Wednesday, June 25, 2008

I'm sorry it had to end this way, Mr. Royale

Friends have told me that pregnancy, the kind soul that she is, keeps expectant mothers entertained with crazy, vivid dreams, the likes of which you've never had. Well, we can check that off the list.

During the first two months I had a few dreams that were alarming in a "Law and Order: Debbie in Scenes Ripped from the Headlines" sort of way. I rarely remember my dreams, but of course the scary ones are seared into my subconscious. Luckily, the based-on-a-true-story dreams didn't last long, and I went for a month without anything memorable. Until last night. Now it would appear I've moved on to dreams that pair me with people I only know from TV, the neighborhood, chance encounters and the like.

Sharing this particular dream means that Chip will never again let me sink my teeth into The Royale's tasty brisket taco goodness, but I'm out of blog material until Brennan comes back into town, so here we go.

I'm a swinging single again, but I'm pregnant. (Sorry, mom.) I'm not really showing -- kind of like now. A faceless friend and I are at The Royale one night, and the owner, who is apparently one Steven Fitzpatrick Smith, takes a fancy to yours truly. Keep in mind that while I probably would recognize him on the street, the most interaction I've had with this man is when he's waved us to a table at The Royale. Anyway, he knows that Dream Debbie is preggers, and he still dines and dances me around the The Royale for nights on end. Yes, there's dancing. (I know, I dance about as often as I take a shine to guys in pork pie hats.) Anyway, at some point during our budding romance, Dream Debbie decides that hey, what's a glass of wine or two among a mother and her fetus? Apparently the server, the one-and-only Chad Michael Murray from "One Tree Hill," decides fetal alcohol syndrome is cool and starts bringing my friend and I umpteen glasses of wine. Mr. Royale sees this, and knowing that I have no self-control when it comes to the sauce, swoops in and punches Chad Michael Murray. While Dream Debbie is miffed that her wine was spilled in the ensuing brawl, she is secretly relieved to know that the baby isn't bombed out of its mind.

I like to think that Mr. Royale and I made up over a plate of brisket tacos, but Chip decided to wake me up at that exact moment. It's probably for the best. Can you imagine the havoc that would ensue if I was bethrothed to a bar owner? Even in dream world?

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