Because of my mania over the election, and also probably because of weird pregnancy hormones, I’ve been having dreams about Barack Obama nigh on nightly. No, not those kinds of dreams, you perv. But really, really strange dreams. Bronwyn Green has ordered me to make a blog post about them, probably because my sporadic blogging makes it appear as though I have run out of things to talk about. You’d think that, but you’d be wrong.
Anyway, please do not take these as a pushy political statement. Accept them in the spirit of non-partisan WTFitude that they are intended.
The most notable one, I think, is the dream I had wherein Barry and I were going to buy a used car. Not together, the car was for him, he just wanted my advice on it. He wanted a family car that wasn’t too flashy, and opted for a Dodge Caravan. But the lot only had white ones with red interiors, and he wanted white with a gray interior. We argued back and forth for a while about the car– I thought maybe he could use it as a sticking point to haggle a lower price, but he was adamant about the gray– and then were interrupted by the sudden appearance of two elderly gentlemen in tattered Victorian dress. Coats, hats, you name it. They were actually pretty creepy, but they handed Barack a treasure map indicating that just over the hill from the car dealership, there was buried treasure.
Well, Barry and I, we got right on it. We headed up the hill, to find two palm trees at the top, crossed in the shape of an X, like in that movie “It’s A Mad Mad Mad Mad World,” although I think that was a W and not an X. I don’t know, it’s been a long time and I’m not about to sit through that movie again to find out.
Anyhoo, under the arch there is a bank, like a big, Wall Street, modern glass and steel type bank, and the two little Victorian men, riding around on tricycles. When they see us, they yell, “Congratulations, you found the missing government surplus!”
And then I woke up really confused.
Just a few nights ago, I had another dream in which Barry and I got to pal around. This time, under much more serious circumstances. You see, during a campaign speech, Obama made some inflammatory comments about the planet Saturn. This deeply offended a large portion of the voting public (somehow), and the campaign called me in for damage control. See, somewhere some signals got mixed, and the campaign advisers mistook me for a brilliant space scientist instead of an author of genre fiction. They wanted me to write a report about Saturn, the power of which would somehow turn public favor back towards Obama. I tried to explain that they’d made a mistake, but they wouldn’t listen, and they locked me on my Grandma’s porch with a whole bunch of paper and astronomy tools and said they’d be in later to check up on me.
In a panic, I start working on my Saturn report. But I know nothing about Saturn! I start going through all the drawers and the toy box and the bookshelves on the porch, but come up with nothing about space at all, let alone Saturn specifically. I’m doomed, I’m going to lose the whole campaign for him.
Then, Barack shows up. And he’s in a really good mood, and he brought me popcorn. I try to explain the mix up to him– I am not a space scientist!– but he won’t listen. He gives me a bowl of popcorn, pats me on the back, and says, “Whatever you come up with will be just fine.”
I woke up and, to my husband’s confusion, cried out, “Joe, tell me everything about Saturn! I have to help Barack!”
And my husband, God bless him, said, “Wait, are you having the used car dream again?”