Not sure if it’s the weather, my sleep habits, hormones or what…but I have been having the weirdest dreams lately. A couple of nights ago I dreamed I was standing in a gorgeous ballroom with the Queen of England. The room was supposedly in Buckingham Palace, but the architecture was decidedly Moroccan. Blue and white mosaic covered most everything and all the doorways were framed by those distinctive archways.

But for all the glamour, my visit to the palace was not a happy one. The queen stood before me and gave me flack for my weight. I was huge. I was unhealthy. I was etc. etc. I guess I must have stood there and taken it for awhile otherwise I wouldn’t remember what she said. But after a bit, I was done. I’d had it. I don’t care who you are, I’m not standing around and taking verbal abuse with a smile.

I screamed in her face, “I Am The Elephant In Your Ballroom!”

And she didn’t have much to say after that. I doubt she found a new level of respect for the peasant defiling her palace with my mastodon-esque presence. But she shut her royal mouth. And that is all I guess I could really ask for.

When I mentioned this on Facebook, my aunt pointed out that ballrooms are for dancing. Maybe this was my subconscious telling me that it doesn’t matter how out of practice I am. I need to get back on the belly dance train.

At a party this past weekend, my writing buddy asked, “are you writing?” And honestly, I haven’t written anything fictional in months. I’m just barely pounding out these blog posts. Other than complaining about how hard it is to be a mother and work full-time and run a side business, I feel like I have nothing to say. At least nothing interesting.

Last night I had a dream that I was at a party but walking around in nothing but a towel. I had to ask a staff member of the household a question, and she got snooty with me in her pastel pink skirt suit. Her name tag read, “Utah.”

Man, f*ck you Utah.