Inner Psyche on Parade

I slept late this morning. Mister MacFarland was kind enough to hustle the rug-rats through their Sunday activities and off to the park; I lolled in queenlike splendor throughout most of the morning. Right before I woke up - at least, it seemed to be right before I awoke - I had the strangest, most thoroughly irritating dream I've had in many a year.

My mother enrolled pushing-forty Queenie in a compulsory Summer Camp. That's what she called it, anyway, and for some reason, since it was my mother who signed me up, I had no option but to attend - like being committed to an institution. The summer camp itself was eerily like prison, or rehab, or perhaps the central brainwashing center for some exotic variety of religious cult. As soon as I arrived, all my clothes and personal effects were taken away, and I was issued a "Happy Camp Pack" - white cotton underthings, a red tee-shirt with the words "Get Happy!" emblazoned upon it in white lettering, a pair of athletic shorts, also white. Some flip-flops. A towel, washcloth, toothbrush, and comb. My "driving privileges" were suspended until I was deemed to be a trustworthy Happy Camper. My cell phone was removed from my person at the door and would not be returned until I successfully completed a full rotation of Happy Camper activities, like making a fired-clay ashtray and proving I could pitch a tent. It was awful.

Far worse, if you can believe it, than all of the above torments was my roommate, this totally evil cunt named Karen. For some unknown reason, Karen hated me like cramps. My dream evolved as a series of nasty things Karen did to me - sabotaging my "Happy Camper" project, the one that would have gotten me my car back, pulling my credit report and circulating it around camp, breaking in to the camp office and ruining all my "outside clothes", informing on my myriad escape attempts, and burning my youngest child's blankie (to which he has a Linus-like attachment). What I was doing with the blankie in the first place, I couldn't tell you. My kids weren't even in this dream.

A fortuitous event helped hasten my escape. In the tent I shared with Karen was a large cabinet-type piece of furniture. She and her boyfriend regularly hid out in that cabinet to fuck, thereby eluding the prying eyes of our Happy Camper Counselors, to whom fucking was anathema. These counselors were like Moonies or something, with their creepy sing-song voices, rolling eyes, and flowing robes... But I digress: in my dream, I came upon Karen and her illicit beau hard at it - I came a'knockin' when the cabinet was rockin' - and, quick as lightening, I stuck a broom through the outside handles of the structure, effectively trapping them. I hustled out of the tent, snuck into the main office, liberated my keys and my phone - fuck this Happy Camp noise! - and ran like sixty, straight for the parking lot.

I had a hard time finding my car - they'd moved it, the bastards, and fucked up the seat settings and the radio-station - but as soon as I got behind the wheel I drove like a bat out of hell, screeching down the gravel road that lead from the middle of nowhere back to some sort of civilization.

I called my mom from the road.

"Mom, it's me. I got out of that crazy camp and I'm on the way home."

"Queenie? Honey? What are you doing calling me? Did you complete your Happy Camp rotation already? Your father will be so proud!"

"No, mom, listen. That place is a fucking asylum. I'm outta there. I got my phone and keys and left."

"Now you listen here, young lady," mom says, getting her "firm" tone on, "I want you to turn that car right back around and get your butt back to that camp! I paid damned good money for a full two months, and I'm not letting you waste it like this. Now, you go back, you hear me?!"

"No way in hell, mom. I love you, but those people are crazy. I'm not going back."

'Now, honey. What's the real trouble? Were the other girls mean to you?"

"Mom...in case you forgot, I'm thirty-seven years old now. "Girls" are not "mean" to me. It...oh, crap, don't sidetrack me. The point is, I am a grown woman and I'm not going back and that's the end of it."

"Young lady! Who do you think you are speaking to in that tone? How dare you? Have you lost your mind?"

And so it went, arguing with someone who thought I was sixteen, until I woke up. Evil camp, nasty bitch, fight with mom. I woke up spitting-nails mad, too. I don't think I calmed down at all until the middle of my second latte. And I did not call my mother today. I'm not superstitious, but if that kind of dream isn't a potential omen I don't know what the fuck is.

What? Yes, I have issues. This surprises you somehow?

Posted by Queenie at March 21, 2005 12:03 AM