I have to rant, or whine, for a minute before I tell you my dream. If you’ve been hanging out here for the last couple of months you know I’m going to have to have a hysterectomy. My ovaries are like the Energizer Bunny and they won’t stop. Since I can’t have estrogen coursing through my body because my breast cancer was estrogen fed, the ovaries have got to go. We just moved to the state in June and I found a gynecologist on a recommendation of a friend. I had an appointment with this new doctor this morning at 10:30 in their Collegeville clinic. When I showed up there was no one AT the clinic. Turns out my appointment was not here, it was in Paoli. The cranky girl who made my appointment three weeks ago told me Collegeville!
The receptionist in the information booth called them and now I have an appointment – IN PAOLI – next Tuesday. It’s not such a big deal other than I feel like there’s always something I’m waiting for. I waited forever to get my reconstruction and then this hysterectomy mess popped up. I just want to have it over and done with and go about my business again.
Okay. That’s my whine. Or rant. Or whatever you want to call it. I did stop for a Starbuck’s Venti decaff White Chocolate Mocha to assuage my pouty self, so that was good. And why do I think, though I know better, that if I order a decaff it means there’s no sugar or fat in it, ergo no guilt? I dunno.
Now for my dream.
I had been invited to be on Oprah. I didn’t know exactly why, but okay. They want me on the show. I walk through the doors and an assistant leads me up a grand, sweeping staircase, but there’s no walkway or hall or anything at the top of the stairs. Instead there’s a two or three inch ledge that goes across the wall to the doorway we’re headed for. So little by little we make our way to the door.
Then in the way of dreams, I’m all of a sudden backstage and now I know I’m not there to be interviewed by Oprah. For some reason, I’m going on HER show to be the interviewer, not the interview-y. I start to panic because I haven’t taken any notes. How many questions are there to ask Oprah?
I’m watching Cybill Shepherd doing something on the stage from the wing and when she walks off she says to me, “I have some fantastic lip gloss you’re more than welcome to use.” Great! I think I’ll just quick step into this little powder room off the wing and freshen up my lips.
When I walk in there are about 20 round cases of lip gloss, all in the most beautiful shades. Not good because I can never make up my mind and I’ve got to be on stage, with Oprah, in like 30 seconds. I just grab one and look up into the mirror to apply the lip gloss and I’m horrified. I have not an ounce of makeup on, I’m blotchy, and my hair is in a ponytail, except I don’t have enough hair for a ponytail so it’s kind of like a sumo wrestler ponytail with hair coming out of the rubberband. I’m wearing the tackiest pair of jeans and I think an old, tattered sweatshirt. CRAP!! What was I thinking??
Then I’m on the stage with Oprah, totally baffled at why the makeup and hair and wardrobe people didn’t help a sister out a little. Too late now. I’m on National Television in front of millions of people. You only have one chance to make a first impression and I’ve certainly done that with the majority of America and how ever many other countries watch the show.
It starts okay and I don’t really have to say anything, then we move to commercial. During the break I whip out my battered spiral notebook with recipes, phone numbers, 6th grade math problems and crazy doodles and jot down some questions while Oprah is just looking at me like I’m an idiot. Which, okay. I am. She’s sitting there looking all beautiful and regal and I’m in my jeans with no makeup.
Thankfully this was about the time the alarm went off and I didn’t have to endure any more. I believe that some dreams do actually have some kind of subconscious meaning, but other dreams are just dreams. I’m hoping this was just a dream because I don’t want to know what it may have meant.