Dear Stewart, (Now with picture)

I had a dream last night, and you were in it!

If I've talked about other dreams I've had with you in them, I have to make a confession: I probably lied. Oh, maybe ("maybe"!) you've made little cameos in my head at bed-time (more on this, never) but I'm pretty sure that if I said I had a dream in which you appeared, really "you" were somebody else but making it "you" was more interesting.

Does that make sense?

Outing myself as a liar just makes selling the story I'm about to tell all that much more difficult, but see, I'm not gonna tell you everything, so that in itself should be a sign of my truthfulness, no? I mean, if I tell everything all the time, where's the mystery?

So here goes, yeah!

Last night's dream:

I'm at my parents' house in Culver City, in the bathroom, actually, looking in the mirror in the vanity. Their vanity has three sections, two of which open up so that you (well, should you ever come to my parents' house, you can do whatever you want in the bathroom) can see the sides and back of your hair. Actually, I think it opens up so that you can access the contents of the vanity; it's a very common style of vanity. Being mirrored just means that you can check yourself out, too. The vanity at my house is the same (only mine is white and theirs is wood-colored), so if you want to try it here, just give me some advanced notice so I can clean. Or hire someone to clean. Patrick hates it when, after I've finished looking at my hair (or my ears, you get a great view of your ears in these mirrors too), I forget to close the vanity doors. I don't know why that bothers him so much, but it does. It bothers him more than his leaving his dirty shirt on the floor bothers me, and I think that's weird, because normally he's the even-tempered one. Anyway. I was checking out my hair (which has been recently cut. I have a "lob" now, or, a "long bob." It's okay. I'm not feeling very vain about my hair anymore, anyway), or possibly my ears, when my mother called me from the living room.

"Irene!"

I went out to the living room, where she was watching TV. She was sitting on the couch, which she never does anymore because of her new knee (now she sits in a special recliner that helps her to get up and down), and the TV was on the other wall, but other than these two minor discrepancies, the living room in my parents' house was exactly as it is right now (well, I'm not over there right now, but it was exactly as it was the last time I was over there, which was fairly recently).

A new show was coming on. The theme music was familiar. It was familiar because it was you. I have to figure out exactly which song it was, but I think it was "Coco" from the Rhythmatist. My mom and I are watching your show (and no offense, but my mom probably has no idea who you are, other than that dude who's on my iPhone), and it's just like any other talk show: there's a stage, a studio audience, a live band (but what a band), a couple of chairs... and you!

It's your first show, so you do some explanation of who you are and what this is ("Hi, I'm Stewart Copeland, and this is my show!"), and then you introduce your first guest, and your first guest is... me.

Now, I'm not crazy. No, really: I'm not. I'm certainly not crazy enough to think that I could possibly be interesting enough to be on anybody's talk show. And to sit there in front of a million people and talk to you? Come on. I'd be giggling and laughing and sighing and probably trying to touch you in inappropriate ways and I'd be making a fool out of myself in no time flat. But, hey, in my dream, there I am, talking to you about something (no idea what), and it looked good, and I looked good, and you, of course, looked good, and my mom was proud of me.

Ah, see, and here's the part I'm gonna leave out:

And then [something happened], and I woke up.

See you!

Love you,
Irene