the smell of my desperation has become a stench

My therapist will have a field day

I always promise that I’m not going to do this, but then the dream is either so amazing or absurd that I can’t help myself and here I go again. I’m going to write about a dream I had. WAIT! STOP! Before you hang up on me, trust me that this one is totally worth it, although everyone involved remained fully clothed the entire time. But maybe that’s just me and my dreams, because the naked ones are NEVER good. There is almost always a public main street with millions of passing cars and people laughing involved. And the Sophie’s choice decision of which body part to cover up (boobs usually win).

You guys, I was invited to be one of ten people to roast Brad Pitt. Not on a spit, no, but I imagine that if forced to feast on a fellow human being, he probably wouldn’t taste as bad as say, Michael Lohan.

I couldn’t figure out why they had asked me, “they” I guess being the friends who planned the whole thing. But of course “they” never made an appearance or gave me any directions. So I was left to come up with something funny or embarrassing I knew about Brad. EXCEPT I DON’T KNOW BRAD. So I grabbed a pen and paper and just started writing anything that would come to mind, like, “Once Brad called me up…” but then I froze. Because a part of my brain knew I was dreaming and that I can’t be clever in dreams.

So I just stood there shouting at an absent “they” going DON’T YOU KNOW I CAN’T DO THIS?! How am I supposed to come up with anything interesting to say? One, I don’t know Brad! AND, TWO? I’M DREAMING! I was so mad that they had put me in this position.

You know how the timelines in dreams can go, because right then they marched us into the auditorium where the party was supposed to begin. And when I walked through the door I immediately realized that this roast was taking place in sacrament meeting. Meaning, on a Sunday morning in front of a Mormon congregation IN A MORMON CHURCH.

I should probably stop doing all those drugs before I go to bed.

That’s when I really started to panic, because I looked down at my notes to see that I’d made reference to the fact that someone sent me the Playgirl magazine from several years ago that featured Brad in the nude. And there was no way I was going to bring this up in front of a Mormon audience, especially not this one because guess who was sitting in the front row? MY DAD.

So I walked up to the podium feeling like I was about to crap my pants, when all of a sudden the words just rolled off of my tongue: “I met Gwyneth Paltrow in New York City last week, so you know what this means, right? I’m too close to Brad now to have him on the list of men I want to have sex with! I guess his vacant spot now leaves room for Donny Osmond!”

Right then Leta woke me up to tell me that Marlo was in her crib making noises. Later that afternoon I added a bullet point to my life list: roast Brad Pitt during sacrament meeting. It’s now right behind “climb Mt. Everest alone.”

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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