Klowns in my Koffee

I have very elaborate dreams. Some of them have commercials, original songs, and convoluted plots. The most interesting are episodic, picking up where the last chapter left off weeks or months before. I had the perfect anti-nightmare last night.

In this dream, I was a college student. I went to my dorm room, had an appropriate key to unlock the door, and did not find strangers living there. My roommates recognized me and were not surprised that I was alive. I went to class, knew the location of my assigned seat, and found myself fully clothed. There was not a surprise test and I had not forgotten to go to class all quarter. It was not the last day of class. Neither had I forgotten to drop a class so that I would not graduate. I had my written class schedule, knew where the rooms were, and had remembered to register and pay tuition. My mother was visiting; I took her to my locker -- I knew where it was and the combination, the interior was clean and organized, and there were no dead bodies or unfortunate surprises inside. I did not suddenly lurch into the sky and find myself flapping frantically to remain airborne to avoid smacking the treetops. Everyone was friendly and supportive and seemed to know my name. I was not being stalked and did not run endlessly down the halls to be trapped in a stairwell. No roads ended abruptly in a cliff with an eroding edge. I was not sucked into the television.

The only vestige of dream stereotypes was my character's acknowledgement of missing some classes at the beginning of the quarter in that I-forgot-to-go-to-class-and-now-it's-the-test kind of way. In this dream, there are whole two weeks before finals and I've made up everything except missing gym classes. I decide to schedule an appointment with the instructor and go to fill-in classes to make up the absences. While I'm at it, I decide to meet with each of my instructors to review my current progress, fix any discrepancies or missing assignments, and attend tutoring sessions before finals.

I awoke feeling that all had been resolved. I suspect that this was the final chapter of that story arc and that I'll never have the college dream again.

I hope I can still fly because I've gotten good at the barrel rolls.

A wonderful story in the news: A carload of partygoers dressed as zombies was in a rollover accident in Portland. Rescue workers overestimated the extent of injuries from the appearance of the victims. http://blogs.findlaw.com/legally_weird/2010/07/zombie-car-crash-creates-rescue-confusion.html

In a slightly less undead fashion, I had a similar experience when I was playing a nun in a local theater production of The Sound of Music in high school. I tore my black stockings on the way to rehearsal. These were not black stockings as in Folies Bergère, but more like armor-plated, mildly-stretchable felt. After wearing them on a humid summer day, I understand wanting to hit someone with a ruler. I dashed out of rehearsal in my costume during one of the endless Von Trapp childrens' scenes ("Doe a deer, give me a beer ...") and hit the drugstore down on the Square. The clerk regarded me warily and addressed me with averted eyes.

As a teenager, I was used to being followed around stores on the theory that anyone unattended under eighteen was busy shoveling loose objects into pockets; the clerk's sudden deference was an interesting development. She rang me out and I was surprised to get back change. Glancing at the receipt, I noticed that she hadn't charged any sales tax. (Clothing is taxable in New York.) I struggled to catch the clerk's downward glance and pointed out the error. The flustered clerk stammered, "But you know that priests and nuns don't have to pay sales tax on clothing ..., Sister?." She paused and ventured haltingly, "Are you ... new?" I blessed her and left the store.