HOLY SHEETS, this was SOOOO much better than dreaming I was Mary Ingalls! I was still on some sort of ship but this time I was with BRAD PITT! YUP! ME!

Brad and I were hanging out, then he escorted me to his cabin. He told me to go to bed. He had some studying to do and would be back by 11 pm. I waited up, trying to decide whether to shave my legs (I didn’t) and staring at myself in the mirror trying to figure out why he wanted to sleep with ME.

Then he came to bed and we slept all night WITHOUT TOUCHING EACH OTHER and I realized he wanted to, like, really sleep with me. Just sleep. Maybe I remind him of his mother or something. Still, I should have shaved.

But Brad Pitt would totally like me, you know, because we both have three adopted children and we both love New Orleans and we are the EXACT SAME AGE. He was born just two days before me, in fact.

I felt totally bummed about this dream until the Tyrant crawled into my bed and said, “GUESS WHAT! LAST NIGHT I DIDN’T DREAM I WENT TO JAIL!” So my dream could have been worse, for sure. Also, we have got to put a limit on those Lady Gaga videos.

Anyway, I woke up thinking about sex, and about not having sex with Brad Pitt, and it reminded me of the book Mr. Peanut which started my recent sex obsession. Mr. Peanut is a novel written by Adam Ross that chronicles three marriages in which adultery, murder, infertility, peanut allergies and tragedy intermingle with fabulous sex scenes. The book could also be called The Anatomy of a Marriage, but then people wouldn’t read it because they’d think it was like watching a film about the digestive system. Gross.

What I loved about the book – besides the sex, and I’m getting to that – is its unwavering male perspective. Men who read this book will probably think, Jesus Christ, I knew it! Women are so totally whack! But as a woman and a wife, it opened my eyes to how unrealistic women can occasionally be when it comes to their expectations of men. One of the wives depicted essentially quits her life: she stops functioning in any meaningful way, and she won’t explain it to her husband because she wants him to intuitively understand her.

Just the other day I got miffed at Hot Firefighter Husband because we were going out and he didn’t mention that I looked nice. So I told him I like when he mentions that I look nice, and then he told me I looked nice, but that TOTALLY perturbed me because how sincere can he be if he says something like that after I tell him he should? He so doesn’t get me sometimes. But how can he? I’m whack.

Ross’ writing is near flawless in its character depictions, and occasionally hilarious as it lays out the implausible inanity of the human thought process, particularly as it pertains to sex. He writes so specifically, so brazenly about the sex act that it’s blush-worthy, and often deserving of a second reading (wink, wink).

I finished Mr. Peanut weeks ago, so there’s no telling why I dreamed about sleeping with Brad Pitt last night. Maybe it’s because I took a melatonin before I went to bed. So tonight I think I’ll take two, and maybe we can seal the deal. Hypothetically, of course.