Last night I had a dream that I was Gwyneth Paltrow. For those that know me, this is deeply disturbing since she is an anathema to all for which I stand. I woke up more horrified than I was after the dream I had in Tennessee in which I was surrounded by the dead of Opryland. I was there - with Apple in arms, Coldplay Shaggy nearby - and thinking about macrobiotic food and yoga and Stella McCartney and missing my dad. And it continued. It was as though I was really her. Then, I found the REAL her in another room - a room with a big, shiny, black piano. She was standing near the mantle and just watching as if this was an audition to be Gwyneth Paltrow and I was the next candidate. No one spoke to her or paid her any mind and even I, the dream Gwyneth Paltrow, saw her, but saw her as furniture - as if we'd had her stuffed and mounted there near the fireplace.
When I woke up, I was a bit surprised that I wasn't there in that house with Coldplay Shaggy and that wee babe. As I was brushing my teeth and thinking about what to wear, one of the ensembles I've seen her in came to mind as something I could toss on to wear to work. Even now, I have a hard time keeping "Yellow" out of my head.
I'm worried that someone's put some sort of voodoo curse on me and that I'm slowly melding with that which I've loathed for so long. But the plus side? I don't dislike her nearly as much now. Maybe my subconscious is helping me become more tolerant of Miss G. And you know, that's okay with me. I need more room to hate Renee Zellweger.
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