Famous pathologist dishes ice cream

The chair of my pathology department started working at a local ice cream store. His idea was to catch residents and other hospital staff while they were getting ice cream and then convince them to give money to the department to fund research. We all went to the ice cream store to get some cones and laugh at the sight of this guy wearing an apron and getting ice cream dribble all over his forearms.

Later in the dream, I woke up, and then was compelled, although somewhat fearful, to tell the chair about my hilarious dream. I told both him and one of the program directors in the hallway outside their office. They smiled and hugged me, and we all had a good laugh.

A Movable Ballet

Catherine and I went to the San Francisco Ballet. We sat in the orchestra section and watched the first act. It was a short, choreographed number that absolutely blew Catherine and I away for reasons I no longer recall.

We all got up after the first act, stood in orderly lines, and then boarded open-air trolleys which then transported the audience outside and through the streets of town. We were driven slowly by this grassy field of women, dressed alike in white dresses, who were sitting still at identical tables and starting languidly at us as we passed by.

I realized that this was the second act and was again blown away by the opera. Catherine was moved to proclaim her admiration for the genius of Michael Tilson Thomas, who apparently was doing double duty at the SF opera. We continued past, excited to see exactly what more mind-blowing overly-creative operatic experiences lay ahead.

Deal or No Deal

Amidst hazy dreams of blood banking crises and patients dying in the operating room, there was this blurry, opaque moment last night where I specifically dreamt about the greatness of Deal or No Deal.

Although I pretend to think this game show is idiotic, with its dumb, poorly-dressed contestants and their weird family members, the strange hosting of Howie Mandel, the annoying fake banker, and the sexist cavalcade of vapid models clutching suitcases, I think I really, actually, secretly love it.

Tar, maties

The French were attacking America -- with tar.

The French had poured tar into the ocean, and it was slowly creeping onto the shores of the American tropical island where I lived. Many of us watched the tar oozing up the shoreline and decided to flee to the third highest peak on the island.

We traipsed up this switchback pathway, watching the tar submerge, soigneusement, if I may, the bottom of the island. We stopped only upon locating a ramshackle outhouse, as many of us were concerned that there would be no bathroom on the top of the mountain.

Some sort of messed up Logan's Run-esque 'I'm turning 30 soon' kind of dream

I was in a party in a parking lot at night. Something like an earthquake occurred and there was much chaos. Amidst the chaos a reckless driver ran over a bunch of people by mistake, killing several acquaintances in the class above me in high school, as well as the parents and sibling of a teenage boy I didn’t know. I tried to get out of there as quickly as possible, and walked by the teenage boy sitting on a wooden bench staring into space with these horrific shocked eyes. I didn’t know what to say, so I walked by silently, and felt guilty.

Later, a group of us from the party became aware that the earlier deaths were not an accident, but were the result of a madman’s methodical assassination scheme. We were walking in a pack, 'Thriller' music video style, down the street in front of my childhood home, determined to find and accost the madman, when we all turned to find him standing, dressed in black and holding a gun, behind us. He called out our birthdates one by one, and one by one, we raised our hands, and one by one, he killed us all.

These dreams are so pointless I almost feel guilty

Britney Spears was selling a new magenta-colored alcohol-free drink for teens, served only in martini glasses. She was drinking one as an advertisement unaware that her tiny pet dog was lapping out of the glass when she wasn't looking.

I pulled my wallet out of my bag to look at it, and realized that I no longer had to think about getting a Coach wallet because I already had one!

The immunohematology petition

A mysterious and obviously nefarious petition was lying about in the immunohematology lab. I saw one of the technicians, a young, curly-haired man, sign and then stamp the document with a small round blue wax stamp. I knew then that he was doomed.

Word got out about the petition, and they quarantined everyone in the lab in a large conference room. The lead technician instructed us to do calisthenics, apparently to ward off bad vibes.

I was afraid of two things. One, I knew that I should tell someone about the technician that signed the petition because the lab staff were under the impression that everyone was okay, and two, I knew that if I participated in calisthenics that everyone would find out that I had duct tape on the bottom of my feet.

Earthquake

I woke up with the earthquake but decided to stay in bed, since it was a small one. However, when the first aftershock hit a few minutes later, I ducked in my bedroom doorway like I had done in the 1989 Loma Prieta quake. I was so tired that I was about to start sleeping again while ducking and covering, but first looked out my front door to notice that the tenant in the apartment next to me had his own earthquake strategy--he had packed a suitcase and was heading down the stairs.

My bleeding liver

I did not want to get my liver biopsy. I was in the pre-op area, waiting to get prepped, and had cold feet. I spoke with the attending again, asking her to reconsider if we really needed to do this, and she reminded me that there were several areas in my liver that were bleeding and they needed to be cauterized. She reminded me also that the procedure would take a very long time. I left the hospital and went home, because I knew they were going to muck around with my organs if I stayed for the surgery, and also, I didn't want to take Monday off of work.