For something that can't even happen, what's the point?

What's the point?

It can't, won't, don't even think about it, happen.

Why go on?  

For something that can't even happen.

Why live? 

When the one thing you want, or many things, really, I mean, have you perused an Architectural Digest recently.  Those homes are the shit.  Those pools.  The kitchens. The floors.  I am addicted to them.

OMG.

Should I throw in the towel because I don't have a home in the right postal code/zip code?

Should I say what the fuck am I still doing here and run home to my modest townhouse where my family lives.

YES.

The children.  

Parents, despite their many faceted annoyances, don't look me in the face and lie, children, regardless of age, are sometimes, and sometimes, more than sometimes, annoying.   As we speak, I have a sleepover downstairs and they claim they are not being loud.  

They are loud.  

But the children, they have happened, haven't they?  And they are our love.

The marriage.

The life. Built. Together.

All happened.

The stuff that cannot even happen, who the fuck cares.  

Right. 

Who cares?  It is on the peripheral.  It doesn't matter.  It doesn't matter at all.

Ignore the double step in your heart when you wish for that perfect couch, keep calm and carry on.

My life is good, and sometimes I ache for glitter and gold and I know it is possible.  I don't need anyone or anything to tell me otherwise.  

Most of the time.  

Dreams are the fabric possibility is sewn from.  

In my fantasy house the pool sits next to the ocean and the waves billow as I sit and sip my sangria surrounded by my many dogs.  The kids are at school and hubby is working in his photo studio.

Cannot even happen, though, so maybe I should quit dreaming and make sure the dishes are done, the garbage taken out and work taken care of.  

I should behave like the Sandra everyone knows me to be, dutiful, wifeful, motherful and I should stop dreaming of a different life, where holidays are the norm and life is bigger.  Everything is bigger, and more and more is allowed.

But for somethings, for something that cannot even happen, I better scoot myself back into that Sandra.  Dreams are hard to hold onto, especially when they keep getting crushed.  Anyone can only handle so much before they either have to encase their heart in cellophane or go find Dorothy and beg for the Tin Man's heart.

Sandra XXOO