I don’t feel I need to offer an excuse when I don’t blog for a while, because A) I didn’t sign no freakin’ contract to blog according to any schedule and B) I am an adult and can do what I want and C) I don’t think my failure to blog for a few days or weeks really causes anyone any suffering--I’m not vain enough to imagine I’ve attracted that kind of fandom and it’s a good thing because I don’t want that kind of responsibility.
But sometimes I want to reveal, just for the heck of it, what I’ve been doing instead of blogging, or why I didn’t quite feel like blogging. So here it is: I’ve been traveling, and while on my travels, I had a nightmare--not a nightmarish travel experience like the one involving the two little girls in the back of the minivan; this trip actually went pretty smoothly, transportation-wise--but an actual nightmare that left me confused, perplexed, and, dare I say it, ashamed.
It might have had something to do with the martinis I downed while out with my friend C the first night of my visit, or it might not.... I’d rather blame it on the martinis, frankly, than imagine that this dream really expressed something going on in my own head. So here’s what happened.
I was in some TV show with Tori Spelling, and my role required me to jump off some really tall structure onto one of those bouncy castle things you can rent for your kid’s birthday party. Tori and I were supposed to stand an equal distance from the edge so that we both had plenty of room to bounce on the inflated thing that would break our fall, but she was a space and a glory hog and insisted on jumping off right in the middle, which meant that I was forced far to the side. The fall hurt me; I was cut and bruised. (I don’t know how a bouncy castle thing could inflict cuts, but that’s the logic of dreams for you.) I was sad, sore and angry, so I called my boyfriend.
Who turned out to be George W. Bush.
I was mildly horrified when he showed up, and couldn’t figure out how I had started dating him. I was even more horrified when he turned out to be a decent boyfriend--not all that interesting, granted, but solicitous of my well-being and nice enough while he was around. We never discussed politics or our personal lives, which meant that we never acknowledged that he was married and the president of the United States, or that I despise him. The only indications that he was president, in fact, were the body guards waiting out in the street by his limo while he was in the house with me, and the huge delivery of groceries and other goods that arrived at my home immediately after his departure.
So that’s why I have been silent: I’ve been on planes and trains and in hotels, and I’ve been trying to purge myself of the disgust I felt upon realizing that my mind, even when aided by plenty of vodka, could actually concoct a scenario in which I’m dating George Bush. I don’t know if sharing this dream will increase or mitigate the shame. We'll see.