The twisted yet mundane nature of my dreams always leaves me feeling like I should be a supporting cast member in a middle rated sitcom.
This morning I have three separate dream memories and a bunch of confused images. The clearest is a commercial jingle over an image on a paper tag. The image is that of a girl, somewhere between 10 and 14, with short twin pigtails and a surprised, open-mouthed look. The picture is a black and white line drawing done in a heavy lined, woodcut style. I can see it quite clearly. She's looking down at something that appears to be just starting to explode. The jingle runs "She's a Zap Girl, Zap Girl, yeah!"
This really bothers me.
The next is an actual sitcom scene between Tim Conway and Mariel Hemingway. She's in her buxom teen years and he's still got hair with color. They are agonizing over their age disparity, with him telling her that he cannot date her because he's thirty and she's eighteen, and he's going to confess everything to her father (Tom Bosley -- remember him?) and he goes to the back door, rings the bell, and when Tom appears, says, in a defiant-yet-embarrassed Tim Conway manner, "I'm taking your daughter out. Have her ready by 7." Then he leaves. There is raucous canned laughter and Mariel stands, arms crossed, looking smug.
I don't get this one at all.
The last is the most confusing. I'm in some sort of department store with stark white floors looking at a rack of women's clothing, mostly thin fuzzy sweaters and pleated suede miniskirts in bright summer colors of red, turquoise and bright blue. There is a young couple with a baby in a stroller at the other end of the rack. The woman is pulling off clothes and holding them up against the baby -- they are, of course, far too big. Her husband looks tolerant. I make some lame joke, holding out the smallest red suede mini skirt, saying "This might look cute on her." The woman looks at me, puzzled, and I think for a minute she doesn't speak English. She grabs an armful of the clothes and lays them at my feet. As I'm putting them back, her husband explains that she's Lithuanian.
This isn't really an explanation. I move on, and in the housewares I discover a dishwasher ladder. Yeah, I know, but that's what it was. It was a long pole with a plastic square on the end and a curve on the other. One side of the platform was molded like steps, the other side was smooth and it was hinged on the pole. The idea was you balanced the steps against the front of your dishwater and counterbalanced the curved end -- it made no sense to me as I was looking at it, and certainly looked physics defying in the photo illustration. I played with it for a while until the Lithuanian woman and her husband came back around. They bought one, even though I warned them it wasn't going to work.
About this time, my dog woke me by banging her metal food dish against the bars of her crate, like she was a prisoner in Sing-Sing. The puzzling (and annoying) part of this is that her crate door was open and she was spilling her food all over. Calico is a highly inexplicable dog.