I’m at some sort of early evening outside barbecue awaiting the arrival of Mikhail Gorbachev’s wife. I’ve been emailing back and forth with her — we’ve grown to be close friends online — and now I’m looking forward to meeting her in person.

At some point, I have to be part of repairing a mid-size flat-bed truck so that someone else can drive it as part of this mission. I also drive it for a bit, too. But then I’m back at the barbecue.

Mrs. Gorbachev arrives.  She’s a middle-aged platinum blonde in a slightly tarnished white fur coat, standing apart on a small patch of grass near the barbecue pit. I introduce myself and she’s glad to speak with someone she knows. Black-suited secret service agents mill in the background. My daughter takes a photo of the two of us, Mrs. Gorbachev and me, and I have the idea to also get one with my daughter in it, but now there’s a line to see the former first lady of Russian (and the Soviet Union), and the man at the front of that line, who is also barely constraining a large dog on a chain, is growing irate and saying that he’d already been jumped in front of.

Having finished pleasantries with my friend Mrs. Gorbachev,  I go inside the nearby house to use the restroom and pass a television set that’s playing a commercial. It’s a commercial for pet food that mentions my daughter by name, and also shows her and her dog playing around. This reminds me that recently she’d won a contest to be the person featured in this commercial campaign. I also know that, resulting from my belief that dogs are dogs and should be happy with what they get, we don’t buy this pricy pet food at home, so now I’m considering, again, the hypocrisy over our family now being affiliated with this pet food.

I go into the restroom and I see the shambles created by dozens or hundreds of guests using a small, suburban bathroom. The trash can being full, a succession of people have stuffed their used paper towels into the sink, backing up the sink. I patiently pull all of that from the sink and jam it down into the trash can, and now the sink is back to functionality and I use the toilet.

Then I wake up.

Almost none of this dream bears examination or interpretation in the morning light. Except for one thing.

I assume the reason the dream featured Mikhail Gorbachev’s wife and not Vladimir Putin’s wife is because Vladimir Putin’s wife is the president of the United States, and I don’t want that guy showing up in my life, let alone my dreams.

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