A girl can dream

My Demon Quartet has shown up today big time and in full voice. For those of you not familiar with my familiars, they are Self-Pity, Entitlement, Denial and the Cranky Monster.  Though it is usually difficult to figure out at any one time who of the four is in ascendance, I can tell you that Self-Pity and Entitlement work extremely closely together and the Cranky Monster is who he is cause he is the only one fully in touch with the reality of the dark sludge puddle at the bottom of my soul. 

Right now for example the four have a wonderful evening planned for me beginning with martinis and potato chips that will be served in water glasses and large salad bowl respectively. Hey its all good, they will neither add fat to my ass nor damage my liver – really, Denial says so and she’s the authority.   While I am sipping and munching I will open the magic iPhoto folder on my computer labeled “Pretty Boys”.  Which again for those of you that don’t know me well, contains photos of pretty much every guy of my acquaintance  that is not a blood relation between the ages of 18 and 40, as well as a fine selection of handsome lads I have yet to meet. No scratch that, I’m quite certain that there is a Mark Harmon photo in there so forget that upper age range thing. In any event I will enjoy browsing the folder for a few moments before closing my eyes and making a random selection.

Then I will change into my lavender underwear, refresh my drink and wait , oh, about a half hour for the knock at the door. Why wait at all you ask? It is after all my fantasy, why not fast forward to the knock or even to the moment of the clouds and the rain? Well, because kids anticipation is the most perfect human emotion and I want to picture in my minds eye all sorts of fun activities. Ice cold martinis on the rocks are good lubrication for thoughts like that.  When the knock does come, I will fling the door open and there he will be, Pretty Boy with a bucket of fried chicken, an armful of roses and a big piece of wood hard enough to smash atoms. Since I already have champagne in the fridge and lube in the drawer under the bed, we are all set. 

After a lot of kissing and fusion of body parts, just to take the edge off, you understand, we will peel ourselves off the floor of the entry hall and proceed to the kitchen table where we will have a quick snack of fried chicken, French fries with mayo, loaves of steamy hot white flour bread with pounds of butter, pasta with cheese sauce and bacon and every other white flour, potato sugar animal fat thing I can think of . Of course if you actually ate all that it would make you sick, but it is my fantasy, so it doesn’t. 

Then a quick hot shower for some fun with the sea salt body scrub and exfoliating gloves and cut to between the clean white 600 thread count cotton sheets which we proceed to besmirch, besmirch and besmirch again.  Note that all this time, Pretty Boy has not actually said a word, though his every thought and touch has made me feel both sexy/gorgeous and loved/cherished. The Cranky Monster has made me not in the mood for chat, which, yes, I get the irony people, since the one and only truly sexy thing about me is my talking...

While he attends to cleaning up the kitchen and changing the sheets, I will spend 15, 20 minutes writing an absolutely brilliant 10 page outline for a film (the one in reality due yesterday), before another round of martinis and a foot rub.  Though his eyes, and that super hot bod, beg me to let him stay, Pretty Boy is out the door by 9:45 and I snuggle down in my clean bed with my hot buttered rum at my side (a little too cool cause I let Pretty Boy beg so long) and contemplate my fabulousness before lights out at 10 p.m.

What is really going to happen is that Self-Pity will finish up writing this rant.

Then I will begin preparing this evenings high-protein, low-carb, low-f at chicken tarragon, with an indulgent side dish of one cup of  steamed snap peas. Then 10 minutes Yoga in the gratitude posture where I will repeat mantras of all the fabulous things about my life – I’m beautiful, wicked smart, have a good job, that isn’t  too demanding and makes me feel valued, a car that runs and is so old it makes me feel virtuous, a great place to live that only has one bathroom to clean, millions of stories to write, people that love me an make me feel funny and loved and a genius, sometimes all at once. You get the idea.

As the chicken gently simmers on the back burner I will play scales on my guitar – pause for the seven minute extended dinner break chewing everything 30 times, washed down with exactly 4 ozs of budget chardonnay (unoaked) – then complete another 40 minutes of guitar practice. I will contemplate loading the dishwasher, reject the idea and open my screen writer program and try, one blessed tortured word at a time to make progress on the aforementioned screenplay outline – yah, that one - due yesterday.

Oh, did I mention that before writing I must trick the Cranky Monster into locking himself in a mind closet along with my Tribunal of Judges of Life and Art? If all goes well, 4 glasses of really cold ice water and two hours later I will close down the computer with 2 pages or writing sorta done, head to the head, have a pee, wash my hands and face, floss, brush my teeth, then back to the bedroom. I will listen to a quartet of angels (The Canadian Tenors) sing me a lullaby, as I snuggle between the sheets changed two days ago (another glass of water and my vitamins at the ready) resume counting the all-things-I-have-to-be-grateful-for-sheep, a tiny little thought will drift bye – wouldn’t it be nice to have a strong pair of arms give me a hug, kiss my forehead tenderly and breathe “sweet dreams” into my ear? Yep. A girl can dream.