To Schlep, Perchance to Dream: January 28, 2007
In which I dream of Kiefer.
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Apparently, my subconscious dream-theater is kicking off an Actors Marathon. The night before last, I dreamed about Ewan Stewart — no, not like that (unfortunately…). In fact, it was anything but sexy; we were wandering around my old apartment complex (all my outdoor dreams take place there), and he was acting like a bratty little kid — climbing trees, poking around dumpsters, spending too much time on the playground. At one point, he got into the pool enclosure and jumped into the swimming pool, which was half-full of brackish rainwater; I had to yell at him angrily to finally get him out. Yeesh.
And then last night was Kiefer Sutherland night — he and I were friends, apparently, only we’d had some minor tiff and weren’t speaking to each other, and were also pointedly ignoring each other in public. But then he got summoned to jury duty, and suddenly I was getting phone calls from him every few minutes: “Oh my God, jury duty rocks! I can’t believe how cool this all is! Come down to the courthouse, Romy; you have to see the awesome judge I got—”
“Ah, Kief? Aren’t you supposed to be in a courtroom right now?”
“Yeah, yeah, but I had to sneak out and call you. This is the best! Seriously, get down here; they’ve got vending machines and free coffee and everything. You won’t believe where we get to sit… it’s like we’re in a corrall or something!”
And so on. The Ewan Stewart dream is inexplicable, but the Kiefer Sutherland dream can be traced to its (im)proper origins: my husband had jury duty in December, and (perverse little ACLU freak that he is) enjoyed it more than any human being has a right to. At least he didn’t keep shirking his duties to call me and rave about it…
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