This dream snippet from last night, obviously motivated from the odd exchange with the Starbucks Counter Girl (detailed below, yes, you'll have to scroll down) completely slipped my mind until moments ago when a patient mentioned ordering a "White Russian" over the weekend. Jung would be so happy: my own personal scarab tapping against the window. Heh.
In essence,
I am with a group of therapists who decide to dine at the restaurant of a new hotel. We sit down, order drinks (I get a "White Russian", something I would never get during waking life) and begin small talk. The server brings our beverages, all of which are fine but mine. I attempt to explain the dilemma to him but repeatedly fail; he insists there is nothing wrong with my drink. I show the glass to my colleagues and advise them of what they should be seeing. They seem to understand but I sense some kind of resistance which is puzzling. I continue to try engaging the server in the hope he will eventually understand. He does not and walks away with a major 'tude.
I am amazed no one is following what is going on. The drink contains large pieces of asparagus, white rice and thinly sliced red peppers--not even close to vodka, Kahlua and cream/milk.
Not even close.
Not. even. close.
