Oh come all ye playful - Runner Susan

My friend Kate introduced me to the concept of the Fantasy Wishlist. I could get used to a world filled with these:

A daughter who cleans her room before I actually have to take a stick in to whack the things nesting in the corners.
Super-hero running legs.
My own petting zoo – with room for a llama and baby goats.
A personal shopper at Nordstroms who would lead me to the secret stashes I KNOW they’re hiding from the common folk who must look for themselves.
Real Fashion Police. Oh, come on, people! Paris Hilton? That alone is worth an arrest.
A husband who doesn’t find it necessary to classify the refridgerator. And it’s not just alphabatized – it’s also subcatagorized by food group!
A dog that comes with her own cleaning team to trail behind the “happy pee.”
Someone to kill the cheese-grating madman who makes mincemeat of my ovaries. Hell, while it’s a fantasy list, a world without PMS would be nice.
A hangover-free martini. Or five.
To be a driver who doesn’t scare the hell out of my passengers.
To not have to use the term “international sales meeting” to cover my blogging addiction at work.
An Ethiopian baby who runs faster than all the other babies. Or just runs, since that would be fairly impressive in a baby.
The Swordsy girl’s breasts.
One day where I don’t have to hear either ESPN or Hillary Duff on the television.
That the bathroom across from my office would suddenly start smelling like roses insted of like…bathroom.
Oh, and since this is a fantasy list – world peace would be nice too.