You know you're rather connected to your bloggy friends when their stories mix with yours somewhere in your subconscious, where dreams take place as you sleep.
Such was the case last night. The thing is, not only do events take place in a dream, but deep-held values, strong feelings, vivid colors, humor, and tears emerge. "The whole nine yards," as they say.
Here was the dream:
A large auditorium, similar to an upscale gymnasium, was the setting for a convention of a Christian women's seminar. The first tier of seats had wood bleachers, near the floor. The second tier, with theatre size seats, were grey cloth. The third tier, in the nosebleed seats, were covered with Granny Smith apple green vinyl.
There were maybe 100 women and 12 men, including my dad, because he goes everywhere with my mom.
The speaker was a short, skinny woman with a serious personality who tried to be charming and witty and engaging, but her smile was fake and her humor just wasn't natural. She seemed like a school marm in her tailored navy blue suit, smart pumps, and a bad hair color job of the purplish auburn family.
Lea was sitting to my right. She leaned to me and said, "Joyce looks good as a redhead." April, sitting to Lea's right, leaned around to whisper, "My thoughts exactly." I thought, "Southerners. They lie. Her hair looks terrible." But I zipped up my opinion.
"That's not Joyce," I said. "Joyce is blonde right now--and tall. Plus this lady's voice is low and dull. I've never heard Joyce speak, but I don't think it's low or dull."
"You KNOW that's not Joyce? Then you should SAY something, Zo!" said Debby. "But this lady is talking about the wedding! How would she know it was June 22nd and why was she thanking us all for being there?" (June 22nd, for the record, was my son's wedding date.)
It was odd, to be sure. "I don't know," I said. " Maybe she reads the blog. Maybe Joyce paid her to stand in for her. But it's not my place to bust the imposter."
"Go ahead! Be brave! We all paid good money to hear about this wedding from Joyce, not from some short, dull, redheaded fake," said Marla , making us all laugh out loud. Suddenly the short redhead flashed a look that had the familiar "would you like to share that comment with the whole class?" feeling about it.
I needed an extra reason to get off my green apple vinyl bleacher anyway. It was narrow and my backside wasn't. So, buoyed by my bloggy friends' "encouragement" and my own desire to move to a grey cloth, wider seat, I got up and stepped down in my long apple-green gown and silvery sandals.
Praying to God I wouldn't fall, although such a sight would be worth paying for.
As I clunked down the bleachers, I saw a black curtain to the far right ,partially pulled back, and there was Joyce's daughter, the bride, in a black silk, V-neck dress and red slippers. She was talking to a small crowd on the other side of the curtain. She was directing a comment to my mom.
"Mrs. Dauber, I have mailed you a check for $665.23 to reimburse you for the rehearsal dinner. I felt so bad that my sister and her best friends didn't show up after you had paid for them, so I want to repay you for all the guests who ate."
My mom was mortified. I could feel it from many feet away. It was her pleasure to pay for the dinner, and even though no one should fail to RSVP, it happens. (Young people these days!) But rule one: don't embarrass the hostess.Take her aside later, I thought. Apologize in private, not in public!
Who knows why my mom was hosting the rehearsal dinner for the wedding of MY bloggy friend's daughter, but hey, it was a dream, remember? Dreams are weird.
After that little interruption and seeing the daughter of the real McCoy ,I knew I had to follow through. I approached the stage. I walked up to the redheaded school marm and said, "You're not Joyce, are you?"
"My name is Joyce," she said, flustered in front of the huge crowd. (Gotta love my hypocrisy.)
"It might be, but you're not the Joyce we're here for. Where's she?"
"Behind the curtain," she said, as if referring to the wizard of Oz.
"I thought so," I said, and then took the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen," I said, "and yes, I include gentlemen, although I'm not sure why you're at a women's convention and maybe you aren't sure either. I mean ,do you care about wedding make-up and flowers and shoes and first dances? We care! But whatever, enough of this warm-up show . Joyce! Yoo-hoo! Joyce!" I called louder. "Would you please join us in coach class on this side of the curtain and tell us all about the wedding?"
And then Joyce, tall and blonde, made her way to the stage in her long, bronze sparkly mother-of-the bride dress and glitzy shoes. I gave her a big hug. "Hi, Joyce. I'm Zoanna."
She laughed, "I know who you are, Zo, and I love your dress." (It was a bridesmaid's dress.)
She then took the microphone and said to the whole gathering, "So, let's talk about the wedding, shall we?"
And all the women stood and cheered.
The men looked at each other like bored seventh grade boys. The redheaded fake sauntered off stage, apparently to do another lousy impersonation at some other gig.