Dream to be Desperate

I wanted to be a detective when I was a little kid. Just like Nancy Drew. Uh, I mean the Hardy Boys, of course, my bad. Then, I realized that there is a lot of night work involved and sometimes even in graveyards and such. Gross and a wee bit scary. Next, I thought I would be a photographer for National Geographic and/or People. Getting to see the rain forest and photograph Dean Cane in his bathtub (and out of his bathtub, he he he. . . ). Apparently, you have to wait an exorbitant amount of time for one of the Anacondas to try to devour Jennifer Lopez. God made me many things: tall, tan, taunt, and gorgeous, however, He forgot about patience. However, I would still be willing to document Dean Cane’s bathing procedure for the benefit of future generations. At one point in my Freshman year psychology class in college, my professor said to close our eyes and picture what our life would be like, and whatever we really pictured would transpire within ten years. I saw myself on a stage, singing country music to a sold-out theater, with my wife and adoring children worshiping me from the second row. That was in 1996. You do the math. After falling in love with Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Anne Rice, I decided I want to be a Vampire. I still want to see that one through…
At the end of all my planning, day-dreaming, and foreseen opulence, I am left with a new dream, one that I really didn’t see coming. I want to be a housewife.
A housewife. Some of you would say that I am already there with the amount of scrap booking material I possess. It is a new revelation. Not one that I really wanted. Maybe it is just delusion from being a successful relationship for four and a half months. I wanna stay home all day, cook/clean, have two babies, shop, scrapbook, luncheon with other mothers, write novels during nap time and while they are in pre-school. I am sure it would all be so picture perfect and serene. And even it were, I would shoot myself so that I would have something to stress over. Anyway, new desire. I had gone from wanting to adopt at-risk teenagers to never wanting any kids, to knowing the entire names of my two new-born’s that I will meet one day. I wonder if there are adoption agencies that consider debonair vampires of the homosexual variety worthy candidates.
It is a strange thing to think about. What would the kids do when the school makes cards for Mother’s Day? And their little hands would fall off from all the Father’s Day crafts they would have to make. Since I will do most of the cooking and be the over-protective parent maybe they would just call me Mamma B. I really don’t have the figure for that title, increasingly curvy as I am.
We have even had an offer from a dear friend of ours to carry our children. Hello cart. Meet horse. However, we feel a moral obligation to adopt outside of our sperm banks. There are so many babies who have no parent that they can’t be overlooked out of a desire to produce an overweight, show-tune singing, socially awkward red-headed offspring. I think the cart just rolled two miles away from the horse and crashed into a Japanese Maple tree (those are so pretty, aren’t they?).
While I am sure many, many would find multitude of reasons to deny children to a household that I occupy (my flagrant cursing and inappropriate innuendos, for instance—oh, and the faggotry aspect as well). My only real question: What negative affects does a tattooed mother transpose onto her children? Ah, big questions for another day.