The other day my daughter drew a picture of what she thought my dream home would look like. It was essentially just a big house with lots of windows, a nice yard, etc. How she came to the conclusion that this would be the home of my dreams, I don’t know, but it was lovely.
However, it made me ponder a bit the use of the term “Dream Home”. I’ve dreamed about houses before, and without exception, these are not houses I’d want to live in:
There are generally a lot of crooked steps leading at weird angles to nowhere in particular, most at dangerous elevations, with no rails. Often, the house is flooded, a fact highlighted, for instance, by an old gold prosecutor in a Davy Crockett-style hat floating by in a canoe. Often, the house is full of people I haven’t seen since high school, many of whom are ten feet tall and not happy to see me. It wouldn’t be uncommon to see some sort of woodland creature riding by on a Segway. And, almost without exception, I spend the entire time in a great deal of distress as I run from room to room looking for either my pants, the location of the calculus test I haven’t studied for, or the old gold prospector who stole my canoe.
We might want to reconsider this term; that’s all I’m saying.