Apologies for a long hiatus. I only wish I had a more interesting excuse than “I’m a workaholic- oh yeah and school started.” To make it up to all of you who scour your google readers intently every day for Holliday news- I have another crazy dream for you.
Jennifer Aniston and I (we are FRIENDS—get it?) are shopping in a mall with wooden escalators and extensive shoe sales. We were in the isle of a shoe store, chatting about what a fiend Brad Pitt was. Jen turned to me and said she wasn’t mad though, that I was dating Brad’s bff George Clooney.
Well, thought I, this is bound to be a good dream then!
As if on cue, the man himself saunters into the shoe isle. Jen goes in search of a sales assistant (in my dream she has to search for an assistant rather than being waited on hand and foot). George- who smells great by the way- is wearing a long woolen business coat over a smart suit. He’s all business. We don’t really communicate- I keep looking at shoes as he fumbles in his pocket.
He grabs my right hand and shoves a ring on my finger- it’s like a snake, twisted round my finger, white and black diamonds. It’s sparkly, it’s impressive. I look at it quickly, then I look at his tan face quizzically. Before I can say anything, Brad jumps into the isle, “dude you gotta see these shoes!” he says to George, and they both disappear.
Jen returns and her eyes nearly pop out of her head-
“You’re engaged!” she exclaims, reaching for my finger. I wonder if I really am engaged- there was no kneeling, no exclamations of love- and let’s face it: it’s George Clooney we’re talking about here: the spokesman of bachelordom.
George returns and escorts me to one of the wooden escalators, which run almost vertically. We cling on to the railings- not each other- and he discusses some travel plans.
“I’ve booked us on a trip to Cork,” says he. I struggle to keep my white coat from brushing along the dirty railings of the escalator as my mind flips through maps and charts.
“Ireland?” I say.
“Yes. We’ll be right… here,” we are off the escalator now, and he’s pointing at a map of Ireland, finger stopped over Dublin. George honey, I think, Cork is nowhere near Dublin. Despite George’s less than satisfactory geography skills, I begin to get excited thinking about all of the places in Ireland I can show him from my childhood.
“It’ll be a great honeymoon, kid,” he says- and I understand that he really did just propose.
Then I get nervous. The scene freezes and Jen is back at my side.
“Hmm,” she says, “So I guess you’ll have to tell your parents that you’re not marrying a Mormon guy and you’re going to sleep with him in Ireland.”
“Shut up Jennifer, let me THINK!” I yell. I can tell that George is going to unfreeze soon, so I dart over to the escalator again and start to descend. I’m struggling to hurry in my new heels- that I may or may not have stolen- and I hear George calling after me. He catches up as I step off the escalator to a floor swarming with paparazzi. George catches my elbow and swings me back onto the upward moving escalator. We are followed.
“Hollie, Hollie! Will you consider changing your name? What will your married name be?” a paparazzo says. I think about it carefully but can’t think of an answer. Is his last name really Clooney?
“Mrs… McKee?” I say, looking to George for an answer. He shakes his head No.
“Mrs. Clooney? Hollie? Hollie. You can just call me Hollie,” I say to the microphone that’s pushed into my face. “Hollie McKee, right?” I ask George quietly when we have arrived at the top of the escalator.
“No,” he says, “I hate that name.” He hates my name? I think, heat rising in my cheeks. How dare he hate my name! I think, It’s who I am!
I looked at the ring sitting there on my finger.
“Well, I hate this stupid ring!” I say as I rip it off my finger, throw it on the ground and run down the escalator, pushing through the crowds who are all looking up at George with tears in their eyes as he stands there looking like a Spartacus-type hero.