November 30, 2009 by Marj Hatzell
C’mon, admit it. We’ve all got ’em. And whether you admit it or not, some of them are pretty WAAAAAAAY out there, or hot-and-steamy, or just plain strange. So we’re going to do something a little different here at Chez DG. We’re gonna fess up and tell. And you can do it anonymously. But just for this one post.
Here it goes…
I have this weird recurring nightmare. The one where I’m a young widow? I know it doesn’t sound like a fantasy. It isn’t. I just have that nightmare because I have a husband who likes to tempt fate. Seriously? Dude is nuts. He likes to live on the edge. He has calmed down quite a bit since we were teens (We’ve known each other since the ripe old age of nineteen) and is a mature and rational guy. He just likes to…well, do things a little differently. Most of the time he is successful. But that nightmare? It involves him at dangerous speeds and a collision. And me in black for a year.
But now the fantasy part…
The dream always involves me finding love where I least expect it. Like, from a movie star that I meet at Fairmount Park when I get a rare break for my kids. Or, the Internet guy I’ve never met in real life but I decide to fly there and see him and true love blossoms. Or, the Hot Roofer Guy pops up on my doorstep one day, we go out for pizza and *wink, wink, nudge, nudge*. They all end up sorta…E.R.O.T.I.C. As in, YOWZAH, that was steamy. I don’t get it. I’m happily married, have no plans of ever leaving him and yet I dream about marrying these guys when my husband dies? Sick and twisted, yo. Don’t get me started on the fantasy at the beach…and I hate the beach.
Sure, it’s a dream. Not really a fantasy. But sometimes I find myself reliving these “dreams” during the day in daydreams. Like, I’m halfway between asleep and awake, and I think about it. Or I’m in bed watching House Hunters on my DVR (because I’m all exciting like that) and I start going off into La-La Land about it. It’s the weirdest thing.
But the one real fantasy I have? It involves Bugaboo. And talking. And him being at a regular, neighborhood school. And he doesn’t run away and he doesn’t strip nekkid and he doesn’t need diapers anymore. He hugs me before he leaves for school, tells me he loves me, tells me I’m the worst mommy EVER and sits at the table complaining about his homework or telling me one day he looooooves chicken and the next day he haaaaates chicken. Sounds good, no? And it IS a fantasy (DON’T ARGUE) because there ain’t a snowball’s chance in H-E-Double-Hockey Sticks this kid is going to our local school, my friends. And not to sound like a negative nanny, but he ain’t gonna talk, either. And if he does? I’ll take him to Paris as my punishment for ever doubting him.
So let’s go. FESS UP. Tell me. Do it anonymously. C’mon.
CHICKENS! DO IIIIIIITTTTT!!!!