As a young girl growing up in the city, waiting for my fairy prince to rescue me and biding my time until I was rich and famous, I never once thought my life would turn out the way it did.

If you had told me, as the geeky, basketball playing – track and field running – staight A student that I was, that I would be slinging popcorn in a movie theatre, knocked up, unwed and poor by the time I was twenty, I would have laughed my ass off.

And then ran screaming into my bedroom, only to emerge for final exams and potty breaks.

I dreamt of becoming a doctor, specifically a neurosurgeon, and no boy, especially the big lipped, bad haired blonde from the sticks who followed me around and left carnival teddies that he won (while on dates with OTHER girls) on my front stoop to remind me of his existience, was going to deter me from that dream.

And then I hit puberty. And suddenly those big lips were very useful for things other than annoying me. Especially when strategically placed.

Ahem.

Sure we lived on ketchup chips, chocolate milk and popcorn for the first years we were married. Yes we argued over what type of music to listen to while rocking our rapidly expanding family to sleep. I was of the mindset that rock music was not for sleeping infants. He was of the mindset that he would shoot himself if he had to listen to the twang of a country guitar.

My dreams of becoming a peace-prize winning doctor slowly dissipated with the squealing laughter of small children and have been replaced with loftier goals. Keeping my daughter off of the stripper pole and out of the back seat that I was so fond of, while steering my son away from street racing, and prison cells.

My hubs and I struggled through school, to try to make something of ourselves and to support our family. He’s had better success. His ticket actually earns money. The only thing I do with mine is talk dirty on the ole inter web.

It no longer matters to me how much money I make or how famous I will never be, as long as I never have to eat movie theatre popcorn again and my children grow up to be well-adjusted, happy adults.

Of course, I still worry what I look like, if that extra roll of lard around my middle will ever disappear, will my hairy toes be noticeable in my slippers and if Mrs. Chicky will be freaked out by my extremely pointed Spock ear. But I’m vain like that.

These days, the only things that matter to me is the fact that I have finally trained my husband not to touch the knobs on my stereo, my children are healthy, my gardens are blooming from the veritable green thumb I inherited from my granddaddy, and my husband still pesters me for sex every damn day he sees me.

Now, as I watch my children grow, I try to pass along my wisdom and my skills. I want them to be able to see the good in people, value hard work, identify clarkia and monkshood from stinging nestle and poison ivy, and be able to kick ass in a three-legged race. Of course, if they inherit my skill on the unicycle or adroitness on a pair of ten foot tall stilts, well, that’s just gravy.

I am a woman of many talents after all.

Life is good. Even if it isn’t the candy-coated dreams of a naive little girl.

These dreams are better.

***Hop on over and go check out Racy Red. She’s all about dressing it up this week.***