[image error]I had a dream.

It was nothing like Martin Luther King’s visions. It was more trippy and confusing than that. The theme right through every dream I’ve ever had, is confusion. I never seem to know why I am wherever I am – and not in an existential crisis kind of way either. I literally do not know where I am and why I am there. I can never find my family and my phone is never functional.

This time, it was no different.

I am ushered into the back of a room that can either be a classroom or a party venue. Confusion. For some reason, my hair is soaking wet. No, it isn’t raining and strangely I am the only person resembling a wet dog. A few people are lining up behind a desk for a purpose unknown to me. Uncharacteristically, in my dreams, I don’t try very hard to figure out where I am supposed to be going. It’s like I’ve made peace with the fact that I will forever be lost. Suddenly I am second in line and I can see the person behind the desk. Melissa Brayden!

What?! Melissa Brayden?

Being a huge fan, a million stupid thoughts run through my mind. I forget about my soaking, messy hair and try to figure out a way to impress her. I know! I will show her a picture of a goat. No! It dawns on me that it’s in fact Georgia Beers that would be wooed by my goat picture. Okay, okay. I will tell her that her son looks like an angel. Wait. No, that’s Rachel Spangler’s son. Shit. I can always tell her how much I loved A Fairytale of Possibilities. That would be random, since Kiki Archer actually wrote that book. Boobs. I would tell her that I am obsessed with boobs and that we have that common! She would probably have me removed since I actually have that in common with Tig Ashton. Suddenly, it’s my turn (for what, I still have no clue) and I’ve run out of ideas.

Well, I’m next, and Melissa is either going to blow dry my hair or mark my test paper. The problem is that she seems ill equipped for both. Man, did she come unprepared. She has no blow dryer or pen. She’s literally just sitting behind the desk, paging through papers. She was probably sitting on her couch, minding her own business, when the leader of the Dream Team tapped her on the shoulder and ordered her into my dreams.

Finally, she smiles at me and pages through a paper that I am assuming is mine.

Provincetown! That’s what I’ll talk about.

“So, did you enjoy your week in Provincetown?” I finally ask.

She blushes profusely and I realize that I have just completely outed my teacher/hairdresser and she’s either going to fuck up my hair or give me terrible grades.

Without a word she jumps up from the desk and starts blow drying my hair with a dryer that had magically appeared out of nowhere. Guess I failed my test then. She seems really pissed off with me. She asks me if I want her to do a cut as well, but the dreamy version of me is also very wise. I know of a million ways she can get back at me with a pair of scissors in my hair, so I politely decline her offer.

She abandons her post as hairdresser midway through a blow drying session that really wasn’t going to be her best work and she starts taking selfies with random people in the classroom/party venue/salon. I stare at my phone which is on the verge of dying, as usual. I look around the room for someone who can take a picture of me and Melissa. I figure I won’t ask her to take one with her phone, because she clearly wants to get away from me as soon possible and I just know that she’ll never send me the picture. I start asking people around me if they could take our picture, but apparently none of their cell phones had cameras. I have to admit that I suspect a conspiracy between Melissa and every other person in that room. No pictures would be taken of me.

Finally, my mother appears out of nowhere. There’s probably a prop room in dreamland. It’s weird how props and people just suddenly appear out of thin air when they are needed. In my case, the store clerk is probably like, ‘Who knows what the fuck she’s going to dream up this time. Just stock up on unicorns and chainsaws. You know what happened last month’. I probably have my own little red room of painful props.

Relieved to see my mother, I grab her by the shoulders.

“Look, Mom. See who it is? It’s Melissa Brayden!”

My mom sports a blank look on her face. Like the prop manager forgot to program her.

“You know I have read all of her books, Mom! Remember, I showed you the cover of her new book on my Kindle yesterday!”

There’s a flutter of recognition on my mother’s face and she starts describing the cover of Poppy Jenkins. Embarrassment.

“No, Mom! That’s not what I showed you!”

At Melissa who is doing her utmost to ignore me : “Melissa, that’s not what I showed her. She’s old. She forgets things.”

If all else fails, turn on your family for Melissa’s approval.

It’s Melissa’s turn to wear the blank look.

She’s had enough. Without another word, she slips out the door and disappears into a crowd of strangers.

“Have a good one,” I mumble.