I just had the most f*&!#ed up dream. It's ten til six on Sunday morning and I'm so disturbed that I find myself drawn to write it all down, something I haven't done in a long time.
Here's the gist: I was Doris Day. In all her late 1950's, early 1960's, tight cigarette pants, slightly bouffant hair, "gee, gosh, I'm a nice girl who just hasn't found the right feller" glory. The first part of the dream was like I was watching a television show. I wasn't the narrator, I was part of the audience (of one). The main story was about a friend of mine with a rat bastard husband (who shall remain nameless) who has two kids, a full-time job and no help from the rat bastard. It's a common story, right?
Well, she finally gets the courage up to leave the rat bastard (who, I might add, is being played by himself at this point) and she leaves the children with him.
Suddenly, he's a single dad doing it all on his own. Now, this is the f*$#!ed up part. From my role as a watcher, I suddenly enter the dream and get right into the action, assuming the role of wife and mother that my friend left behind.
Then, in an even more bizarre twist, the rat bastard becomes Chris Noth, you know, Mr. Big of Sex and the City fame. And I morph into Doris Day. The children grow up in a strange series of shots of them being tucked into bed by Mr. Big while I'm hovering around in the background, giving kisses good night and eventually being called "Mom" which makes me break into big old Doris Day tears of happiness.
Our story ends when Doris, deliriously happy from being called Mom, goes into the kitchen and begins what I can only describe as a sock-footed ice skating routine in the middle of the room. You know, the kind where you pretend to either be dancing or skating in your socks on a hardwood floor? Come on, I know you've all tried it!
Any way, Doris is twirling and whirling around and she knows that Mr. Big and her "son" are watching as she executes a perfect Sock Twirl and ends her routing with a dramatic, "I've just won the Gold Medal" pose.
So, what does it all mean? Are there deeper, darker depths of meaning at play? Could I, in my dried up Spinster heart, secretly long for a family, a man to call my own (even if he's an abandoned asshole), a kitchen big enough to skate in?
Nah, that's bullshit. Here's how my brain pieced this gem together: I had dinner with the friend in question less than a week ago. I watched Grease on Friday night and sang every word to "Look at Me, I'm Sandra Dee" and undoubtedly re-made my image because of the line, "Watch it! Hey, I'm Doris Day. I was not brought up that way." I watched the end of Castaway w/ Tom Hanks when he comes home and the old girlfriend can't bear to see him so her husband goes in to talk to Tom (that's right, it's Chris Noth).
The only thing I can't explain is the ice skating.
Maybe if I go back to sleep I'll figure that part out. Because really, who does something that queer in a dream? So embarrassing. Maybe Chris will come back and tell me that it's okay because I was a champion skater as a child. Or maybe I was pulling Jill Zarin from her embarrassing ice skating routine on "The Real Housewives of New York."
Whatever. I'm going back to bed.