last night's dream:
I am bartending at a bar that is in the upstairs bathroom of the house I grew up in, and it is on a cruise ship.
Five middle-aged, middle-American, white women are gathered around the bar, which is where the sink should be. One of them wants to order the rhubarb cocktail. [note: the restaurant where I work is, in fact, featuring a cocktail made with rhubarb juice right now.] Then another one wants one. And then suddenly they all want the same cocktail.
It's easier just to make five at once, I think to myself.
One of them says pipes up. I just looove rhubarb pie! she says.
I wonder if she knows what she has ordered, if she thinks she is getting pie.
It's a cocktail, not pie, I say.
Rhubarb pie is my favorite pie! she implores.
I let it go.
I begin to mix the cocktails. I do so not by shaking them in a cocktail shaker but by mixing them in my mouth and them spitting them out. But I don't even spit them into glasses; I spit them into shallow terracotta gratin dishes.
No one blinks an eye, but I think that the cocktail seems a bit low in volume and I wonder if it should have been more, if maybe I'd made them too skimpy.
[Oh, and just for the record, I have never spit in anyone's food or beverage nor ever would, lest any paranoidals accuse me of doing so. But any other pathology you can extrapolate from this dream I probably have no defense for.]