The other night I had a dream about my latest crush Clive Owen. We were standing on a deserted boardwalk at the beach, the winter ocean waves breaking hard against the cold sand. A chill breeze ruffling through his sexy hair pushing a stray curl across his forehead. I reached over to brush the curl away. He grabbed me up into his arms and stared deep into my eyes.
"Run away with me," he said with his sexy British drawl, "forget about everything and let's fly to Paris."
"But Paris is full of sh*t!" I replied in despair. "You know how deathly afraid I am of stepping in dog crap."
"So what, it's just semantics. We'll go to Singapore instead," Clive replied. "I hear their streets are real clean. No dog is allowed to poop there for fear of being sentenced to death. Plus they have wicked chicken and rice."
Be still my beating heart, I swooned, he is tempting me with food. In my dream, I actually looked over and saw my husband's sleeping form snoring peacefully away as the boardwalk behind me morphed partly into my bedroom at home. Da Man slept on, unknowing that his wife was contemplating running away with a sexy phantom man.
"Alas," I sighed, "I can't go for that. No-o-o No-o-o. No can do." Oh yes, I blew off the incredibly sexy Clive Owen by singing the riff from that famous Hall and Oates song, but with a sexy Indian accent. "No can do. I'm so into you. But no can do. Can't sleep with you. Sucks for you. And me too. Chicken Vindaloo. Lobster stew." Suddenly, I had turned into Dr. Seuss, and I was hungry.
He walked away disappointed, dejection clear in the way his head hung low, sorrowful brown eyes gazing back at me in defeat. His leather trenchcoat blowing with the wind as he left me. And as he began to disappear in the mist that began to form in my bedroom/boardwalk, he turned one last time in silent entreaty, I waved back despondently and hollered "NO CAN DO! I LOVE YOU! BABBALOO!" From Dr. Seuss to Ricky Ricardo. Dreams are weird.
Still in the dream, my husband wakes up all sleepy and wondering why there was mist in our bedroom and asked me "Whas sup?"
I gazed down at his sweet dopey sleepy face and said, "I just gave up Clive Owen for you, now where the hell is my god damn big ass ten year wedding anniversary diamond ring already!"*
He blinked and said, "She-e-e-et, I'm not the one who gave back a perfectly good diamond ring that fate and fortune tossed right at your feet." **
And then I woke up.
Dreams are so bizarre. I hope Johnny Depp shows up tonight. I may not be caring about a ring then.
* FYI - we've been married fourteen years and I never got a real engagement ring because he was a student at the time. As you can see, I'm still waiting.
** Never tell your husband that you found expensive jewelry only to give it back. They'll never let you forget, even in your dreams.