I had a dream last night about the Obama's. They appeared in my nocturnal soap operas way back, when they were in the White House, but this was a surprise appearance.
This time, Barak and Michelle were bringing their kids over for a dinner party, but it was their little daughters, not the grown up version.
Everything was going wrong. I wanted to wear something nice, but my closet was bare except for a yellow velvet butterfly shirt my daughter wore in fourth grade. And no pants.
So I'm bottomless walking around in a Size 6x yellow butterfly top.
The apartment was messy— not any home I recognize. We had to eat on a plastic table and cardboard boxes. I was apologizing every minute. B and M were so polite and "understanding," it made it worse.
Jon and I had made a meal of steamed broccoli for everyone— that was it, steamed broccoli.
I worried that their kids might be the "no vegetables" type. Should we make them hot dogs separately?— or do the Obamas believe in the philosophy of "Eat what's o…