Married . WithOUT Children |

Married . WithOUT Children

“Wow. . Now THAT was a bad dream,” I told husband-head as soon as we woke up. “I wonder where it came from?”

Husband-head raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Were you locked in the zoo again?” he asked nonchalantly, remembering the dream I’d had after watching “Dr. Doolittle” one evening.

“No, I dreamt that Marianne started an all-girl rock band,” I said. “It was her latest attempt to get rich and famous. Marianne played guitar, some other girl was on the keyboard, and I was the lead singer. .”

Husband-head nearly choked on his morning Mountain Dew.

“YOU were the lead singer?” he said with a look of horror on his face. “You have a voice like Kermit the Frog!”

“I know,” I agreed, not understanding it myself.

In the dream, we were wearing these silver sequined mini dresses, high-heeled boots and headbands and we were performing a show at the mall.

“How cute – a bunch of middle-aged women dressed like aging streetwalkers,” husband-head mused. “What was the name of your band? `The Fossils’?”

He got a good yuck out of that, and I swatted him on the arm.

“But I was panicked because not only couldn’t I sing, I only knew the words to one song,” I continued.

“And those probably weren’t even right,” husband-head added knowingly. “So what’d you do? Sing the same song over and over again?”

The dream got progressively worse as I tried to croak out a tune and the audience began hissing and booing and threatened to string me up like a German sausage. .

“If you had to sing, you should’ve at least handed out ear plugs first,” husband-head suggested. “That would have been the kinder, gentler thing to do. . So, did people go running and screaming out of the mall like in a bad horror movie?”

“No, I think it was kind of similar to that sick fascination people have when they stop to stare at a car accident,” I speculated.

Then I remembered something else.

“And Simon Cowell was in the audience – he was going to critique us afterwards,” I recalled.

“You’ve been watching too many episodes of `American Idol’ on TV,” husband-head decided. “Did he make you cry like he does everyone else?”

“I think I was already crying during the performance,” I told him. “In fact, I think everybody listening to us started to cry, too. .”

“Simon Cowell would have had you for lunch,” husband-head pointed out, and then broke into his best British accent. “I do think you could quite possibly be the worst singer in the UNIVERSE!”

But towards the end of the dream, I got fed up with the audience so I stopped singing and began doing a stand-up comedy routine with the microphone.

Husband-head again looked horrified.

“I don’t know which is WORSE – you singing or doing stand-up comedy,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re not funny at all. .”

I called Marianne later to inform her of my dream.

“If I wanted to start a band to get rich and famous, why would I have YOU as the lead singer?” she laughed. “You have a voice like Kermit the Frog!”

I was starting to get sick of the comparison to the famous amphibian. .

“Well, you’re no Eric Clapton yourself,” I said with a huff, knowing full well she has no IDEA how to play the guitar.

Marianne was silent for a moment.

“By the way, what was the name of our all-girl band? The `American Midols’?” she asked with a laugh.

As husband-head and I got ready for bed that evening, he turned and asked me what I had watched on TV that evening.

“Just so I’m prepared for it in the morning,” he explained.

Uhhh. . “The Bachelorette.” .

New Castle resident Heidi Rice’s column appears every Friday in the Post Independent. Visit her Web site at

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