Derek Jeter is my friend

Start dream sequence...

The doorbell rings in the middle of the night. I jump out of bed to open the door.

It’s Derek Jeter.

He says he needs me… to take him to the hospital.

His right arm is bleeding. 

I say, “Dude, what happened?”

I grab my keys and take my friend, Derek freaking Jeter, to the hospital.

We get to the ER and I -- I repeat -- I offer to call his girlfriend.

“She must be worried,” I tell him. He says, “Yeah, I guess so. You’ve got her number, right?”

Apparently, I do, because I call the skinny wench as if I’ve had her on speed dial all my life.

While the ER doctor tends to Derek freaking Jeter, I wait in the lobby with the skinny wench as if we’re BFF’s.

Jeter finally walks out with his arm in a sling. He’s been stitched up for reasons I still can’t explain. Sorry, but the source of the injury wasn’t unveiled in my dream. (My New York Yankee friends were very upset about this part of my dream. They wanted details. If Jeter hurts his arm this season, I’m toast.)

As Jeter hugs his girlfriend (and the remnants of self esteem disappear), he turns to me and says… “Thank you for being such a good friend.”

A good friend… Derek Jeter is my friend. 

End dream sequence...

So there I was in my new queen size bed with virgin 600-count Egyptian sheets -- loveless, man-less, sex-less.

My dreams should be my escape from the daily stresses of the ex, bills, work and everything that comes along with single mommy-hood.

For the record, I dig a guy in a uniform…A BASEBALL UNIFORM! If you recall the commercial, “Chicks dig the long ball.” Oh yeah, baby, that’s me.

My preference would have been Albert Pujols (Ay, papi!) but on this night, for whatever reason, my dream led me to Jeter. Thanks for nothing, Captain Clutch-less.

After months of riding this emotional roller coaster called divorce (in progress) that comes with a moody ex, two kids and a fish (RIP Kanishiwa), I finally dream of one of the finest boys of summer.  

And we’re friends… We’re freaking friends!

After cussing myself out in front of a mirror in English and in Spanish, I finally stopped and asked myself: What’s wrong with me? 

 

Unable to answer my own question, I did what every single mom living in the “Generation Right Now” does – I took it to Twitter (Shameless plug: You can now follow me on Twitter @TwoKidsandFish).

According to the “Twitterverse,” this dream proves that I’m not ready for a new relationship.

Well, DUH!  

Can’t a girl have some fun in her own dream? Doesn’t she deserve to be uninhibited even with an unavailable man in the privacy of her own subconscious?  

Of course, this was great entertainment for my friends…

*Barry: Which girlfriend? Get it? Cuz he’s a baseball player…

*Katie: **** the Yankees!  

 

*Jenny: Wow, you can’t even get any in your dream. What’s wrong with you? Oh, right, that’s the million-dollar question…

*Angie: You suck at dreaming.

*Sasha: Like the Kardashians say: “Don’t be a bore, be a whore!” If you chant this before bed, you’ll have better dreams.

Well, look at the time, it’s late. Gotta get ready for bed… Mmm hmm… Gonna brush my teeth and put on a little lipstick as I clear my head to make room for Albert "I don't need no stinkin' friends" Pujols. 

Start chanting sequence now… “Don’t be a bore, be a whore! Don’t be a bore, be a whore!”

By the way, if my ex should ever ask, I had my way with Derek freaking Jeter six ways ‘til Sunday… at Fenway! (He’s a Red Sox fan.)