I had three dreams the other night—all variations on a car theme. But I’m pretty sure that’s not what they’re about—maybe you can help?

The night started okay – not wonderful, but I’m recovering from major surgery, and sleep has been a tussle. Also, there’s the pandemic with all its fears and isolation. Let’s not forget the election and the brouhaha following it…

In each dream, I am wearing a beautiful gold dress with the silhouette of Rachel’s wedding dress from ‘Suits’ TV series (I do my physical therapy exercises to this show), over a long tulle tutu (like the ones worn by the ghostly Willis who dance men to their deaths in the ballet Giselle), and a vee-shaped overlay of taffeta (like Madeline Kahn’s socialite gowns in Young Frankenstein). I had received a piece of advice, in a disembodied whisper—do not wear a long dress, wear tea length because the floor was filthy. I wouldn’t want my dress to touch the floor!

So here I am, dressed to the nines in a dress that would look appropriate for a 1920s formal tea party. Feeling slightly foolish, driving a Solarbeam Yellow Mercedes-Benz SLS AMG, with its beautiful gullwing doors and 740 horsepower engine. 

I park the car in the White House’s circular driveway (it’s my dream, and my subconscious gets to give it any parking situation it wants). I turn off the engine. The door lifts up. I shimmy out and float up the driveway. 

There’s a slow grinding of gears. A rev of the engine and my Mercedes semi-lurches towards The Beast, the $1.5 million Presidential limousine of steel, aluminum, and ceramic armors. I start to hyperventilate. My Merc gains speed. I stand in my tulle-taffeta-tea-length pouf-a-ganza dress and watch as my Merc  t-bones the black behemoth of a car. Luckily, The Beast is empty. But it catches on fire, explodes into a fireball with Washington-Monument-high red and yellow flames lighting up the Capitol night. My Mercedes miraculously appears by my side, completely unscathed. The driver’s side door opens, and all but calls my name. I’m just packing myself into the car, tulle-taffeta pouf thrown over the headrest when I wake up.

I’m woozy but can feel myself smiling.

My next dream was a replay of the first, except I’m driving a pristine white Porsche Taycan Turbo, 670 horsepower, 0-60 in 2.6 seconds. Same dress, same events.

I wake up, and I’m giggling.

My last dream was a replay of the others, but I’m driving a shit-brown, 1979 Toyota Corolla. Same dress, same collision, but my POS is transformed into a fire-engine red Lamborghini Aventador SuperVeloce Coupe in the fireball. I caress the phallic Monocoque carbon fiber body of the car, kiss the gullwing doors, giggle at the 7-speed gearbox, rip off handfuls of tulle and taffeta to reveal the golden catsuit underneath with NJP within a Mogen David over my right (artificial) hip and ride off into the sunset.

Upon writing this, I pretty sure I know what this is about…

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