I am drunk lady from Ukraine!

In this dream, Christina and I were going to a small get together with a couple other chicks were we were all dressed up, wearing wigs and stupid-bright clothing, usually black with some other eye catching color like turquoise, bright pink, red, or violet. We arrived at the place, which looked to be like a rather sedate bar where older people went to self-medicate and ease the pain of a fruitless and difficult life, and one of the ladies we were meeting up with was there, but from behind we didn’t recognize her. We complimented her on her get-up, and I somehow got on a kick of talking like the black haired lady from the new Indiana Jones (a super Ukrainian accent). I was wearing shoes with heels a bit too high to comfortably wear, and I stepped sideways in them and said to the bystanders, “don’t mind, just drunk lady from Ukraine.” This was hilarious.

I and the unnamed girl went to sit at the bar while Christina went in search for the fourth member of our soiree, and I decided I had better write down my dream. Yes, while I was having it. From nowhere, my notebook and a pencil appeared, and I looked at a digital clock or watch and it said 8:66 or something like that, and I looked at it for awhile, knowing it was meant to be a synchronicity, and waited for it to correct itself and say 9:06, which would be the standard interpretation of that time. I started writing down things about being “drunk lady from Ukraine!”

The other girl asked what I was doing, and I said I was writing down my dream because writing them down helped me to remember and interpret them. She seemed to zone out, and I felt my voice trail off, looking around. I realized I could get away with not drinking at all, ever again, and felt rather relieved. I then saw someone with battered and fried pieces of something in a wine glass, and thought that I never had to eat anything fried again either, and was again relieved.

Christina came back with a photo album of pictures from the bar, and they seemed to be pretty well taken. She opened to a page where the first picture was an older guy, kind of balding, looking at the camera unsmiling with a bottle of amber liquid before him. He had a kindly face but didn’t seem as though he quite cared to be photographed.

Next was a picture of the bartender, who was this older Scottish woman I’ve seen in movies before, with white curly hair. She seems like a female Billy Connelly to me. She had posed for the picture, leaning toward the camera in a half “I’ll kick your ass if you mess with my bar” half seductive pose, and I put my finger on the picture and said “Do you know what she’s thinking? She’s thinking ‘I am drunk lady from Ukraine!’” This was also hilarious. Overall I had a faint sense of being uncomfortable in the bar, as if we were intruding and the other girls seemed to look at the people in the bar as quaint locals and part of the atmosphere rather than seeing them as actual people.