Come and trim my Christmas tree

I had another bizarre dream last night.  I’m in high school (I think) and I’m a cheerleader. I’m at some sort of cheerleader party and one of the boys catches my eye.  This guy is actually changing back and forth between two different guys I knew in college (while both of them were nice enough, I was never attracted to either of them).  Anyway, me and this guy go off somewhere to fool around.  We’re starting to get into it, and I’m really starting to like him, when my best friend and captain of the cheerleading squad bursts into the room (which I think is the guy’s apartment).  This girl is also a mixture of people: my friends, Jaime and Stephanie.  For the remainder of this dream I shall refer to her as “Jaiphanie.”

Jaiphanie is not happy with me.  She’s yelling about how I shouldn’t be near this guy and I’m better than him and that he’s ugly.  And while those are hurtful things to say, she’s not completely off base considering the guy is, you know, morphing back and forth between two different men.  She storms out of the place, furious.  The guy and I just look at each, the mood completely killed.  He goes to the kitchen (it’s a studio apartment) and starts eating some cereal at the kitchen counter.  I decide to leave.  I have no idea where my clothes are (did I mention that I am wearing one of those white cotton nightgowns from the early 1900s?  Because I am.)  I decide to leave in my nightgown.

We don’t even say goodbye to each other as I walk out the door.  I cross a grassy yard and I’m suddenly at Jaiphanie’s house.  She is busy playing in the front yard with a garden hose–spraying people as they walk by.  She is happy to see me, after she sprays me with cold water.  (So now I’m in a wet white cotton nightdress from the early 1900s.)  She says:  “Hurry up!  It’s almost time for the big cheerleader competition!”

I go into her house and she starts throwing clothes at me to put on.  I discover that I need a pad and tell her so.  She waves her hand like that’s no problem at all and hands me her cell phone.  And it’s not just any cell phone–it’s a cell phone straight out of the 80s.  But it also has a microphone that comes around your head that you speak in and there’s a plastic neck strap to secure the thing to your head.  Very high tech.  I’m thinking, “Okay, maybe this dispenses pads…” and I start pushing all the buttons.  Well, wouldn’t you know, the cell phone does not distribute feminine hygiene products.

“Did she intend for me to use this as a pad?”  I wonder.  “‘Cause that would break it.”

I inform her that the cell phone is not a pad, and we set off to the store to purchase more acceptable products.  I don’t remember everything that happened in the store, only that we were videotaping our endeavor, lots of people were laughing, and Gina Torres was our check-out cashier.

From the store we go over to Cheerleader H.Q. where the whole squad is getting ready for the big event.  There is a newbie who is using my sink/mirror area and we taunted her until she vacated my area in tears.  (We are so badass.)

And of course, it’s at that ultimate moment of, “do we win the big cheerleading competition?!” that my alarm goes off.  So that’s all you get.

Sometimes I wish I could sit down with my brain and say, “Hey you.  Where the heck do you get this stuff?”

What do you think?