Last Night I Dreamt of Cosmopolitans: A Modern Girl's Dream Dictionaryby Josie Brown
In a world filled with Starbucks, E!, designer water, and reality T.V., is it any wonder that pop culture icons are invading our dreams? With insightful humor (a sure sign that the only thing implanted in her cheek is her tongue), author Josie Brown explains dream symbolism in terms that any young, hip woman can readily comprehend. What does it mean to dream of
In a world filled with Starbucks, E!, designer water, and reality T.V., is it any wonder that pop culture icons are invading our dreams? With insightful humor (a sure sign that the only thing implanted in her cheek is her tongue), author Josie Brown explains dream symbolism in terms that any young, hip woman can readily comprehend. What does it mean to dream of Paris (France), Paris (Hilton), Prada, blogging, bridesmaids, and more? Josie can tell you. Part dream dictionary, part relationship guide, part fashion fantasy, Last Night I Dreamt of Cosmopolitans taps into its readers' subconscious, unraveling their slumber-induced musings on love, lust, cocktails, and of course, designer shoes.
- St. Martin's Press
- Publication date:
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- First Edition
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- 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.40(d)
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Last Night I Dreamt of Cosmopolitans
A Modern Girl's Dream Dictionary
By Josie Brown
St. Martin's PressCopyright © 2005 Josie Brown
All rights reserved.
Paula Abdul. Paula's appearance in your sleep state is your id's way of encouraging some much-needed positive thinking. In this fantasy, Paula listens raptly as you belt out your heart. Always the cheerleader — hey, there's a reason she was a Laker Girl standout, right? — first she nurtures you with compliments, then she encourages you to stretch the envelope with gentle suggestions on ways you can better play to your strengths. She's big sister and mentor all wrapped into one. ... Hmmm, does she remind you of anyone? When you awake, remember the phone lines are open, so return your idol's favor by giving her your own vote of confidence.
Abercrombie & Fitch. There is a part of you that pines for the way things were as opposed to the way we live now. And yet, as a purveyor of all things cutting edge, you appreciate cultural evolution and revel in truly avant-garde revolution. This dream reflects that ongoing internal struggle. In it, you walk through an old-school A&F, where antlered moose heads, intermingled among the well-stitched linen slacks and skirts paired with structured jackets, provide the ambience of a private club fit for the worldly Hemingwayesque traveler — granted, more Ernest than Mariel. And yet, you wonder: a pith helmet as a fashion statement? Maybe Kate Moss can carry it off; on you, though, it screams funny farm, not fashionista. You now click your heels three times and time travel into the present, where the new millennium A&F catalogs feature sensuous teens who tease our primal urges. The naked truth: Bare skin sells, be it National Geographic subscriptions or fashionable tank tees and 1892 capri cropped jeans. That, madame, is what's known as survival of the fittest, so get used it.
Academy Awards.(Cut to: Interior: Malibu Beach pad, POV you.) This dream has you being awakened by your agent with the news that you've been nominated for a Best Actress Oscar. Forget the fact that you can't remember the role that won you the honor, the endless hours on the set, or the number of times your director drove you to tears — and, subsequently, to Method ecstasy. None of that matters anyway, because, for the next sixty days, the paparazzi dog your every step, you are begged by Tiffanys, Harry Winston, Bulgari, and other bauble houses to wear their jewelry, and every hairdresser, makeup artist, and wardrobe stylist west of Palm Springs is panting to buff and puff and dress and tress you to the hilt for this undisputed Event of the Year. And on that fateful day, your city-block-long limo deposits you in front of the Kodak Theatre, where you hop out onto the red carpet, wave at your adoring fans, then demurely counter Joan Rivers's double-edged queries with witty repartee. They like you! They really, really like you! All that is left to make this dream complete is for the envelope to be opened, and ... Yes! Your name is called! Floating to the podium on a cloud of joy, you grab that cute li'l bald guy and give him a smooch. You don't anticipate that he'll comfort you in your old age or on cold lonely nights. Still, Oscar represents something that every woman needs: validation that hard work really pays off.
Ben Affleck. Bad boys who make bad choices seem to be your downfall. While beefcake Ben's arrival in Slumberland may, at first, seem like a romantic dream come true, in truth, based on his track record (both personal and professional), it equals the sum of all fears you have about dating men who can't commit. Ben may flirt and woo, but does he truly covet the prize, or is he just turned on by the chase? Here's the J-Lo down: Allowing him to take up your time means that other important issues go to the wayside — and that's not smart. Just don't wait until all Armageddon breaks loose to find out. In your dreams, changing lanes is your prerogative only.
Christina Aguilera. Sure, she's the queen of dirty dancing, and if you didn't know better, you'd think her hottie routine was a substitute for a great set of sultry pipes. That is so wrong — which is why your subconscious has summoned Christina to remind you not to judge a book by its cover. In your dream, you trade off warbling stanzas of "Lady Marmalade," its sensual lyrics an anthem for women who love to make love too much. You've always kept a part of you all bottled up, but now it's released, like a genie, to help you realize your dreams. Stripped of conventionality, you now know what a girl wants (well, one girl, anyway): never to go unappreciated, always to be somebody's somebody. And, now blessed with Christina's self-confidence, you will.
Alien abduction. You're standing out in a cornfield that has been shorn into crop circles. A bright light from above beams you up into a spaceship filled with what looks like last call at the Tatooine saloon in Star Wars. "These aren't a pretty people!" you think to yourself, wondering how these species could have evolved so far without the help of a good plastic surgeon. Still, your mama taught you if you couldn't say something nice, don't say anything at all, so you just smile prettily and speak only when spoken to. Do the aliens ask, "Take us to your leader"? Nope. Instead, their desired destination is ... Disneyland! Fair enough, you think. If what they're looking for is an idealized version of Life on Earth in a Nutshell, Disneyland is certainly that: fairy tales, pretty settings, and happy endings. What does it all mean? That's simple: As the song says, "When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are," or apparently, how far you come, as long as you're willing to buy into the dream.
A-list. For several years now, you've been scratching your way to the top of the A-list. Why? Because it's always been your dream to be admired and desired by others. And besides, it's also your goal never to have to stand in a long snaking line behind a red velvet rope guarded by two stone-faced linebackers. Well, all of that is about to change, because the new A-list has just been posted, and you're right at the top of it! You now sashay your way into any hot club's very exclusive VIP lounge — where you will find yourself alone in a vast sea of navel-gazing celebs. Not at all what you expected, is it? Is this dream warning you to be careful for what you wish for? No, not at all. It does, however, want to encourage you to quit worrying about some imaginary pecking order, and be more attuned to the much more important world-order issues. In other words, think globally, not just socially.
Altoids. Sucking this uber-mint in your dream is not a preventative measure against sour breath that might offend the dreamboat de la nuit. Rather, it indicates that an item of serious concern is on the horizon. Make no mistake, this issue will be a hot one. While contemplating your alternatives, prepare for the worst: Something may arise that you will find hard to swallow.
America's Most Wanted. Millions of television sets are tuned to that man-hunter hottie, John Walsh, as he gives the lowdown on every fashion crime you've ever committed. Yes, you are now a wanted woman! But unfortunately, those who seek you out aren't doing so because of your infamous wit and charm, your great looks, or your rep as a sensitive lover. No, now their infatuation has something to do with the hefty price on your head! Miffed at how materialistic the world has become, you are now resigned to a life on the lam — made even more difficult by John's terse description of you, which, you must admit, has you pegged: "wears really cute shoes, is drawn to cosmetic counters, has a great eye for choosing accessories, and, unfortunately, has more bad hair days than any woman should have to endure ..." At first, you're resigned to turning yourself in. Better than having the SWAT team staking you out at Nordstrom, right? Then again, why make it easy for them? If there is something worse than being a moll at a mall, it's being an easy target for the Fashion Police, which is why this nightmare encourages you to trust your fashion sense.
America's Next Top Model. You've just gotten the call of a lifetime: Tyra Banks wants you to compete to be America's next top model! You certainly feel up for the challenge, so you join two other model hopefuls in this endeavor: a comely Dairy Queen counter girl from Alabama and a gangly Vegas stripper. Tyra and her judges tell it like it is: "Pretty, but plump," they conclude about the ice cream cutie, who immediately sticks her finger down her throat to prove she will do anything to get this gig; "Drop a rib," is what they recommend to the Vegas stripper, who immediately speed dials her plastic surgeon for an appointment to remove two ribs (the second extraction is to prove that she is a team player). Before the judges can open their mouths and tell you that a tummy tuck, cheekbone implants, fanny lift, or breast reduction is in order, you ask yourself: "Do I really have that many flaws? And why would I want to stand on my feet all day in uncomfortable (albeit fabulous) shoes; or shuttle between New York, Paris, and Milan all year long, never having the chance to put down roots and enjoy my life?" Sure, with these people, the new and improved you could party like a supermodel. But then again, to Mom and Dad, you'll always be perfect, so why not live in a world where those nearest and dearest love everything about the old you, quirky flaws and all?
Pamela Sue Anderson. There you are, in your very own red Baywatch babesuit, ready to jump into the waves at the first sign of distress. Your surfside partner? Pamela Sue, of course! If you were a guy, you'd probably be bursting at the seams at your luck (or hoping that, as luck would have it, Pamela Sue would burst out of her seams). You don't doubt she could fend off a shark attack. After all, the dumb-blond stereotype is a misnomer: there are just as many dumb brunettes and redheads, right? And besides, anyone who can create a career out of mediocre syndicated eye candy, a Playboy centerfold spread, and two rock-'n'-roll marriages — one rock 'em, sock 'em, the other Kid Rock'in — can handle herself around sharks, either in the sea or on land, which is why you sit back, take notes, and work on your tan. Just remember to bring your own flotation device.
Apples. The tree of relationship opportunities is just outside your door, ready for you to pick your poison, so to speak. Sure, there is always a chance that you'll choose poorly and find yourself face-to-face with a nasty little worm, but don't let that keep you from enjoying a taste of the good life! Remember, nature has a way of seeking balance, and there are other opportunities ripe for the picking, so take your cue from Eve: When life tosses you a few bad apples, proclaim loudly that your current diet prohibits fruit and hightail it to a more tolerant (albeit less desirable) neighborhood.
The Apprentice/Donald Trump. The Donald has chosen you to live in the penthouse of Trump Tower with fifteen other hotshot go-getters, in order to compete for a job as his newest gopher. And guess what? The rest of your highly competitive roomies are guys. At first you are worried that this might put you at a disadvantage: after all, men are team players and can be quite clubby. Soon, though, you realize that it's this kind of challenge that will in fact separate the men from the boys — er, woman from the girl. So you resolve to keep your ear to the ground, nose to the grindstone, cards close to your vest, and adhere to any other biz cliché that comes to mind. By toiling diligently, you lead your team to one success after another, and avoid the wrath of Mr. Trump, who says his now-patented and trademarked line, "You're fired!" to know-it-all Armani-suited MBAs, honey-tongued homespun good ol' boys, goofy Donald clone heads (helmet hair and all), and baby-faced bureaucratic bean counters, until it's down to just you and Mr. Perfect, who (to quote another Working Girl) has "a head for business, and a bod for sin." As impressed with you as you are with him, Mr. Perfect proposes an Amy/Nick-like alternate game plan: Why don't the two of you ditch The Donald and start a corporation of your own? Before you can say "investment capital," the two of you are fielding calls from The Warren (yes, that Buffet) and shacking up in a penthouse of your own.
Atkins Diet. In this nightmare, you've been on the Atkins Diet for almost a year now. Your daily intake of red meat has increased, while all those wonderful comfort foods your mom used to make — you know, mashed potatoes, home fries, French toast, Mickey Mouse pancakes, rice pudding, and bread, bread, and more bread — are, alas, now just things of the past, at least as long as you're bound and determined to stay on this trendy carb fast. Ironically, even in cutting your carbs to just 20 grams a day, you seem to be gaining weight, not losing it. And why have you turned into a real catty bitch who splays her claws when even mildly provoked? Worse yet, you are now hallucinating, howling during full moons, and chasing squirrels across the park. While that is great for your calf muscles, it's hell on your Lilly Pulitzer cabana togs. Since you really don't like yourself this way, how do you stop the madness? Consider washing down a couple of Krispy Kremes and a French baguette with a liter of Mountain Dew. Sure, that will blow your diet, but at least you won't keep blowing your mind.
ATM. In this dream, you've taken your place in line for the ATM, impatiently waiting as everyone in front of you takes their sweet time lollygagging through two or three transactions. Finally, when it is your turn, you put in your ATM card and pray that there's at least enough in your account to wangle a $20 bill. Suddenly the machine goes wild and starts spitting money at you. Wow! What is this, Vegas? you wonder, as you lunge at the airborne bills, shoving as many of them as you can into the pockets of your Calvin Klein silk bomber jacket. Then it hits you: Why, this is the ultimate ethics conundrum! Your choices are to (a) adhere to that old axiom finders keepers, losers weepers as you race through the racks of the closest H&M like a woman on fire, bounding toward the checkout with your arms loaded down with the latest sassy fashions, and leaving any guilt you might have felt back in the dressing room; or (b) dutifully stack those gorgeous freshly minted $20s, then take them back into the bank and return them to an uncaring clerk who is barely subsisting on minimum wage herself. Here's a hint: Opt for (a) Why? Because, honey, it's only a dream. If and when you really find an ATM with loose change, you can pull your angel act then — oh, and remember to smile pretty for the security camera.CHAPTER 2
Baby (Gap). When it comes to wee ones, what you know wouldn't fill a diaper. And yet knowledge is power, which is why you've decided it's time you increase your infant IQ. Where to start? The mall, of course! Or to be more specific, Baby Gap, where you learn that snap-all-the-way-up bodysuits with footsies are preferred (100% cotton, of course), as well as bibs, warm little caps, reversible blankets, terry baby towels, booties and tiny socks, and teddy bears with rattles. You soon realize that babies are messy, helpless, and precious, which is why they appreciate soft cuddly things next to their skin ... just as you do. Hey, now that you realize that having a kid is as simple as going to the mall, you have another reason to eventually have one of your own, right? This dream encourages you to address your fears about your own maternal instincts. Trust me, you have them!
Excerpted from Last Night I Dreamt of Cosmopolitans by Josie Brown. Copyright © 2005 Josie Brown. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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Meet the Author
Josie Brown is a feature writer whose relationship articles and celebrity interviews have appeared in numerous publications. She is also the editor of the internationally syndicated John Gray's Mars Venus Advice newspaper column, and is co-author, along with her husband, Martin, of Marriage Confidential: 102 Honest Answers to the Questions Every Husband Wants to Ask, and Every Wife Needs to Know. Her next book is her debut novel, True Hollywood Lies. Josie lives in Marin County, California with Martin and their two children.
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