Don’t try to write about me, Taylor

As odd as this sounds, because while I’ll bop along to ‘Shake it Off,’ I’m not even a big fan of her music, but Taylor Swift and I have been good friends for quite awhile- to the point of receiving an invitation to stay in one of her palatial homes. When Paul and I entered the front door of her Palm Beach retreat, I kept repeating, “This looks just like Mara-la-go. Don’t you think it looks like Mara-la-go?”

Tired of grunting assent, Paul finally said, “What’s Mara-la-go?”

“Trump’s place,” I replied, taking in the sweeping views of the ocean from the wall of windows before us, the white marble floor feeling deliciously cool beneath my bare feet.

“When were you at Trump’s house?” Paul asked, shocked.

“Never, but it looks like photographs I’ve seen of it.” I replied.

We enjoyed a restful afternoon lounging by the infinity pool, feeling most indulged by an attentive staff that cheerfully brought silly, umbrella drinks at our beck and call. It wasn’t long after this that Taylor burst in, laughing, with several girlfriends and came to join us, poolside. After a few moments, to my horror, she suddenly adopted a snide smile as she prepared to ambush me in front of everyone and accused me of talking to reporters about her.

“What? What are you talking about?” I gasped, sitting bolt upright, dismayed, “You’re one of my best friends- I would never do such a thing, you know that!”

But she wouldn’t hear it and tossing her head with one of those lip curling, sneering, ‘Whateverrr’ expressions one usually only sees on a fifteen year old, making it very tempting to drop kick them through a goal post, turned to leave.

“You’re just a mean girl!” I cried, ‘You’re one of those bullying, mean girls and if you keep it up, you’re not going to be very successful in life.”

That stopped her cold. She turned abruptly, narrowed her sapphire eyes into slits and countered, “Um, I make more in one night than you’ll ever see in your lifetime, so yeah, I’m unsuccessful, ha! Loser!”

I was both terribly hurt and angry. Paul sat next to me in an agony of embarrassment.

And then I woke up. I woke up because it was 5:15am and Rosie, at 14, our younger terrier, was scratching my arm with her paw, needing to be let out. And in that weird transition from dream to consciousness, it was Taylor who had savagely begun to scratch my arm before flouncing off.

She scratched my arm! Who does that?

And so I began my day seriously cheesed off at Taylor Swift, regardless of the fact that I was probably responsible for our horrible encounter owing to the gooey dessert and champagne I had downed at a benefit I had attended the night before, along with the sleep deprivation anyone with older dogs that have weak bladders can attest to. I trudged into the barn to feed the horses, turned on the radio in the tack room and, of course, they were playing one of her gazillion hits so I yanked the plug out of the wall in a huff and refused to listen.

“I’ve never liked her music, anyway,” I fumed, “She’s nothing but a mean girl! And her new hair color makes looks cheap and if I hadn’t woken up, I would have told her so!”

Three horses stared placidly at me over their stall doors.

One friend later told me she dreamt her husband was cheating on her and woke up livid towards him. Another dreamt her boyfriend forgot her birthday, even though it wasn’t her birthday, and she didn’t speak to him for two days. Isn’t that ridiculous? I simply dreamt of getting into a fight with a pop star I’ve never met and am now wondering if, like everyone else she’s had a falling out with, she’s going to write a song about me.

Not in your ‘Wildest Dreams,’ Taylor.

Reach PAM STONE at pammstone@gmail.com.