Tipsy Otis Says:
The Mind is a Terrible Thing...Get Wasted
Some people drink to relax, others to forget. But eventually we all fall asleep. Dreams take over and there’s no way to whitewash the dark corridors the mind travels at night.
A couple nights ago I had an unsettling dream. It involved Harriet. Harriet works behind the counter of my favorite coffee shop. She has the build of a nose tackle, 40% body fat and 100% mean. It’s not unusual for customers to reference the Seinfeld episode with the Soup Nazi when speaking of her. The punch line is usually something like, “But she has a thicker moustache.” Yet we all continue to patronize the shop for their incredible coffee. I don’t know what type of pixie dust they sprinkle in the grounds but it has ruined me for any other coffee.
In the dream Harriet and I are in the halls of my old high school. She’s holding my hand and saying something about meeting her parents. Apparently we are dating. How did this happen? I look around confused while my buddies stand by giggling.
I woke distressed. Why did I dream about her? Couldn’t I at least dream of the lunch shift’s chronically bitter hipster chick who takes all orders with obvious distain while regretting life choices, along with her tear drop tattoo? Then I could assume that there is a repressed Goth loser deep inside me who catalogs the problems of society while looking for an equally disturbed young girl with a matching “Fuck The
World” tee shirt to mentally abuse him. At least she doesn’t have a mustache, well not yet.
Sometimes it’s easy to understand what brings about a dream. This weekend Shooter needs to travel to Maine for a great uncle’s funeral. I agreed to dog-sit his dog, Sit, for the weekend. Anticipating this I had an amusing dream Thursday night.
In the dream Shooter and Sit are visiting. Shooter steps up to my bar and Sit jumps up onto a barstool. I look at Sit and he says, “I’ll have a Paloma, easy on the ice.” In my dreamy head I think, “Fuck, that dog can talk!” I look over to see Shooter’s reaction. He just nods and says, “Yea, it’s o.k. the vet says it’s good for him. I’ll have the same.”
I bend down to pick out a bottle of tequila and when I look up they are both wearing sombreros. This time I woke up laughing.
When Shooter drops off Sit I tell him the dream. Instead of laughing he just says, “Yea, ummm don’t give my dog any alcohol.”
“Well of course not” I said.
“You know, it’s really not good for them.” He added.
“Umm yea, no problem.” I say. I guess funny dreams don’t translate well head to head.
Sit and I had a great time on Saturday. I took him for a long walk which eventually found us at the dog park. I tried to teach him to fetch. I would throw his tennis ball. He would go to
where it was, put it in his mouth and lay down. Then I would have to run to him, take the ball out of his mouth and throw it again. After twenty minutes of this it suddenly dawned on me that he was teaching me to fetch. Tuckered out we both stumbled home and set in to relax for the evening.
He had his bowl of water and I laid on the couch with a beer surfing through a hundred cable channels looking for shows with dogs. Exhausted we both doze off to a documentary about dingoes.
It’s morning and I walk into the coffee shop. There’s a long line but Harriet stops what she is doing and walks from behind the counter to give me a coffee. Others seem annoyed that I didn’t have to wait. Before I can put the coffee to my lips she leans in, pulls my head toward her and starts to kiss me, her moustache tickling my nose
“Acccckkkk!!!” I scream. Pulling my head back I jerk myself awake, realizing it’s only a dream I find Sit licking my face. Instead of kissing Harriet I’m being licked by the same tongue that Sit uses to clean his nuts and yet I’m grateful for the upgrade. I sit up and pat his head. Then I crack open another beer, wonder how many of these will it take to keep the wolves at bay, and resolve to find new coffee shop
