My ideal place is without strife and discord. A place where everyone gets along. And everyone loves me and understands me and I never make a mistake and I’m never venal or angry or tired or sick. And I’m beautiful and all the people around me are beautiful and kind and caring and …well kind of bland now that I think about it. Because while we’re all being so damned nice, we’re also being very plastic.

Okay, my ideal place is –wait, wait, I know! It’s the beach.

Oh, I forgot. The beach is sometimes way too hot—and I can’t sit in the sun, so I have to carry enough stuff to put a pack animal to shame. And then I have to sit in the shade. And I have to slather on the sunscreen. And God forbid, if I fall asleep and get a third degree burn because I’m really fair skinned (the Irish heritage, you know.)

And then of course, there are the days when the beach is windy or cold…It can be less than ideal.

Ideal place…ideal place. I know—you think I’m going to conclude that there is no ideal place.

That’s the easy way out, because there must be an ideal place. A Shangri-La where the water is clear and turquoise without hidden pollutants and the sand is like talcum powder with a sprinkling of the most translucent, fragile sea shells—none of which are sharp enough to cut the sole of your foot so you bleed all over your new towel and then your husband yells about how much money you spent on them. (Oops! Sorry!) And the jelly fish live somewhere else and there are no sharks and there are no scary surfer dudes or weird looking guys wearing two –sizes-too -small Speedos with those incredibly hairy backs they all seem to have.

No, really there is an ideal place. Wasn’t that a song from West Side Story? No?

Oh yeah, it was called “There’s a Place for Us”—didn’t that song just make you cry when Tony and Maria sang it to each other?

What? You want me to focus? H-m-m…Could I ask why? Just do it? Isn’t that some kind of a slogan? Yeah, yeah, I know– the topic.

What’s that? Mountains. You’re right, they are awe inspiring. Except when I can’t breathe because you know, of course, that I have asthma and when I drove through the Rocky Mountains with my daughter I was in danger of developing…never mind.

Then there’s Disney World, you know, the happiest place on earth? I enjoy it—especially the part where a hamburger and coke and park admission cost enough to send your first born to college.

How about a cruise ship? That’s ideal in a way, a microcosm of the macrocosm where people who are diverse (and total strangers) dress up and sit together at dinner and carry on civilized conversations.

Except for the time the three other people at the table were good friends who talked only to each other in voices that were just above a whisper. And I don’t know if it meant anything, but every time I smiled that one woman just looked at me and said something to her friend behind her hand. And then they both would snicker or just, you know, smile one of those snotty- middle –school- girl smiles.

And did I mention that the seas were rough and my husband got sick, so we were confined to the 125 square foot cabin with guards posted outside for 4 out of the 5 days? And being in that room with someone who was in the bathroom all the time …oh, sorry. Too much information. Got it.

I will not admit there is no ideal place! I will not, I will not! I will not!

(Whatever makes you think I’m throwing a temper tantrum? I was just stomping my foot to wake it up—it seems to have gone numb.)

My ideal place?

Okay, seriously now,I have it!

I just realized that, for me, my ideal place would be to live in one of my novels.

I am like a god when I write a novel. I decide who gets in, what they look like, how they act, if and when they fall in love…if they live or die.

So, see here’s my plan. I write a novel with me in it.  I am married to the most handsome man who is a tireless lover and looks like a young Robert Redford and we live by the beach (the one without all the sharks and sharp sea shells) in a house that overlooks the ocean with a full staff of servants and I am famous and glamorous and (did I say) ridiculously beautiful (think Angeline Jolie without all those bothersome kids). And we just have one wonderful adventure after another. And then they invent a pill that allows you to live to be 100 but look 30 and whenever any other woman even looks at David (my husband) her eyes fall out and I get to decide if she lives or dies or she suddenly becomes as ugly as a troll…

And that’s my ideal place.

Look, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, But don’t call or stop by, okay?  And cancel the lunch date next week.

I have a novel to write.