A dream I’d never had until 90 seconds ago is to one day live in a $15,000-a-month, 2,760 square feet, 4-bedroom/3.5-bath cottage in Los Angeles, California, that’s been described as “modestly proportioned and pleasantly unassuming,” go for a swim in my “petite” pool surrounded by “tropical foliage” while playing the new version of “Baby Baby” on a wireless speaker, dry off, walk down the “invitingly shady, L-shaped veranda,” head back inside, walk up a staircase lined with memorabilia from Rizzoli & Isles and Law & Order that leads to my master suite, hop into the “white-tiled stall shower” with the intention of ridding my body of that chlorine stench, notice it isn’t functioning—the damned plumbing in this place!—put on my monogrammed, antique white terrycloth robe, grab the phone from the nightstand, tap the name in my favorites list marked “Landlord,” wait for someone to pick up, and then hear the effortlessly sexy and intimidating voice of a woman with no time for games but just enough time for pleasure say, “This is Angie Harmon.”
“Ah! Ms. Harmon,” I’ll say. “The shower’s on the fritz again.”
She sighs. “Lemme get my tools.”
According to Variety, it’s an achievable dream for all of us!