The Mind is a terrible thing to Waste
For the record, I have notoriously wacky dreams, not the least of which was attending my own funeral a’la “November Rain” (think GNR). At least my funeral wasn’t the result of being eaten alive by rats right in front of everyone at my high school. Yep, had that one, too. Last night, my dream almost reflected my wacky adult reality. Damn my husband for waking me up! I thought I would bore you with the details because it is funny how my mind works and because Weezie will get a good laugh, and be flattered she made it in.
Before you get too cocky, so did Barry Manilow! If you know me, then you know I am convinced he died about 20 years ago and they have been animating a wax statue ever since. That would explain “his” requirements for an extremely cold dressing room and stage as well as the shielded walkway from his dressing room to the stage (so none of us commoners can lay our eyes on him before his big entrance).
Back to the dream, my husband and I and my parents (for good measure) are at an old family home, Landover. It goes back several generations in my husband’s family and in my dream we are there to clean it out. Presumably we are selling it, though logically it isn’t ours. Anyway, my mom and I are cleaning up and packing stuff, and I tell her to be careful in her room because the floor boards are rotting away due to age. My husband comes over yelling at me not to say such things as we are in the new building. Landover he points out is out there (outside the big picture window). Oh, of course, now it all looks familiar-decaying house, a remnant of its former glory, guarded by attack cows in the middle of a field in Virginia. The cows are real by the way. So I politely tell my mother we should go up to the old house and look around one last time, and she can meet the cows. Now I get a good look at this beautiful new building. It is brick, built like a huge manor house or castle. There are chandeliers and Persian rugs, beautiful antiques, a large ball room, a fancy restaurant: the works. We are in moving clothes, but are not dirty or anything. The staff in their tuxedos and cummerbunds looks at us like we are street beggars who just wandered in. They clearly do not like us and want us to get our stuff and leave. My mother opines it is a shame the house is leaving the family after all these years which we all agree with, but rather half-heartedly as we are really trying to get finished.
Cut to my dad outside by the car being a childish jerk and throwing a fit. Nice to know some things are the same whether you are dreaming or not. Weezie and I bolt, so as not to deal with his drama. We get inside, past the hostess who is telling us what tables are available to dine at, round the corner, and remember the only entrance to the elevator is in the men’s restroom. Some one has made quite a stink in there and we are fighting over which one of us will go in a press the button. The apparent stinker leaves, and I shove her in and say, “just push the button”. She does and then runs back out to wait with me. The door is closing slowly and is still somewhat ajar when two, yes two, hot guys come around the corner from the urinals. As they are washing their hands (that’s how you know it is a dream) they are checking Weezie out. I am genuinely offended at the oversight, and the taller one smiles at me. Their girlfriends show up (arg!) and get on the elevator, pushing 3. Weezie and I jump in. I push 2; she pushes B, and says she wants to go to the basement and smoke. I agree and as the doors shut, my father enters. Oh joy. The elevator is taking a lifetime and when it finally stops, Weezie exclaims “oh, good the basement,” but alas we are on the 3rd floor. The bitches may have won the battle… We whine about the injustice of it all as the doors close again.
My cell phone rings. It is my mother asking if it is alright to bring her own ice up to the room as she knows we can’t bring our own drinks. I tell her I don’t know what she is talking about as Colette and Curtis (Weezie’s parents) have already done both. Don’t ask me where they came from. As I hang up the phone and relay the conversation, Carol (aka Weezie) says we should split a drink when we get to the basement because my mom will take forever to get inside, and we both like to drink Coke while we are smoking. I agree and then the phone rings again.
Big surprise it is my mother, only this time she is weeping.
“Barry Manilow has passed honey. I can’t believe it. He was so young”.
“What? Where did you hear that”?
“It was on Entertainment Tonight”!
“Mom, you’re watching tv? I thought you were bringing us something to drink”!
“I’m not watching TV! It was in this new magazine. Did you know Entertainment Tonight had their own magazine”?
“Uh, no mom, why do you care? I didn’t even think you liked Barry Manilow. Besides, didn’t he die years ago”?
“Of course not, you know that. AND I LOVED Barry Manilow. I always have”.
Cut to my husband waking me up and thus no conclusion to this crap fest. But the last part is very realistic, whenever someone dies, my mother is always shocked and then consequently their biggest fan. Just ask Tupac. That’s it for now, but I promise more rambling later my little chickies.