I woke up the other morning after one of those vivid dreams — the kind that plays out in your mind like a movie. And, of course, I am one of those annoying fucks┬ who can’t keep her dreams to herself. Upon waking, I┬ feel this overwhelming urge to share. If I let it fester all day and keep it to myself, I’ll just end up reciting it to you a few hours later, after I’ve forgotten all the important facts. After telling untitledhusband about this particular dream, he said, “You sooo have to write about that on your blog.” So here goes.
I had a dream that I was dating DJ AM and that we were condo shopping out in Hollywood.┬ All the realtors and condo┬ association members were┬ kissing our asses because we were rich and famous, and that felt good. untitledhusband asked me if we were swapping bariatric surgery stories, to which I┬ insultingly replied no. I mean, HELLO. I am ALWAYS thin in my dreams. Now that I think of it, I may actually have been Nicole Ritchie in my dream, which means I was really really thin.┬ I must be spending way too much time┬ reading Perez┬ Hilton. Goddamn you, Perez! One day, I will get fired, and it will be for the five hours a day I┬ spend at┬ your lascivious web site.
The action then┬ jumped to me arriving at The Ivy (famous Hollywood eatery). I was no longer Nicole Ritchie — I was myself. I remember trying to sweet talk the maitre de so he’d┬ think I was someone important and let me have a seat in his precious restaurant. He┬ walked me┬ to a small┬ wall-side table, in a different room than everyone else.┬ If I had any plums, I would’ve protested by saying, “No one puts Baby in the corner!” But as it turns out, I’m as big of a wuss in my dreams as I am in real life. Perfect.
Oh well. It’s probably for the best. If Patrick Swayze would’ve entered the equation, DJ AM would’ve┬ been forced┬ to kick his ass. Swayze would’ve challenged him to a dance-off, and AM would’ve whipped a CD at him, slicing the tendons in his knee, thus ending his career. At least now he’d have an excuse as to why he’s done nothing noteworthy since “To Wong Foo Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar” (which, I am ashamed to say, I saw in the movie theater). I have the retinal scars to prove it.
OK, back to the story. I was meeting untitledmom┬ at The Ivy┬ for Mother’s Day brunch. I remember feeling excited, because she was going to see what a Hollywood big shot I had become. After I took my seat, I noticed she was really late, so I called her on my mobile. She was flying into town for the occasion.
As┬ her phone rang, it occurred to me that I should’ve called earlier, or picked her up at LAX. Poor woman can’t even go through the McDonald’s drive-through without her On Star. Turns out she was┬ still at┬ the airport, pacing the┬ sidewalk like┬ a frightened marmoset, too freaked out to hail a cab or shuttle. I had to surrender my┬ table at The Ivy (sigh) and leave to go get her. I was pissed, cause I really wanted to┬ eat me some┬ waffles.
That was it. That was my dream.┬
Now, the first person who figures out the logic behind the title of this┬ post can ask me any question they like. I will answer honestly (as long as it’s not too revealing) and publish my reply in┬ the comments section┬ of this post. You’ll also get my undying respect. Since that in and of itself is not much of a prize (in fact, it may be a disincentive), I thought I’d better up the ante.┬ Yeah, I know. Merry fucking Christmas.