Every girl’s dream

Pink_Squirrel_by_NayruAsukei-vi

credit: zendirtzendust.wordpress.com

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a botanist and marry Jordan from New Kids on the Block.

Actually, the botanist thing was just a smoke-screen. I mainly wanted to marry Jordan from New Kids on the Block.

My daughter told me yesterday that she wants to be a squirrel when she grows up. Heady dreams for a five-year-old, but who am I to burst her bubble?

“Red or brown?” I asked.

She looked at me as if I’d just shit on the table. “Pink.”

Dreams change. For me, Jordan Knight was usurped when I discovered real, live men who didn’t sing everything in falsetto and wear their hair in a wisp.

Botany was replaced by the realisation that I had left University with an entirely use-free degree and a beer gut, and at this point any job would be a bonus.

Many of my grown-up dreams died along with my husband though. I wanted another baby, for example; I wanted a long and happy marriage. And we had shared dreams, as couples do. We wanted to see the cherry blossoms in Kyoto together, to move to France, to finally finish the Mad Men complete series box set after months of concerted viewing.

But in all that, I don’t ever recall envisioning myself as a pill-popping, thirty-eight-year-old widow with a small child and a drink problem. Unlike Don Draper, it was never part of the plan.

Not content with all its other insults, that bastard Widowhood blunders in and steals your dreams too.

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A Post That Is Not About Puppies

English: Newborn Golden Retriever puppies.

English: Newborn Golden Retriever puppies. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The therapeutic benefits of writing this blog have been challenged this morning, people.

Last night I had a dream about one of my more macabre posts (one in which I contemplated whether taxidermy had been a missed opportunity as an option for my Husband’s body – read it, it’s not as bad as it sounds. Honest.)

In the dream, I had indeed taken the decision to have Him stuffed. However, He was not immobile. He was able to move about in a kind of lobotomised state. Like Nick Frost in that zombie movie, but better looking.

He was lying in bed next to our daughter, not realising He was dead. And I was frightened of Him.

I woke into a disconcerting semi-reality – half awake and muggy with sweat. I had to get up, starkers and hung-over, just to check He wasn’t lurking in the corridor.

Much to my chagrin, I hardly ever dream about M. I would love to dream about Him more, because the odd time He has made an appearance, He is always alive, flashing that mega-watt smile that my heart aches to see again.

As it is, by transcribing my psychotic innermost thoughts about His death, I fear I may have doomed myself into some kind of ghoulish Jungian dream cycle, in which He always appears as an extra from Shaun of the Dead.

Maybe I ought to ditch this as a subject and write about puppies instead.