To dream the inaugural dream

Despite my earlier assertion that I was not subscribing to the mania surrounding Tuesday's inauguration, some of it must have squeaked through the barrier and lodged itself in my subconscious. Because I had a dream last night that I was hooking up with Barack Obama.

Of course, by itself, this isn't that weird. I'm sure I'm not the first young liberal lady to have sexy dreamy interludes with the president – after all, he's young, powerful, handsome, and looks great in a tux. And between my acknowledged easy suggestibility and the fact that Obama's face has been plastered on every available surface for the past four weeks, the most surprising thing, really, is that he didn't make this cameo earlier.

"Yeah girl, I've got the change you need. In my PANTS."

...But I am a tad disturbed by the rest of the dream. I mean, you'd think that – since the president was already there – my sex-loving animal brain would have orchestrated an increasingly R-rated makeout sesh with our studly new commander-in-chief. That would make sense, right? Sounds like fun, doesn't it?

Alas, no dice.

Instead, with just inches to go before getting to second base with the leader of the free world, what did I do? Why, I farted under the covers. And then tried unsuccessfully to convince the President that it was the dog. Of course.

Hey, Subconscious? Yeah, you, pal. Get your act together, or I'm gonna start dropping acid until I'm so addled that I think I'm having sex with the president even when I'm awake. Consider yourself warned.