A Day in the Life

As a rule, she didn't dream in color, but last night, something (too much Chinese food, maybe, too close to bedtime) had transported her to a vibrant, unfamiliar world, a hauntingly alluring place where people were prized for what they are, not what they own. A place where people lived within their means, entertainment was not insulting, and citizens were served by, not servants of, their leaders.

She didn't want to shake the dream.

But her non-addictive time-release sleeping pills didn't stand a chance, once the rooster at the foot of her bed began to crow.

Muttering, she shambled to her shower, dropped a few government-issued hot water credits into the slot, and shepherded scads of wide-eyed scrubbing bubbles down the drain. She discarded her snuggly blanket with arm-holes that, unlike a conventional blanket, allowed her to look like an utter moron at sporting events.

Next, the standard routine. She whitened her teeth, minted her breath, slimmed her neckline, used creams to halt the aging process, added extra bounce to her hair, and got attacked by some ditz who jumped out of the mirror to argue against wearing a hat. Five blue bears skipped by, neurotically ecstatic over her choice of toilet tissue.

In her closet, she shoved the five-garment collapsing hangers left and right, then stood between them, grinning, immensely pleased at all the extra storage space. She slid into a sweater, inhaling its laundry-sheet scent, as happy cartoon forest fauna flitted about. Standard routine.

In the kitchen, she slid by the burro and accepted a fresh Colombian cup from Senor Valdez. She lightly coated half an organic bagel with an almost-zero-trans-fat essence offered by the absurdly gorgeous lord of a Mediterranean villa. Her breakfast cereal sang to her, which always annoyed, but the cereal provided so much fiber that she lived with it. Plus, that square little frosted guy who stood on her shoulder was always good for a laugh.

She did the dishes with a soap approved by 4 of 5 dermatologists, then wiped down the table with a sponge handed to her by a mute, incredibly pumped, bald giant in a tight white t-shirt, who stood behind her, arms folded, smiling like a psychotic with a secret.

She spent the next hour or so fielding phone calls from the 5% of Americans who now pay everybody else's taxes, calling to see if she needed anything. Across the room, a bitingly nasal duck stood atop her desk, writing checks to pay her bills. Outside, a suicidal dust mop and a mariachi band looped through their one-tune repertoire. G. Gordon Liddy stormed in, demanding she protect her assets by buying gold. She hit him with the duck.

At noon, a chef with serious self-confidence issues barged in, nursing a huge tureen of low-salt soup. Finally, she convinced him that, yes, the soup was tasty, and he popped off.

She made her quotidian call to the Equal Lack of Opportunity Office, then burned the rest of her afternoon alternating between watching TV and lying to white-shirted young men dispensing religious tracts. She tried to take a little afternoon sun, but the ever-expanding shadow from the "Cash for Clunkers" landfill soon scuttled that plan.

Restricted to two meals a day by the Diet And Reparations Czar (DARC), and being out of internet credits, she called it a day, swallowed some time-release sleeping pills, and embraced the spiral.

Maybe, she thought. I can get ... that dream will ... mayb ...

Night rolled in and over; soon, it rolled back out. The spiral recoiled, the pills yawned, the rooster shivered and held for its cue. Another day in the life.

She still couldn't shake the previous night's dream.