While researching whether to title this post “Presidents”, “Presidents'” or “President’s” Day, although I was fairly certain the latter was wrong, I discovered interestingly enough that the actual federal holiday is still officially Washington’s Birthday, at least according to Wikipedia, the font of all knowledge. Nonetheless I decided to keep my original title since it makes more sense, as you will see below.
As I am writing this, it is early on the morning of Monday, February 21, 2011, the aforementioned federal holiday. The dream I am going to describe took place some time during this past Friday night to Saturday morning. I can only imagine that it was instigated by a tweet I posted in which I asked “So are we obliged to honor ALL the Presidents on Monday or can we pick and choose?” as well as by the bottle of wine I shared at dinner that night. So anyway, my dream went something like this:
I was riding in some sort of carriage. It had several rows of seats, and although I couldn’t see the method of propulsion I can only imagine that it was horse-drawn. It was full of presidents, although it must not have been all of them. I clearly remember that I was in the front row in the second seat from the right. I was very tired and I was leaning on Franklin Roosevelt’s shoulder (his right shoulder as he was sitting to my left). I also remember looking back at the second row and wishing I was there because both my date from dinner (who I must make absolutely clear is not now and never has been the president of any country) and Lincoln were there. Anyway, back to me and FDR (did I mention this dream is at least PG-13 if not R-rated?). He must have been feeling ill because at this point I gently caressed and kissed his forehead as one would do when checking on and comforting someone who is bedridden. That was when I felt the hand on my breast. Of course I was utterly surprised. I looked to my right, but the president there (in retrospect I’m pretty sure this was Grant, albeit the dashing young Grant which my subconscious probably dredged up out of the depths because I was talking about visiting Grant’s Farm in St. Louis the other day) just cleared his throat and looked the other way, so I knew it must have been FDR who had grabbed me. In my dream I attributed this fresh behavior to his illness and thought nothing more of it, perhaps because I wasn’t feeling well either and was falling back into a drowsy state myself. The next thing I knew, however, FDR’s hand had drifted down between my legs and yes, you better believe it, he had slid into proverbial third base. At that point, president or no, illness or otherwise, I hauled back and slapped the man, and that’s when I woke up.
So of course as soon as my date from the night before called I told him all about my dream, and as I was doing so I couldn’t help but think that FDR’s unwelcome touching was some kind of metaphor for his heavy-handed (and in my opinion) unconstitutional tactics, especially with respect to the establishment of Social Security. Or perhaps I’ve just never gotten over being inappropriately touched by an older boy when I was an adolescent and I’m taking it out on FDR.