I don’t often have vivid dreams. I usually dream in black and white, and the moments are generally fuzzy and disconnected. However, once in awhile I have dreams that are memorable. But rarely, if ever, do I have dreams as momentous as the one I had last night.
It was like a dream sequence in a sitcom. There was music and a laugh track and everything.
While there’s no way to actually mind-meld with you and send you the bits and pieces of this dream that I remember (because I’m still only an honorary Vulcan), I can describe it for you in great detail. With pictures, courtesy of Photoshop. (Of course.)
Act One: (yes, it occurred in acts. Just like a movie.)
My always-ready-for-an-adventure best pal, Becca, and I are grabbing our luggage from the overhead bins of a bustling airplane. We’re both clearly excited. We depart, grab the rest of our bags, and head for the exit. The street outside is lined with taxi cabs, and immediately I know we’re in New York City.
Becca and I have been talking about and planning a girl’s weekend to Manhattan since college. We’ve talked about staying at some fabulous hotel, going to see a show on Broadway, taking the ferry to Staten Island to see the Statue of Liberty, shopping at Macy’s/Barney’s/Bloomingdale’s/Saks Fifth Avenue.
And in this dream, we do it ALL. And the souvenirs are AWESOME.
|Becca’s way too cool for a silly hat….maybe.|
After we’ve taken in the sights, we head back to our hotel. As we’re heading for the elevators, we notice a bellman coming our way.
Bellman: “Can I help you with your bags, ladies?
Becca: “Well, of course! Thank you.”
Abby: “Hey, aren’t you Perry Como?”
|I never would’ve known, if it weren’t for the name tag.|
Bellman: “Why, yes ma’am, I am.”
Abby: “Thank you very much for helping with our bags, Mr. Como.”
Becca: *whispers* “How did you know that was Perry Como??”
Abby: “Didn’t you see his name tag?”
On day two of our adventure, Becca decides we can’t officially say we’ve been to NYC until we’ve had room service, and read the New York Times with our morning coffee. So, we order room service and coffee, and sit in our fabulous hotel room in soft, white robes. Becca takes the sports section, and I take the entertainment section.
A few sips of coffee later, I reach for the front page. And that’s when I see it:
|This would TOTALLY be on the front page of the NYTimes. Totally.|
I spit coffee all over my soft, white robe, and launch myself at Becca, waving the paper madly about in her face.
Abby: “OMGOMGOMGOMG *incoherent babbling* OMGOMGOMGOMG!”
Becca: “DUUUUUDE! I wonder what floor he’s on???”
We race to our closets (there are two, because it’s a fabulous NYC hotel) and start getting dressed. Naturally, because we are excellent trip planners, we have the sleuth costumes we need in order to search for Donnie Wahlberg in our hotel.
|There’s nothing quite as fashionable as tweed.|
Becca and I, magnifying glasses in hand, search the hotel high and low for signs of the mysteriously sexy Donnie Wahlberg. Alas, we have no luck. We retire to our room for a nap, scones, and a little television before our night out on the town.
It’s almost time for us to venture out into the big, bad city for our last night in NYC. Becca, her hair in curlers (this never happens in real life, but it happened in the dream. I swear.) tells me she’s thirsty. So I offer to head out and find some refreshing beverages.
I’m walking back to the room, full ice-bucket in hand, and as leave the elevator and round the corner, I run smack-dab into Donnie Wahlberg and his entourage.
In real life, this would have been humiliating and exhilarating.
In the dream, the music swells, he smiles at me, and I launch myself into his arms.
Abby: “Donnie! Donnie, it’s you! We were looking everywhere! Donnie Wahlberg, in our hotel! It’s YOU!!!!”
There’s a guy who looks a lot like Alan Rickman hovering around us, snapping photographs. He tells me to tilt my chin up, turn a little to the left, and to smile. Donnie poses with me and the Alan Rickman look-alike snaps the last photo.
This entire time, Donnie hasn’t said a word. Now, he turns to me and says, “I’ll email you a copy, baby.” (Pause for swooning) Then he kisses me on the cheek (more swooning) and his entourage whisks him off to the elevator, leaving me standing in a pool of melting ice, heart pounding like crazy.
A flash of me at home, placing a picture frame on top of my dresser. And it looks like this:
|That’s right, girls. He’s a nuzzler.|
*Note to Becca:*
It’s official. We HAVE to go to NYC. And it has to happen like this, ok? If you need me to pay to have your tweed jacket dry-cleaned, I’ll be happy to do it.