Fantasy

Most women, especially married middle aged women, probably fantasize about having fabulous sex with a much younger man. Oh, Demi, you are my generation’s greatest heroine. Statues of you should be built and placed on every college campus from California to New York. Yet, sadly as I lay down to sleep each night, instead of images of your hot young husband Ashton Kutcher throwing you over board and turning to me laying in a bikini (with your body instead of my own because my imagination is the best photo shop operation known to womankind) and falling at my tan pedicured feet. No, that is not the fantasy I have as my eyes slowly flutter to reach REM. Behind the dark circles under my eyes a far more enticing fantasy lurks waiting to be kissed awake like a princess in a locked castle. I fantasize that I become organized in both my home and my life. I actually have PAIRS of socks and not random singles searching desperately for their mates in all the different drawers, mine, my childrens, my husbands. Things are filed neatly in this fantasy world and information is easily retrieved. Don’t get me wrong, I have no desire to be Martha Stewart. After all I did coin the phrase “I am the Anti-Martha Stewart.” And I would be able to prove it, if only I could find where I originally wrote it in one of the dozens of spiral notebooks where I record my journals/diaries/rough drafts of short stories/rants for magazines/notes for my children to show their shrinks in order to explain their adult psychosis. I can’t do it. I don’t have the patience to read through all that, not to mention trying to decipher the poor penmanship. Someone else will get credit for that phrase and it will be all my unorganized sloppy writing self’s fault.


It’s true. I want to be one of THEM. Oh YOU know who YOU are! You overachieving organized, alphabetized, sanitized, homogenized and satisfied perfectly coifed people make my life a living hell. I blame all my insecurities and inabilities on you for establishing high standards for everything from flawlessly folded shirts (my husband things I don’t know what a rectangle is) to photo albums in chronological order by child to Quicken and Palm Pilots, and files for everything from school records to recipes and PTO assignments. So instead of falling asleep to pictures of Ashton and Matthew McConaughey (Yes, I AM OLDER THAN HIM TOO), I dream of waking up and having the desire, energy and talent to take my home room by room and put it in perfect order. I would welcome the help of any animated characters ala Mary Poppins if it did not mean I was hallucinating or still fast asleep. Any order crazy blue birds out there waiting to fly in? Or is that just another fantasy I can expect never to realize. I think I will file this piece under Unrealized Dreams along side the picture of me and Donny Osmond. No never mind, I think he might be my age. That won’t do. I know why I can’t get anything organized! It must all be due to my scattered brain waves. No wonder I cannot keep anything straight whether it is my closets or my thoughts, either way everything is all over the place.