Dreams: February 10

wish I could be Cinderella

I am walking around a clothing store, shopping. I see a rack of shirts on sale for $9.95 each (according to a big sign attached to the rack). The shirts look very retro, like they were just unearthed from a box tucked away for storage in the mid-1970s. They are made out of a gauzy wispy fabric, almost see-through. Some are turtlenecks, and many are pastel colors, mainly a light lavender/purple. Big colorful flowers are attached to some of the shirts.
Phoebe is with me. I think I have seen everything in the store when she goes downstairs, revealing another level to me. I follow her down the stairs and see a long rack of shoes below. I'm excited and can hardly wait to look through all the pairs of heels, sandals, boots and sneakers. A gold shoe catches my eye. It's not on the rack but on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. It is a glamorous, sparkling Mary-Jane pump with a thick strap across the front. It is size 9, which is disappointing since I wear a slightly larger size. I see an authentic-looking red fabric ribbon streaming out of the shoe. It says "custom fit" in an old-English-style font. This is encouraging, so I decide to try the shoe on; it does not fit. I keep trying to jam my foot into it, but the pump just feels way too small. I really want it to fit. Finally I have to give up since I can't even squeeze the bulk of my foot into the shoe.
Phoebe wanders over to me. Just then I see a familiar-looking guy walking along the wall, a few yards away from me. He is in his mid-20s and is very tan. His face looks incredibly familiar, but I can't quite place who he is. I'm staring at him when he looks up at me. Suddenly I realize who it is -- some very famous man from a TV show of the '80s (Love Boat? Three's Company? Knight Rider?). I grab Phoebe and excitedly motion towards the guy so she'll get to see him too. She and I get all giddy together, reveling in our touch with fame.

furious words of shit

NEXT, I'm sitting at a desk. Mom is sitting on my left. I am extremely angry at her, just bubbling over with fury. She's smoking a cigarette; every time she exhales a puff, she blows the smoke right at my face with a lot of deliberation. I tell her to "stop blowing that shit at me." She quickly snaps back, yelling a stream of angry words. Someone at the front of the room (a teacher?) hears us and asks Mom to explain what's going on. Mom replies, "I don't blow shit! Shit only comes out of my ass." She says it all spunky and fiesty. She goes on to say some other stuff that makes me very mad. I wanna beat her up or something.


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