It's hard for me to compare anything, really, to the fun of writing.
But if I could bear the envy of reading newspapers without a newsroom to
call my own, if I could forget the thrill of making a bunch of words more
than just a bunch of words, then I'd strive to make the final cut in the
next girl-band call or raise really good kids in a really cozy house with
a huge and cluttered kitchen that has an island in the center and smells
The pies would be made from apples grown on apple trees in my
imaginary backyard. The kids would think I was a hip mom and tell me
everything -- even the bad things. The husband would let the kitchen be
They'd all go to work or school, and I would happily cook and clean
all day. I'd get to all the corners and even under the bed. I'd collect
recipes and make my own Rolodex of sweets.
I'd make our home the coolest place to be.
If not this, I'd strive to take the pop world by storm.
Belt it out like Christina Aguilera and strive for a voice like Emily
Saliers of the Indigo Girls.
My friend recently made me two CDs of all my favorite songs. With old
pictures he had taken of me, he splashed my face across the covers of
both the blank discs and made me look like the singer of all the songs.
He knows I'm a closet pop-star wannabe.
He knows I daydream about making amazing music with the simple tool
that is my voice, knows my childhood fantasy is to rent out a studio and
record myself all day.
If I were less terrified of being onstage, if I could handle singing
karaoke without getting clammy hands, I would've begged my mom to give me
singing lessons and make me a teen star.
Not that I can sing. But I wish I could.
It's a tie between the two -- becoming the next female pop icon and
making a really good home.
But for daydreams, I can live with a tie.
And I daydream because I can -- because it's harmless to wonder about
-- YOUNG CHANG writes features. She may be reached at (949) 574-4268
or by e-mail at o7 firstname.lastname@example.org .