Last night I dreamt Tom Cruise was trying to steal my purse so I kicked him…at which point I woke up when I heard Randy go: “Ouch!”
I don’t know what the hell Tom Cruise was doing in my dreams because he’s not even my type. First off, Nicole Kidman aside, I’m way too tall for him. A woman can own just so many pairs of ballet flats before feeling obligated to also don a tutu. And Tom’s always running. Really, how does anyone keep up with that man? Just try and think of a Tom Cruise movie where the guy wasn’t outdistancing an airplane or machinegun or those creepy lawyers in THE FIRM. And why would he want my purse? I’m sure Mrs. Katie Tom Cruise Holmes owns much nicer handbags than I do. Probably got them for free, too, which means there might be a lot more extra cash in her Gucci swag.
But since Mr. Box Office did show up, I am proud of myself for putting up a fight and trying to stop Tom with a swift kick to the…well, to Randy…because it shows I’m not a sucker for movie star glamor. In my low self-esteem youth I probably would have felt honored to have Tom steal my purse, might have even tossed in an extra scarf or sunglasses for him just to remember me by. (No wait – he was already wearing sunglasses; along with khaki slacks and a white t-shirt, in case any police artists out there want to take notice.) I haven’t fantasized about a celluloid star kissing me in ages and the ones I did fantasize about are all now dead. This isn’t true of my 87-year-old mother who often mentions George Clooney with fondness…and lust. But I prefer my men to be more attainable.
That’s why I’m grateful that Randy not only forgave me for shin-blasting him mid-snooze, but I love that he laughed. “Tom Cruise?” he said. “How ‘bout that!” He kissed me then happily fell back to sleep. Then again, I do not know who he was dreaming about.