It’s important to daydream. To have some sense of a vision, no matter how shallow. I had one once upon a long time ago, and remarkably enough, it all came true. So, why not put it out there? Everyone should put her wish list out there. Now. Not when you get to it, but now. Give yourself the luxury of time (it takes all of ten minutes really) and dream up a wish storm. You need to put it out there, so you can see it. So you know it’s there. So you know what’s really in there. And, so you know one day when you start to get there. Go.
I wish I could go to the Museum of Art, alone wearing myPod again.
I wish I could bicycle through Paris. Though I wouldn’t want to be near motorists, so perhaps I’d prefer to bicycle through Venice. Though I’m sure there are motorists there too.
I wish I had a sculpted body, efficient and lean, strong, fit and healthy, no abnormal test results. Just good news.
I wish I had a huge floor to ceiling wall of books in my own library with a cozy chaise, a table nearby for tea and fresh flowers. A library with a ladder. Pieces of art that stir emotion.
I wish I could photograph Burma/Myanmar and Sapa, Vietnam.
I wish I could take a food photography class and learn how/ have someone help me/ set up a permanent food photography setup—I’ve been wishing for this for years.
I wish I could plan menus for a living.
I wish I could write selective food reviews again? I’m actually on the fence about this… closest to the side that says, “meh.” Yeah, I don’t wish this at all anymore.
I wish I had a line editor.
I wish I had a Montessori classroom as the playroom in my house that would automatically clear itself of toys they’d outgrown, keeping up to challenge and stimulate them at any age.
I wish I lived in a home that was cold in the summer and toasty in the winters.
I wish I could eat farina in restaurants like Balthazar every day. Nearly. Because if it was every day, I’d wish for somewhere new.
I wish I could become a regular at a bistro like Balthazar, a folded paper, listening to conversations, dipping buttered soldiers in soft-boiled eggs.
I wish I could go on safari, for a kill, and take photography classes and workshops while I’m there.
I wish I could cook and bake without becoming exhausted.
I especially wish I could create, design, choose and afford my dream kitchen, a place where I could entertain and invite people over to tell their stories and drink wine and listen to music.
I wish I had a personal stylist who found me the perfect clothes to suit my body and coloring.
I wish my book were on the New York Times Best Seller list as #1 for 19 weeks straight.
I wish I could write movies the way Nancy Myers can, like my perhaps all-time favorite: Diane Keaton and Amanda Peet are sitting at the bottom of steps on the beach and Diane Keaton’s character is absolutely heartbroken, undone, a brilliant mess, and her daughter comes to her to say, See, you need to close yourself off to this. And Diane’s character says, Do you seriously think you can outsmart getting hurt? You’re more like me than you know. And I’m telling you, I’ve had the time of my life. And her daughter says, almost in tears for herself, I’ve never had the time of my life. Diane’s character says, I know sweetie. And I say this from the deepest part of my heart: What. Are. You. Waiting. For? I love it because at her all-time low, she’s advising her own daughter to do exactly as she’s done. It’s wonderful. And that, right there, that’s what I do well in my writing. I get that part down. It’s when people want me to “be funny” that it stops being fun for me. As much as people categorize me as a “funny writer,” I don’t think that’s what connects people to my work. Not at all. There certainly doesn’t need to be a winner in the debate; plenty of creators straddle both equally. I’d just rather always feel than laugh. I’d take a new wisdom over hilarity every time. I don’t know why I feel the need to defend a side instead of aiming for both. I wish I didn’t do *this* to myself.
I wish I had my act together enough that I could archive sand from the beaches I’ve visited, displaying them in labeled apothecary jars on a narrow shelf running beneath framed photos from each trip. I love a wall of that kind of history, a wall of memories, not a display of who. Who this is, who that is–no. Memories linked to the most random moments, to the image of a wire beater, wobbly batter, or flour rising in the air, Cheerios and milk spilled all over the floor.
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