Last night I watched the movie Crazy, Stupid, Love. If you haven’t seen it, I recommend it for its well-written dialogue and a very good cast. It’s funny and touching and relatable. But the best part of the movie is Ryan Gosling. I do like Steve Carell, but not in the same way. Sorry Steve.
This morning my eyes opened suddenly when I realized I had made the most ridiculous dream mistake ever. My dream unfolded as follows:
I get into an elevator and Ryan Gosling (as himself) is already there. He’s looking pretty hot.
Let me clarify. Not pre-crazy Mel Gibson from the 80s hot or Tom Selleck from Magnum P.I. hot (yes, I have a crush on Tom Selleck). I mean hotter than the metal buckle of a carseat harness that’s inside a black car parked on a blacktop, rooftop parking garage on a sweltering summer afternoon. Am I painting a picture for you? By the way, I think Mr. Gosling is an attractive guy, but for some reason in my dream he was exponentially more attractive to me.
I’m looking cute, too (thank goodness – nothing worse than a dream about a sexy guy if you’re not looking sexy). I’m standing there trying to look straight ahead, so as not to inflate his ego. (I like a little ego in a man but not too much. And let’s face it, a famous actor that many women would offer up their wombs to is probably going to be a tad big for his britches). Of course I can’t help myself and glance over at him. He catches me checking him out.
“I’m trying to decide what shade of red my face must be right now,” I say.
“That’s ok, don’t be embarrassed,” he says, and steps closer to me.
“I make a great pesto. Do you like pesto?” I ask.
“Basil is my favorite herb,” he grins.
(Huh? Why the heck are we chatting about herbs?!)
“Would you mind sharing your recipe?” he asks, and then he leans in for a kiss. (Take me to dinner first, would you?)
(At this point I’m having a split-personality dream because what I’m about to do next is bat-dung-crazy. My conscience was clearly weaseling its way in so “Dream Lindsay” was unable to be “Bad Lindsay”.)
As he’s using his best moves to get some of this sugar I put my hands on his (firm, defined) chest and say, “Sorry, Ryan. I’m married.”
Ryan Gosling grins that boyish grin, “Does he have to know?”
For some reason a jar of pesto sauce appears in my hand and I say, “Please enjoy my pesto.”
Then I woke up. Are you kidding me??? Even in my dreams I’m honest and faithful and apparently a good cook! As for the significance of a popular italian pasta sauce, your guess is as good as mine. I’ll post my pesto recipe soon and you can let me know if it’s Ryan Gosling worthy.