40 minutes and are ready to "kill me alive." What a stupid phrase incidentally. Does it mean to kill someone who is alive at which point DUH, you can't kill someone already dead. Or does it mean to kill someone so much they stay alive at which point DUH, that kind of nullifies the whole killing part of the phrase. Either way it's a preposterously idiotic phrase and I only used it to illustrate its inanity.

SO, Whitney and I head outside and my 8 friends climb out of the Cadillac and I start making introductions. Only I can't remember all their names and it starts getting obvious. Then I look around and realize we have more traveling companions, about 200 more and they're all in a messy line trying to gather their things into a huge moving truck. Then, I realize we're going to Europe and I don't have a passport anymore because I lost mine. Then I realize I can't go on the trip if I can't somehow get ahold of an emergency passport. But when I go back inside (amidst many glares from the rabid Sarah McLachlan thugs) and go to the computer, every time I type "emergency passport" in the Google field it jumps to some weird video game. So I give up for awhile and call my Dad to complain.

The scene switches to my dad, who is driving down some mountainous road in a black pick-up truck with an eagle painted on the hood. While he talks to me, a hippogriff (mythical creature that's a cross between a griffin and a horse) pecks at his windshield but he is unconcerned. His concern is that he can't finish the farmhouse he's building in some tiny town right on the U.S. side of the Mexican border, until he sells our house in L.A. Apparently the mayor of the town only wants him to have one residence, because to have two residences would prove their suspicions that my dad is a drug kingpin. By the way, in real life my dad is a Chinese dude who grew up in the Philippines. He doesn't speak Spanish and doesn't look Mexican. And I doubt he's ever been on a farm. So it was pretty amusing seeing him in some lowrider truck wearing a straw cowboy hat.

At this point my dream ended, because my sister-in-law Net called me up to see what I was wearing to her cousin Mildred's bridal shower today. On my way to the phone I almost busted by ass hard on one of the obstacles we have in the living room, that are meant to block the way of crawling children but instead block the way of walking adults. The girls just crawl under, over or through them. I need to get one of those eight-foot-long baby gates. So anyway, while we were on the phone last night I told Net I was going to wear a short denim skirt instead of going dressy in say a black pencil skirt. I normally opt for the dressier option but it's been pretty fricken hot these past couple of days. So this morning she calls to clarify on that:

Riss (groggily yet kinda alert from having just almost busted my ass): Hello?
Net: How short is short?
Riss: I don't know... short. But not too short.
Net: Like how short is that?
Riss: Well it's not Paris Hilton short. It doesn't come to right under my ass. It's like to a bit higher than mid-thigh.
Net (asking one of our friends who is near her): Is this to mid-thigh?
Friend's Muffled Voice: It's kind of to mid-thigh.
Riss: At least I think it's about mid-thigh. If I'm standing still and not bending to pick something up or anything it comes to mid-thigh.
Net: All right, whatever, screw it. I'm leaving in half an hour.
Riss: Okie.