“C-o–” “B-e–”*
Last night I had a dream in which a multitude of six-packs of beer were lined up in our apartment, one on top of the other, covering each wall up to the ceiling. As I tried to admonish IP that he needed to stop buying so much beer, a wall of six-packs fell on me. I wasn’t hurt, but was scrambling to reestablish the equilibrium that IP had carefully achieved when stacking the beer. He refused to help me as the first fallen six-packs created a domino effect and soon all six-packs were crashing down to our hardwood floors. The bottles didn’t break, but clean up was going to be hell. I managed to spot Heineken, Red Stripe, Corona, Miller Lite (who can drink that crap?) and even Bell’s Oberon. What made the dream even freakier is that my freshmen/senior year roommate from Michigan was there, drunkenly telling me about her marriage and how much fun it would be when IP and I were married. As IP, my roommate, some of her friends and some of our friends drank the beer and watched as I collapsed their wall of alcohol, I found myself barely tempted by the packs of beer. I only wanted them out of the apartment so that I could clean for the imminent arrival of my sister and mother (happening a week from tomorrow, by the way).
The lesson in this, you ask? Sometimes I just don’t feel like beer.
*Marge: I’ll have a coffee.
Bartender: Beer it is.
Marge: No, I said coffee
Bartender: Beer?
Marge: Cooooo-feeeeeee.
Bartender: Bee-eeeer?
Marge: C-o–
Bartender: B-e–
