I dreamt last night that I was meeting some friends at a local bar, and while entering the establishment, I was startled by a large, perfectly manicured hand that had appeared out of nowhere and clasped onto my own as I pushed the door handle. I spun around and found myself staring into the eyes of none other than Ashton Kutcher, famed paramour-now-husband of Demi Moore.
Coochie-coochie coo!
My first thought was, “Heavens to Betsy! Isn’t he a lovely young man!” and my second, immediately after he pulled me into his arms and slung me over his shoulder was, “Not my type, but lordylordGOD, please don’t let the kids wake me now.”
Ashton and I moved through the crowd, me cradled against his chest as he whispered sweet nothings in my ear (“Your pasta sauce makes my tongue tremble,” and “Gosh, your potato salad totally rocks”), and I was so overcome with lust, I began sucking on his chin, much to the delight of onlookers. Now, I don’t quite get why I would suck on the man’s chin rather than his luscious lippage, but suffice to say, it was an incredibly pleasurable experience.
Anyway, we finally found my friends, all of them hooting and hollering as we neared their table, and I suddenly got the urge to yell “Look, ladies! I got me a Kutcher!”
I woke, unfortunately, to the sounds of my son slurping a Jolly Rancher lollipop, which he then accidentally dropped into my hair. Not sure which one of us was more upset, really.
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