Monday, November 27, 2006
More wacky celebrity dreams; plus, the return of George!
I've often thought that the reason I have so many weird dreams about celebrities is because I'm constantly numbing my brain with celebrity news and gossip. But most of last week was relatively celeb-free, although I couldn't ignore the news emitting from that most unholy of unions, the Tom Cruise-Katie Holmes nuptials. (And by "couldn't ignore," I of course mean "picked up In Touch and read the 'Tom and Katie's Wedding Album' cover story while waiting in line at the supermarket, only to find that I already knew most of the story by following Entertainment Tonight's on-the-scene coverage and reading post-wedding tidbits on The Superficial.)
But still, immersing myself in the latest Cruise-Holmes media blitz doesn't really explain why I had a dream the other night that Luke Perry and I broke into Lindsay Lohan's house. It was completely trashed, so I suggested that Luke pose as her boyfriend (What? The girl dated Jared Leto; Luke Perry is totally believable) and call her housekeeper to come over and tidy the place up. We scrolled through her phone to find the number, and Luke was just rehearsing what he was going to say when we heard Lindsay walk in the front door. We ran out the back, but she managed to catch up with me and started screaming because she thought we were trying to hack the information in her phone. I started to defend myself, saying that we were just trying to do something nice for her, but soon we were surrounded by paparazzi, and LiLo suddenly started acting like my best friend, because she should know better than anyone what happens when you badmouth someone to the paparazzi.
Now, back to reality: Remember George, the mouse that terrorized me a few months ago? I never saw him again after that fateful night, so I figured either a) he'd managed to escape under the cover of night (or while I was out buying mousetraps), or b) I'd hallucinated the whole thing. Although the second option doesn't speak too highly of my mental state, I think I would have preferred either one to what actually happened, which is that George somehow became trapped under and subsequently smooshed by the box holding my Christmas tree. Fortunately, it was Dave who discovered him last night when we were putting up the tree, and it was Dave who had the unlucky task of peeling him off the floor. Of course, I still have to go back and somehow scrape what's left of George off the floor, which is bound to be unpleasant. In the meantime, though, I'm still trying to figure out exactly what transpired with George and the Christmas tree box, not to mention how I managed to have a dead mouse in my house for almost three months without realizing it. R.I.P., George. And also, eeeewwwwww.
I've often thought that the reason I have so many weird dreams about celebrities is because I'm constantly numbing my brain with celebrity news and gossip. But most of last week was relatively celeb-free, although I couldn't ignore the news emitting from that most unholy of unions, the Tom Cruise-Katie Holmes nuptials. (And by "couldn't ignore," I of course mean "picked up In Touch and read the 'Tom and Katie's Wedding Album' cover story while waiting in line at the supermarket, only to find that I already knew most of the story by following Entertainment Tonight's on-the-scene coverage and reading post-wedding tidbits on The Superficial.)
But still, immersing myself in the latest Cruise-Holmes media blitz doesn't really explain why I had a dream the other night that Luke Perry and I broke into Lindsay Lohan's house. It was completely trashed, so I suggested that Luke pose as her boyfriend (What? The girl dated Jared Leto; Luke Perry is totally believable) and call her housekeeper to come over and tidy the place up. We scrolled through her phone to find the number, and Luke was just rehearsing what he was going to say when we heard Lindsay walk in the front door. We ran out the back, but she managed to catch up with me and started screaming because she thought we were trying to hack the information in her phone. I started to defend myself, saying that we were just trying to do something nice for her, but soon we were surrounded by paparazzi, and LiLo suddenly started acting like my best friend, because she should know better than anyone what happens when you badmouth someone to the paparazzi.
Now, back to reality: Remember George, the mouse that terrorized me a few months ago? I never saw him again after that fateful night, so I figured either a) he'd managed to escape under the cover of night (or while I was out buying mousetraps), or b) I'd hallucinated the whole thing. Although the second option doesn't speak too highly of my mental state, I think I would have preferred either one to what actually happened, which is that George somehow became trapped under and subsequently smooshed by the box holding my Christmas tree. Fortunately, it was Dave who discovered him last night when we were putting up the tree, and it was Dave who had the unlucky task of peeling him off the floor. Of course, I still have to go back and somehow scrape what's left of George off the floor, which is bound to be unpleasant. In the meantime, though, I'm still trying to figure out exactly what transpired with George and the Christmas tree box, not to mention how I managed to have a dead mouse in my house for almost three months without realizing it. R.I.P., George. And also, eeeewwwwww.
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