Wednesday, December 13, 2006
“Dude, I haven’t smoked pot in one week,” is what Lindsay Lohan said to me in my dream last night.
I have no clue why she crept her way into my dreams. But there she was in her tacky black hooded sweatshirt with gold flecks. I kept staring at it thinking it looked like an Urban Outfitters reject or something an almost hip grandmother would buy. Was I so out of touch with fashion that I didn’t realize this was somehow cool? I wanted to ask so badly but I wasn’t sure I was dreaming yet and didn’t want to make waves.
She seemed really sweet, not the Lindsay that flies off the handle at Dime bar or at her room at the Chateau.
She said, “So, like, if I do the AA thing…do I have to like talk to people and stuff?”
I said, “Yeah. You have to not drink one day at a time and get a sponsor.” Her eyes lit up. “Oh, Lindsay, not that kind of sponsor. Not someone who pays you. Like an older person in AA who can…walk you through the steps?”
She clapped her hands. “Can you be my sponsor?” I said, “No. I’m not in AA.”
She said, “Oh. Why do you know so much about it then?” I said, “I don’t know. I’m not a dumb-ass?”
I waited for her to clock me but she laughed. Okay. I still didn’t know I was dreaming yet but I’d figured out that I was somehow her ‘funny’ friend who told it like it was and didn’t care that she was famous.
“Dude, I haven’t smoked pot in like a week.” I know, Lindsay. You told me. “Dude, I really want to smoke some pot right now.” Well, you can’t Lindsay. See, this is the type of stuff a sponsor can help with.
She said, “Let’s watch TV.” So we watched TV on a couch in the lobby of a hotel? And people were pointing, “That’s Lindsay Lohan.” I was mad that they were not pointing and saying, “That’s Jen Kirkman.” Then I noticed that I was wearing velour sweatpants. “Lindsay, would Paris and all those guys call me fat if you ever brought me out.?”
Lindsay took a look at me and said, “Yeah. They would. But you’re not that bad. They’re bitches anyway.”
I said, “But I just saw a picture of you, Britney and Paris in the front seat of a car.” She said, “Dude, the press totally photo-shopped me in.”
Then she said, “Let’s watch Season 1 of 90210.”
I was so happy. That’s like my favorite thing I can think of doing ever. I thought, “I still don’t know why I’m sitting here with her but she’s sweet. I wonder if maybe I’m a press reporter and this is an interview? I don’t know. But I’m not going to write one of those articles that makes it seem like we’re best friends or that she’s on the mend. Because she’s not. She’s messed up.”
And then when the credits for 90210 were all wrong and the music was not the theme song, I realized that something was not right and that I must be dreaming. I said to Lindsay, “I think I’m going to wake up soon.” And she said, “Whatever, dude.”