Listen, I hardly ever do this kind of thing, but I need to tell you about this dream I had this morning. So this fancy important lady tells me she wants me to write a cover article for People magazine, right? I mean, NO BIG SURPRISE THERE. And I am nervous, but I figure I can fake my way through this. And then she tells me that it’s gonna be about Tom Hanks, and that I have to INTERVIEW Tom Hanks. And suddenly Tom Hanks is RIGHT THERE, but we can’t interview then because I don’t know why. And this dude steps in as kind of an intermediary, like maybe he’s Tom’s handler, and he pulls me aside to set up a time.
“Look,” he says, “I’ll level with you. Tom enjoys his marriage more than he enjoys having sex, so he wants to schedule this interview for one of the days he has sex. That means you can do, uh… January 26, January 31, or January 12.”
[I guess it was January in this dream? And the leap in logic wasn’t so vast, either? Also, to be clear, it was implied he would be having sex with HIS WIFE, and not me, OH GOD NO.]
“January 12 is great,” I say, because it’s the earliest date, and the fancy important lady wants her People cover story NOW. So I go find fancy important lady, and I say to her perhaps a little too self-assuredly, “Looks like Tom Hanks is going to make the next issue.” And she looks at me hard and says, “Great. I’d better not be disappointed.”
And then I woke up, because Beau was apparently battling invisible wolverines all last night in his sleep, which necessitated a lot of thrashing and flailing of limbs, limbs which often ended up on my half of the bed. And then I woke up again, later this morning, and I remembered this dream, and I was like, WHAT. Because I don’t know what’s worse: that I dreamed about Tom Hanks’ sex schedule, or that in my dream sex is actually set apart from marriage as some undesirable and vexatious life requirement. Like, oh god, NOT THIS SHIT AGAIN. You know?
Also: Tom Hanks? Really, People magazine?
In real-life news, I have three more days left in Oregon. This morning we went on a hike at Washington Park and a tree hit me in the face. Also, if you ever feel like you’re going to ralph, make sure the hotel you’re staying at has a heated stone floor in the bathroom. I can’t tell you what kind of sheer luxury it is to sprawl across warm tile as you await death. Overall, I am having a very lovely time and I don’t ever want to go home again. There’s not even one ounce of sarcasm in that last sentence. Really.
Also, there is no Internet access at my in-law’s condo so I typed all of this on my iPhone. TALK ABOUT A LABOR OF LOVE.
Now if you’ll excuse me, one of my hands is needed to hold a vodka drink against the cut on my eye that a tree gave me.
Oregon is for winners!