National Treasure

This morning, Bryan and I were driving Odessa to school, listening to a story on the radio about Mark Twain's autobiography. It turns out, Twain dictated the whole thing to an amanuensis from his bed, dressed in an ornate bathrobe, "supported by a bank of snowy pillows." The finished product evidently needed very little editing.

So, we got to the the corner of Nacoochee and Boulevard where some guys were cutting limbs off a big willow oak on the corner. It was raining out and pretty dark for 9 in the morning. The leaves of the oak were bright yellow, and something about the sight of them glowing in the dim, drippy morning while I was thinking about Mark Twain snuggled down in his bed, dictating the story of his life...it made me suddenly want a thousand willow oaks. I just wanted to look out my window from my bed at acres and acres of leaves and trunks and raindrops. I also wanted an amanuensis. And way more pillows than are currently supporting me at home. About 15 seconds later, I turned to Bryan, and this was our exchange:

Me: You know what I think the perfect job for me would be?

Bryan: Tell me.

Me: Celebrity chef. No--wait. Beloved children's book author. Well, just somebody that everybody really, really loves. I want to be a damn national treasure like Dolly Parton or Joseph Campbell or Tupac. Or Oprah or J.K. Rowling, except she's not American....

Bryan's barely even phased anymore by the fact that he married a megalomaniac, but within the confines of our little car, there was a sound like the boulder sliding into place in front of the entrance to Ali Baba's treasure cave. That's how I knew he was rolling his eyes.

Me: Anyway, I think that would be a really good job.

Bryan: I'm looking forward to it.