Have you ever dreamt about Paris Hilton? Or her little chihuahua? To the latter question I can now answer definitively, "YES!" Let me tell you about it.
Sorry, I digress.
Lina and I were in our subterranean garage. Lina was around 8 or 9 years old. The garage was a dream garage, a two-car version, spacious, well-lit and CLEAN! We were talking and heading out of the garage, up to the front door. Caroline was carrying a tiny little chihuahua in her arms. I asked her whose dog was that?
She replied, "Paris Hilton's." As if that were the most normal thing in the world.
I accepted her answer with equal equanimity ... at least for the moment.
Next, we were in the living room. Panelled wood walls, orange shag carpet. Oh yeah, you had to be there. Lina was lying on the carpeting, playing with the dog. I stood over her, seeing myself even in the dream as TOWERING over her.
"Did you ask permission to take care of that dog, young lady?" I trickily composed the question. "Did you ask your dad?"
"Yup," she breezily replied.
"When?"
"Three months ago," she looked at me, confidently, almost haughtily.
And I folded, just like that, a flailing rookie in a high-stakes poker game. End of parental authority, end of conversation, end of dream.
(chuckling)
What do you make of that dream?
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