Dreams: February 10
wish I could be Cinderella
I am walking around a clothing store, shopping. I see a rack of shirts
on sale for $9.95 each (according to a big sign attached to the rack). The
shirts look very retro, like they were just unearthed from a box tucked
away for storage in the mid-1970s. They are made out of a gauzy wispy
fabric, almost see-through. Some are turtlenecks, and many are pastel colors,
mainly a light lavender/purple. Big colorful flowers are attached to some
of the shirts.
Phoebe is
with me. I think I have seen everything in the store when she goes
downstairs, revealing another level to me.
I follow her down the stairs and
see a long rack of shoes below. I'm excited and can hardly wait to look
through all the pairs of heels, sandals, boots and sneakers. A
gold
shoe catches my eye. It's not on the rack but on the floor at the bottom
of the stairs. It is a glamorous, sparkling Mary-Jane pump with a thick
strap across the front. It is size 9, which is disappointing since I wear
a slightly larger size. I see an authentic-looking red fabric ribbon streaming
out of the shoe. It says "custom fit" in an old-English-style font. This
is encouraging, so I decide to try the shoe on; it does not fit. I keep
trying to jam my foot into it, but the pump just feels way too small. I really
want it to fit. Finally I have to give up since I can't even squeeze the
bulk of my foot into the shoe.
Phoebe wanders over to me. Just then I see a familiar-looking guy walking
along the wall, a few yards away from me. He is in his mid-20s and is very
tan. His face looks incredibly familiar, but I can't quite place who he is.
I'm staring at him when he looks up at me. Suddenly I realize who it is --
some very famous man from a TV show of the '80s (Love Boat? Three's
Company? Knight Rider?). I grab Phoebe and excitedly motion towards the guy
so she'll get to see him too. She and I get all giddy together,
reveling in our touch with fame.
furious words of shit
NEXT, I'm sitting at a desk.
Mom is sitting
on my left. I am extremely angry at her, just bubbling over with fury.
She's smoking a cigarette; every time she exhales a puff, she blows
the smoke right at my face with a lot of deliberation. I tell her to
"stop blowing that shit at me." She quickly snaps back, yelling a stream
of angry words. Someone at the front of the room (a teacher?) hears us
and asks Mom to explain what's going on. Mom replies, "I don't
blow shit! Shit only comes out of my ass." She says it
all spunky and fiesty. She goes on to say some other stuff that makes me
very mad. I wanna beat her up or something.
FIN