Dream: Gramma Jihadi

We’re trying to prevent a group of criminals – terrorists? — from escaping an airline hangar. I believe they are planning to hijack a plane. We catch them just as they are about to drive off in a van. I jump in, clutching the side of the van; they’re still driving off — ruining my “Gotcha!” moment.

I notice that in the front passenger seat sits my grandmother (on my mother’s side). ‘You’re not my gramma,’ I think to myself, ‘She’s dead.’ I grab her wig and try to rip it off — clearly a disguise. And it does come off, but only to reveal the thin white hair of my grandmother, who always wore wigs.

At this point I’m not sure if I made a terrible mistake, or if my grandmother is just a terrorist…

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)