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desperate yet?
    I guess I was. While the idea seemed nutty on the surface, it appealed to my sense of adventure—and Stephen’s college tuition might be the payoff.
    I’m not sure if other people have a secret dream, but I did. A dream that sort of embarrassed me, which is why it was a secret. I once asked Connie if she had a secret dream and Connie reassured me that of course she does. She dreams of winning the lottery and having sex with lots of younger men.
    That isn’t the kind of secret dream I mean. Her fantasy is the kind that could come true, or is at least more likely to come true. After all, someone has to win the lottery.
    I pulled my wallet from my handbag, stuck my hand in the little pocket behind the change purse, a pocket you wouldn’t realize was there unless you’d explored the wallet carefully, then slid out the magazine photo of my dream.
    It was a house in Lexington, Kentucky, surrounded by a white picket fence. Between the house and the fence was lots and lots of Kentucky bluegrass.
    Other people might fantasize about winning the lottery, but I dream of white picket fences. Nevada doesn’t especially run to houses with picket fences, at least not the sort surrounded by bluegrass.
    I’d pulled out the photo so many times that the edges had frayed and a crease at the corner fell off in my hands. Perhaps I should take it to be laminated? Technically, the house wasn’t my dream it was what the house symbolized. I didn’t actually need a picket fence, or bluegrass, or this particular house. What I craved was the safety and security and the feeling of home and peacefulness that stole over me whenever I looked at it.
    Now that I was forty flipping years old, my dream seemed farther away than ever.
    I was angry. I was alone. And I was scared.
    It was time to take myself and my dreams seriously. I’d scheme, plan, devise, forecast, concoct, hatch, frame, and design.
    I’d make accountant types seem like screw-offs and anal compulsives seem relaxed, and mostly, I’d be more organized than Susan, who’s the most together person I’ve ever met. If I didn’t love her, she’d scare me half to death.
    And, dammit, I’d find the perfect traveling salesman to pay for Stephen’s schooling and provide me with M.B.S.
    I pushed the growing stack of surveys away and gave the newspaper a fast scan. For once no family member was featured in it. A few months back, I flinched every time I saw the paper because I knew my dad would be front-page news.
    I heard the front door open and Stephen called out, “I’m home, Maman “
    “Welcome home,” I answered as he neared and pressed a quick smooch to my cheek. “Did you have a good time?”
    He rolled his eyes. I hadn’t truly expected an answer.
    Although I wanted him to spend time with his fa—other mother, knowing he was back gave me a sense of security. Even though he’s a head taller than me, I like having my chickling safe at home.
    I always worry when he’s gone, even when there’s nothing specific to worry about. However, now that my ex has her own entertainment business (too bad it isn’t successful enough to run to college tuition), occasionally she fills in for sick or missing employees. I insist that she return Stephen home on those occasions and not take him with her while she does her cross-dressing diva act. Stephen has enough confusion over the whole sex change issue. I know I do.
    The good news was I’d almost stopped cringing whenever I saw Stephen’s blue hair. The bad news was that the French beret perched jauntily atop said blue hair still made me cringe.
    “S’up?”
    At least he hadn’t added Maman . The mix of high school slang with street French made conversation with him confusing—that is, whenever he decided to converse. He’d actually found a way to give his grunts a French accent.
    “I’m getting ready to run some errands. Want to come along?”
    “Can you get me some new pastels?”
    I looked at him closely. At the