Next Stop: Dreamland. And Toquerville.

I had the strangest dream last night. Perhaps one of you Dreamologists can tell me what it meant.

I dreamed I was visiting someplace–and it looked strangely like my town, but it wasn't–and it was a Sunday. One of the girls I used to be a sort of advisor for was there–I won't give her name, but if she reads this she'll know who she is: she's in college now and has changed her name to her middle name on Facebook, which as we all know is pretty much the same as changing it legally, given Facebook's status as Life Governor and Extra Appendage–and she was visiting too. I was in my pajamas and thinking about how my family and I needed to go home the next day for school, when this college student friend of mine asked me if I could drive her to visit Toquerville, as she's always wanted to go there.

Toquerville? What's a Toquerville? Never heard of it. Never been there. I thought it might be the birthplace of Alexis de Toqueville (the dude who wrote "Democracy in America" waaaay back in the . . . well, ages ago), since "de" means "from" in French. But according to Wikipedia (the repository of all civilized knowledge), Toquerville is a city in the very southwestern corner of Utah. It has a population of 910, up from 18 in the late 1800's.

Um. Okay.

And that's what I said in the dream when College-chick asked me if I could take her there. Just for the day. Despite it being like 5 hours from where we were, and it was a Sunday and we needed to go home the next day. I said, "Um. Okay."

Then I stalled for most of the day because I didn't really have time to go. Then I felt guilty and went to Toquerville anyway–which was inexplicably situated on the ocean. Maybe the"Big One" had hit and California, along with Nevada and probably Arizona, had fallen into the Pacific.

Anyway, I went, and wound up in this diner chatting with the owner (still in my P.J.'s and for some odd reason wearing a 1980's Dolly Parton wig. Something to do with me not having makeup on. Yeah. It was a dream, all right?) And I'm asking the guy about job opportunities while eating my eggs and sausage and lemonade and gazing out the window at the dead dry red rocks and the sparkling water with the guy being dragged around on skis behind a boat. And suddenly it hits me:

I forgot to bring College-chick. Also, my kids. No idea where they were. And I was totally embarrassed. Like, totally. So I hung out and chatted some more while I tried to come up with things I could tell my friend who really wanted to be there why I had forgotten her. Things that didn't involve the truth. Which is ridiculous, because I always tell the truth. Unless you ask me if those pants make you look fat. 

Finally I realized I had no choice but to go back to where I had started (the place that looked like home but wasn't), and confess the whole thing to College-chick. And it was a stinking 5 HOUR DRIVE. But before I left I went to the bathroom where I noticed that my wig was MUCH bigger than I had realized–verging on an afro, which, trust me, I canNOT pull off–and it was slipping halfway off of my head. I burst out laughing and came out to show everyone, then yanked the thing off, smoothed my own lovely hair, and was told that I looked better with the wig on.

Whatev.

Waving goodbye, I got into my station wagon (yep) and drove home through some sort of weird race where people stood on the sides of the road and shot the gap between cars, to the cheers of the hundreds of people lining the shoulders (must be a new olympic event). Then I decided I needed a hotel because this was taking too long.

So I stopped at a hotel. The same one I stayed at on my way down to Toquerville. Except not. Because I didn't stay at one on the way down. And I went to the room I had stayed in that I hadn't. And lo and behold, NONE OF MY STUFF WAS IN THERE! It was just GONE! Someone else's was there. And I was all, WHA? THIS IS SO WEIRD! EITHER SOMEONE STOLE MY STUFF OR THIS IS A DREAM!!!

And I ran back to the car, no longer even worried about having been an epic airhead and leaving my passenger at home for a 5 hour drive. SOMEONE HAD STOLEN THE STUFF I HAD NOT LEFT IN THE HOTEL ROOM I HAD NEVER STAYED IN! AND THEY HAD CLEARLY PUT A WIG ON MY HEAD AS I HAD NOT BEEN WEARING ONE WHEN I LEFT!

I sped home and was trying to decide how airplanes figured into my dream, because there were airplanes in it somewhere–Crabbers. You've heard of them, right? Crabber-planes have giant tanks on the bottom, and you know how crabs float in enormous schools on the surface of the ocean (which I know because at this point in my dream I suddenly remembered flying in one on the way to Toquerville and looking down and seeing crab-schools floating around below)? These crabber planes just fly low and scoop them up. That's how Toquerville gets all its money. No idea why professional crab fishermen are still working boats. This is all true. I think. Then my husband woke me up. And it sounded like this:

MMMWWUUWHAAWHAWHERE'S The CRAbMeAT?

It was morning. Real morning. And time to take my real kid to her real early morning class. So I did.

It took like an hour for that dream to slide off of my psyche. I STILL feel like I need to call that college-gir-friendl and tell her I'm sorry for not taking her to Toquerville. And I kind of want to visit there myself, meet the little diner/sheriff-guy (did I mention he was also the sheriff?), and fly in a crabber. Also, I think that hotel should replace my  wig.

 Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, UTAH,27-TOQVI,1-2