Last night, I had a dream about Hillary Clinton.

With a needle and thread, I was fixing something of mine that I needed to wear.

Hillary Clinton wanted to use my needle and thread to fix something of hers that she needed to wear.

Instead of finishing my own work, I cut the thread and offered to sew whatever it was that she needed.

She had a skirt, but the only thing it needed was a tag to be sewn on the inside. That is, the skirt was fully wearable, and no fix was really needed.

The tag said "LARGE." It was a size tag. Why would she need a size tag in a skirt she already owned? Did she resell her clothes? I asked, indicating that it was a good idea for her, with so many clothes, to have a system of passing them on to others who could use them. But why was I helping her in that enterprise, especially when I had my own sewing project?

Somehow, my needle slipped and tore into the suit jacket of another woman who was standing nearby. It was a fancy, expensive looking, patterned pink thing, and I'd made a big slash across the chest.

I effusively apologized to that woman and was quite annoyed. None of this would have happened if I'd stuck to the sewing I needed to do for myself.

This dream reminds me of an old saying that you don't hear anymore, but my mother often used: Stick to your knitting.

ADDED: Possible source material for the idea of a pink jacket:



As MayBee, in the comments remembers, I deny that Carly's jacket was pink. Also, neither of those is patterned. The jacket in my dream looked like something that, in the light of morning, calls to mind the recent Reddit post "One of these is Jupiter's moon Europa, the rest are frying pans":



As for Jackie, here's a passage from the 4th volume of Robert A. Caro's LBJ biography:

It seemed as if it was going to be a Kennedy day. As Air Force One touched down at Dallas’ Love Field at 11: 38— 12: 38 Washington time— everything seemed very bright under the brilliant Texas sun and the cloudless Texas sky: the huge plane gleaming as it taxied over closer to the crowd pressing against a fence; the waiting open presidential limousine, so highly polished that the sunlight glittered on its long midnight-blue hood that stretched forward to the two small flags fluttering on the front bumpers. There was a moment’s expectant pause while steps were wheeled up to the plane, and then the door opened, and into the sunlight came the two figures the crowd had been waiting for: Jackie first (“There is Mrs. Kennedy, and the crowd yells!” the television commentator yelled), youthful, graceful, tanned, her wide smile, bright pink suit and pillbox hat radiant in the dazzling sun; behind her, the President, youthful, elegant (“I can see his suntan all the way from here!” the commentator shouted), with the mop of brown hair glowing, one hand checking the button on his jacket in the familiar gesture, coming down the steps just so slightly turned sideways to ease his back that it wasn’t noticeable unless you looked for it. A bouquet of bright red roses was handed to Jackie by the welcoming committee, and it set off the pink and the smile.