A week from tomorrow I will be 34 years old. That makes me nine years older than I said I would be when I finally attained all my lofty goals of being a famous interior designer, married, with a fabulously trendy, window-filled Manhattan penthouse apartment. At the ripe old age of ten, I had visualized my life completely. I even included a daughter, Constance, in the picture and a couple of cats. The daughter would be a little carbon copy of me, and I would be beautiful with long red hair and green eyes. I'm assuming colored contacts were in the cards for me. And I would definitely own a jeep and a long red scarf trimmed in fur, just like Demi Moore's character Jules in St. Elmo's Fire.

The married part was implied, but Mr. Dreamboat wasn't actually detailed out. The prerequitsite tall, dark, and handsome would apply without saying. But he would also be Michael Jackson suave with Rob Lowe's sexy jawline. Michael J. Fox's eyes and Prince's sex appeal. Emilio Estevez's boyish charm, and Judd Nelson's bad boy image-complete with beat up trench coat and earring.

In a lot of ways, my real life has far exceeded the pre-teen daydreams. My husband is a green eyed (see! I Knew there'd be green eyes involved!) dark-haired artist. He has a brain that even my snobbish self can respect. AND he's the Best. Father. Like. Evah. And his butt... okay, so 10 year olds shouldn't be daydreaming about future hubby's package, but if I had've.... let's just say I nailed it on the spousal department and leave it at that.

I did have one daughter. She has my smile and blue eyes, and her father's chestnut hair. Chloe-not Contance- is the most beautiful, funny, intelligent girl this world will ever see. Sometimes I'm not sure I'm her mother, until she starts acting like a total brat. At that point I can see my genes blatantly.

I have three cuddly cats, all of which are snuggly and cute and funny and slightly cracked out.

My long red hair is short with blonde highlights, but it looks totally bitchin, so I'm good. No colored contacts, but I like seeing my eyes on my daughter's face so I wouldn't change that either. I'm not a professional decorator, but an insurance agent instead. Decorating is a hobby, a passion, and love of mine that has endured these past two decades so I guess there's still time on that one.

My sunroom in my single story brick home is filled with lots sexy windows, but I traded trees and a swingset for a penthouse view. And considering my hobby, the inside is-of course- fabulously trendy.

All in all, I'd say I don't have much to bitch about. Except for that insurance agent part. What the hell was I thinking?

And my husband is so NOT Michael Jackson suave. And I'm 100% okay with that.