Since he was the only one smart enough to bet against a TV addict trying to give up TV, I defer to him as the harbinger of good judgment and I assume that it’s cool to blog dreams again.
So here goes:
I wasn’t feeling well tonight and went to sleep early. I dreamt I was invited to a poker game at Glenn Close’s house. I hadn’t RSVPd, but Karol assured me there was still space. There were eight women there, but Glenn came downstairs and said only two people had RSVpd, so she was canceling the game. I promptly said “okay, game relocated to my house.” I offered four of the women a lift. Glenn was positively livid. “You will do no such thing,” she said, her eyes flickering in positively Dangerous Liaison/that movie where she cooks the rabbit, fashion.
We ignore her and head for the door. I cannot find my car. I keep hitting the red alarm button I use for malls, but nothing. Then I see Glenn sitting in the driver’s seat of a parked car that looks like mine. “You’re not going anywhere, Dawn”
I laugh at her when I realise she thinks she’s won, but since it’s not my car, she’s just B&Ed someone else’s vehicle.
She sees me still looking for my car, leaps out the look alike car and starts chasing me. I run.
But. Dream or no dream, I am still pretty out of shape, so she catches me.
She starts to bitch me out for shangahing her game when I give one of what would Mary Katherine Gallagher’s all-time greatest movie of the week speeches, if Molly Shannon did that inside of craptacular romantic comedies about dogs.
I say “Calm down Glenn..oh my god, I am talking to Glenn Close. I really admire your work by the way.”
She smiles, but her arms are still triumphantly crossed in front of her chest.
“Look, Glenn, I love playing poker. If I’m playing poker, I want to keep playing poker: If I’m not playing poker, I want to find some poker to play. I’ve played Omaha, Stud, Pineapple, Crazy pineapple, Razz, some Kansas City Lowball bullshit that you wouldn’t believe, all because I LOVE playing poker. Now, you have the game, great, I will sit down, buy chips and play right now. If not, I’m getting in my car and having a game at my place.”
(How badass is dream Dawn??)
She gives me a cool stare and says “I’m not having a game for people who didn’t rsvp.”
I say “well, I guess we have an understanding,” and I walk away.
She does not give chase and I imagine that she now wears an expression of begruding admiration.
Anyway, I finally find my car and Barbra Streisand is sitting shotgun!
In that unmistakeable Streisand accent she says “I figured it would be alright.”
I’m all verklempt, but I nod assent.
There is a lot of traffic back to my place, I miss my exit and end up on the wrong road. I spot the car with the other players up ahead and somehow they help me pick my car up and place it on the right road. Shoulder shrug, it’s a dream. What?
Anyway, in the shuffle Meryl Streep — who is in the other car– falls in a pothole and so only the top of her head is sticking out. I reach in, grab her by the shoulders and pull her out. We proceed home for the game.
And then my cellphone woke me up.
What the heck does it mean?
