Last night I dreamt that I visited Dooce's house in Salt Lake City, except that it was really in the older part of Bozeman. Also, it wasn't so much a recently built classically styled home as it was a hodge-podge dive of multi-era construction they were renovating one room at a time (and in my personal opinion: not nearly fast enough).
My in? My good friend Terra was, in some capacity, hired by them to work in their home. I cannot remember if it was personal assistant or nanny, but she led me in, and I had to sit quietly on a couch littered with laundry. And it was dead winter and I thought of Naomi the whole time as I tried to keep T proud by zipping my lip. No gushing or shaking her hand or proclaiming how religiously I read her and sometimes worry about her and her family.
And then I used the bathroom and wondered if the lock would hold or if Blurbomat would walk in on me in all my glory. I examined the slate blue walls and white subway tile and nodded approvingly at their design choices, though why they would tie wide, stacked, and dying bromeliad leaves to their cabinets mystified me.
I went back to the couch to listen in on the conversation, tried on one of her white skirts that was actually a curtain, realized I was wearing purple undies that showed through the skirt/curtain, and woke up, feeling faintly embarrassed.
This is why I should not eat anything right before bed.