Hope's Breakfast Club and my dance with Mia Wallace

 

The last thing I remember, I was making myself a bit of a nuisance at Hope's pancake breakfast. She'd invited over a few of her close friends for a nice brunch of pancakes and beer. Yeah, OK, that doesn't sound like the best combo ever, but these were hipster ex-punks she was serving, so it wasn't completely out of line. 

"I need to make a sign saying, 'no beer for me, thanks,'" said the Asian lady seated next to me. 

I made a note of it, although I wasn't planning to offer her any beer. I also noted that she'd taken nearly all the pancakes from the serving table and stacked them on her plate, nearly a foot high. I went and took the last remaining pancake from the serving platter and brought it back to the table along with the syrup and some melted butter in a serving cup.

The first thing I did was spill the butter all over Hope's husband Blaine's sweater. He was nonplussed and calmly got up to go change. In a moment or two, I managed to do the same thing again, this time staining Hope's sweater with the last of the remaining butter. She appeared a bit agitated, so I suggested that maybe it wasn't too late to try to get the stain out before it set.

"I'll have to go get some knitting needles," she said, stripping off the sweater right there at the table.

With my one last remaining condiment, I accidentally drenched the Asian lady's stack of pancakes with syrup. She looked at me with mild disgust. I was batting 1000 on the clumsy oaf scale. 

"Oops," I said, "That was meant for my pancake." I specifically said pancake, perhaps to point out the inequity of our respective portions. "I hope you aren't diabetic."

"No," she said. "Just don't bring me any beer. I must have had a hundred people ask me if I wanted a beer today."

"No problem," I smiled weakly, pouring the last remaining drips onto my lonely pancake.

I ate quickly and was still famished. I thought perhaps the Asian lady might offer me a few of the syrup soaked pancakes, but no dice. I waited around the serving table to see if any more might show up, but that never happened, and I woke up soon thereafter.

Prior to the pancake breakfast, I'd been attending a sleepover dance party at the Wallace's. The famous gangster, Marcellus Wallace was out for the evening, leaving just me and Lance Mathyssen alone with his attractive young wife, Mia. Mia wanted to dance, so Lance and I both took turns dancing with her over the course of the evening. She was very fun to dance with, I must admit, and her enthusiasm was contagious.

"Again!" she'd laugh as one song would end and the next began.

The tempo kept increasing to a frenzied pace, and Lance bowed out after tiring himself on a particularly fast number. Mia and I kept the party going, shedding clothing layers as the temperature rose between us. I felt myself falling under her spell, her touch lingering as we pressed our cheeks together during a few slow dances. She was being extra flirty, and I was liking it.

Naturally, I was concerned that Marcellus might arrive home at any moment and find us in a compromised position, scantily clad, dancing in just our undergarments. I heard the front door opening, and I hastened to throw some clothes on. 

"I had a lovely evening," Mia said to me, and she ran over to greet her mob boss husband at the door.

At some other point in the dream, I was sitting in a living room at someone's house where some kind of televised music festival or rocket demonstration was about to begin. It wasn't the greatest venue for that type of event, but I'd gotten there early, so I grabbed a spot on the floor in front of an old cathode ray TV set. 

As luck would have it, the venue got moved to an even more crowded room in the house, the bedroom. There wasn't much seating available, so I had to sit on a pile of laundry and lean up against the wall. In the process of leaning against the wall, my back pressed against the plastic laundry hamper lid, making a dent in the drywall.

"I think this is going to need some spackle," I said, immediately owning up to my mistake.

"That's OK," an unidentified voice assured me. "Stick around. You don't want to miss the show."

I stuck around, but I don't remember much of the show. Since I was in some kind of a random event kaleidoscope, the next thing I remember was dancing with Mia. I believe this sequence jumping phenomenon can be attributed to the fact that I fall asleep to Pulp Fiction every single night, even playing the movie multiple times if I wake up in the middle of the night to pee. 

Yeah. I'm a strange duck. And apparently, a clumsy one, at that.