Last night, I dreamed that I had won the opportunity to follow President Bush’s wife around and remind her to use her breast pump. I was informed of my good fortune at a celebratory staff meeting at my elementary school. To show how awesome this achievement was, they were serving us fried chicken and potato pancakes, but no milk. I had to walk to Indiana University to get my milk. I did this in the cold, carrying my tray of fried chicken and potato pancakes, with my cat riding inside my jacket. I had a great deal of trouble finding the milk dispenser at the IU dormitory. Thankfully, the cashier lady, whom I knew from high school eleven years ago, informed me that they didn’t serve that kind of milk. If I wanted the carbonized, re-cooked, ultra-pressurized milk, which is considered better for health and the balance of chi, then I should get that milk from the left wing hippie group upstairs in the Union Building. I settled instead for a ten-ounce paper carton of milk. Then the cat and I walked back to work to receive our award. I think it involved a cruise that Bush’s wife would be on, and that therefore I would be on, reminding her of the breast pump thing. I had applied for this thing years earlier and had forgotten about it. It was quite a surprise and quite an honor.

And Brad thinks his mind works funny.

This dream elicits an avalanche of questions. Why Bush? Which Bush? Why his wife’s breast pump? Why, at either of their ages, would either of those women need a breast pump? What’s up with the fried chicken and potato pancakes? Why would my mind center on milk when it had Bush, breast pumps, and milk-adulterating hippies right there in the metaphorical room? Cat? What cat?

Luckily, I don’t really want the answers.