I awaken to the sound of blue birds singing outside my window while the Parisian sun softly lays its radiance upon my eyes. I look up to see that my lover Cristiano Ronaldo (without the stupid soccer ball) has walked into the room with a pumpkin spice latte and a plate of cherry crepes.
I awaken to the sound of my blue alarm clock squawking at a pitch that would wake the dead in distant China. The sun is blazing thru the blinds, stabbing my crusty eyes. I look up to see my son walk into the room to announce: “Mom, I peed my bed.”
Fantasy: 10 am
I throw on a stylish hat, my size 5 jeans, and a Chloe silk/lace shirt (no bra cuz I’m chic like that) and head down to the Parisian farmers market. I see beautiful bundles of pink peonies, a basket of fresh cranberries, and gorgeous wheels of cheese for sale. I buy them all . I befriend a puppy begging for a snack.
Reality: 10 am
I throw on a faded Wal-Mart shirt (no bra cuz Im ghetto like that), my bleach-stained, Shamu-size sweat pants, and my “I can’t find my winter beanie, so fuck it” bag-lady- hair-hat. I drive to Food 4 Less and see warehouse wooden pallets full of cheap cereal, a shopping basket full of crumpled paper, and a frozen block of Monterey Jack cheese that could be used to build the next Hoover Dam. I befriend a wino at the door begging for spare change.
Fantasy: 12 noon
I arrive home to my Parisian loft just in time to meet my friends Mario Batali and Gwyneth Paltrow at the door. Mario begins to prepare a paella as Gwyneth and I chat while making a pistachio gelato. We pour ourselves glasses of white wine that Paps (that’s my nickname for Gwen cuz we’re down like that) brought back from her trip thru Napa Valley. Mario cracks us up while he makes jokes about Martha Stewart.
Reality: 12 noon
I arrive home (to my parents house..boo hoo), just in time to see my half-naked brother (picture a 37 yr old fat, hairy Buddha minus the compassion with a towel around his waist) already using the kitchen. I tell him to hurry up, as he leaves egg yolk and salt all over the stove and counter. I kick myself (yes, I take my back of my heel and actually do this) for not buying a bottle of wine at Food 4 Less which i need desperately at this point. I get grossed out by the mess he leaves behind and go to Jack in the Crack instead for lunch. On the way, I curse Martha Stewart and all her spare kitchens.
I am relaxing on the grass in Luxembourg Gardens. I get an amazing idea for a poem that comes out even more brilliant than a full moon. I am approached by a gorgeous, green-eyed male visiting from Barcelona asking me what I am writing. We chat and are fascinated with one another. He asks me if I would like to fly with him over Paris tonite in his private plane. I say “What time?”
I am TRYING to write a poem in a ghetto park, but the jack hammers in the distance and the red ants crawling on my picnic blanket are distracting me. An ugly Mexican man asks me where the nearest restroom is in Spanish. I lie and tell him, “Sorry, no speako Espanol.” I give up writing and think to myself “What time is it?”
I get a call from my publishers in New York as a courtesy reminder about my book signing event in London next week. I am briefed that Prince Harry would like to meet me personally at his country estate for a private “reading” of my latest book titled “Alice in Wonderland” (Ahem, remember, this is a fantasy boys and girls).
I get a call from my mother reminding me to take out the trash for her (she hurt her leg). I see a picture of Prince Harry on the front page of a magazine I “borrowed” from the dentist office (revenge for the outrageous price they charge for a crown) in the recycle paper pile. I listen to Alice in Chains on my Ipod.
I am at an important “business” dinner with Bill and Melinda Gates at their secret château just outside Paris. They are wanting to discuss with me the donation they are planning to give to my nonprofit organization Art 4 Life which sets up art camps around the world for children and adults recovering from cancer.
I am at an unimportant boring dinner with me, myself, and I at home. I am drinking a $3 bottle of Chateau Ste. Michelle out of a mug (cuz Im too tired to wash the wine glasses I dirtied throughout the week). I think about art, surviving cancer, and whether or not Bill and Melinda Gates will ever run out of money.
I am flying over Paris at night (yes, me at the yoke aka “steering wheel”) with my new Spanish “friend”. As I bank the plane (sorry, aviation lingo here), I can see that he is ready to take our evening to the next level. FLASH FORWARD: All I feel are soft lips against my neck and a fire kindling within me (use your own imagination here…Im too depressed to imagine something I can’t have).
I am driving in El Cajon at night alone. As I get to my bank to withdraw some cash from the ATM, I am feeling ready to go to sleep. FLASH FORWARD: All I feel is a mosquito against my neck and a stinging sensation within me. I’m in bed and can’t fall asleep. I wish I had a “comfort man”. Instead, I decide to put up another stupid blog post.
I am asleep in Paris… dreaming about life in California.
I am snoring in California… dreaming about life in Paris.