I dreamed I was at a baby shower for a friend. She had it in an underground strip-mall in upstate NY. When we all left for her house, my ride left me, but luckily, it was a possessive ex I hadn’t seen in years, so I was relieved he left without me. I turned around to find a way back, and Vicki Lawrence was standing there, looking down at me through those smoky, half-mirrored 70’s-type aviator sunglasses. Honestly, the gold and brown tints matched the highlights in her hair exactly, the sunlight beamed brightly through her hair, she looked like a vision with a peroxide halo, but still, I was unimpressed and saddened because of it, because I wanted to be impressed for her sake.

She wore a ghastly, hand-knitted, acrylic yarn poncho, style at the time, and offered me a ride, but only if I’d wear a similar poncho. She handed it to me. I hated it, but I put it on and dealt with it. We crunched across a rocky parking lot to her car. It was a splendid sweet steel supersled of a car, a monster muscle one along the line of a Pontiac Gran Prix '72-ish, triple dark green, heavy chrome details sparkling and radiating heat, raised white lettered tires with that new rubber smell, lambswool seat covers, and we sped off through a bunch of construction.

Along the way, she ran over everything in her path, but I felt nothing -- boulders, fallen highway lights to be replaced, and three construction workers working in a blasted trench, to which I could only reply, “This thing sure has excellent suspension.” She agreed, but she could only navigate the car if she sat in the middle, *close to me*, which had nothing to do with her career at all and was the oddest part of the dream to me besides the strip-mall.