The Perfect Day

I bought a Groupon for an interior designer.  Having finally finished unpacking all the boxes in my house from moving in (YAY!), I figured it was time to schedule an appointment.  (Well, that and the Groupon would be expiring soon.)

So, I e-mailed and set up a time to meet.  Prior to our meeting, the designer has asked me to answer several questions so that she'll know a bit more about me and the sort of things I like.  (She also said to write as much as I want -- something you should never, ever say to me.)  Some of these questions were easy, like what colors I like and dislike, or how I'd like to be able to describe my home.

But then there's this one:  Please describe a perfect day.

Really?

I got nothing here.  I've thought and thought and decided that this question does not warrant a serious answer.

So, this is what I have so far:

I am rudely awakened by the phone, but it's OK because it's the Nobel Committee with good news.  My invention of an easily-synthesizable vitamin-enriched non-fat chocolate analogue that cures cancer has actually won in three categories (medicine, chemistry and peace).  Besides, it's a good thing they called as I needed to get up anyway, as I have to address a joint session of Congress.

After a lovely breakfast (pastries filled with my very own chocolate-analogue) at my hotel, I drive over to the Capitol.  (My invention in its liquid form? You can run your car on it.)  At the joint session, I set forth my economic plan, which immediately earns bipartisan support and is passed by acclamation.  I have another 10 minutes left, so I get them to repeal the Defense of Marriage Act, fully legalize abortions, and let that Deaf dude serve in the military.

For lunch, I'm invited to join the President at the White House.  He's arranged a command performance (in my honor) of highlights from all of the good musicals running on Broadway.  


When I take my leave, my (very zippy) private jet is ready to whisk me back to Los Angeles in a couple hours.  My boyfriend, that guy who played Thor in the movie, fills the time with two hours of mind-blowing sex.


Arriving back on the West Coast, we immediately go to Disneyland where they give us super-secret passes that let us cut to the front of every line.


Afterward, I return home, to find that magical elves had cleaned everything while I was away, and my cat did the New York Times crossword.  I have an idea about time-travel which I jot down before bed.  I'll need something to work on tomorrow.

What?  Too unrealistic?


OK, a perfect day is me waking up before my alarm clock -- and this unusual event is occurring not because of an earthquake or my cat barfing on my bed, but because I've actually had enough sleep.  I have time to exercise for a full 45 minutes, which makes many happy little endorphins course through my brain.  I get to work on time (no traffic!) and find:  (a)  my boss is very pleased because the state Supreme Court denied review on a case we worked on; and (b)  somehow the Judiciary found it in its budget to not only cancel furloughs, but give us all Cost of Living Adjustments for the first time in, like, a decade.  I cheerfully zip through the rest of the day at work, and head off for a blind date with some dude I met on the Match.com, who does not look like that guy who played Thor, but, amazingly enough, actually does look like his online photographs.  (And he's even as charming and intelligent as his profile suggests!)  He buys dinner; I take him to the theatre (as I'm reviewing that night).  At the opening night party, one of the actors pulls me aside to thank me for my last review, as the constructive criticism helped him change his performance for the better.  I say my farewells to Dude Who Isn't Thor, but we've had a great time and we're both filled with the excitement that this could possibly, maybe be the start of something good.  I go to bed thinking happy thoughts, and looking forward to another day without cat barf.