Stay-At-Home parenting is unrelenting
The hours of a Stagehand are moody and erratic
Spring is the busy season. Spring is when “unrelenting” clashes with “moody and erratic”. This is the time of year where I find myself tired to the point where I begin thinking things like, “Am I looking at something real or is this a hallucination?”
Due to my high volume of work, my domestic duties suffer, only doing half the laundry (despite what I desperately tell myself) actually means that half the laundry isn’t getting done.
Finally last weekend, I managed to get more than five hours of sleep. I know this because my sore back made getting out of a bed a five-minute struggle, I don’t think my muscles are accustomed to being dormant for more than a few hours. A chiropractor would probably clear the afternoon after meeting me.
After I worked out enough kinks to be functioning, my rested eyes saw what had happened to our Home. Hurricane Us had hit this place. I needed to hit the reset button, and that day was the only day I’d have time to do this for the following week. Everything needed to happen that day.
I started by rallying the troops. I began encouraging the girls to start bringing their crap back upstairs to where the toys are kept. Well, I called it encouragement. The girls would call it something closer to what a Drill Sargent does. As they began hauling the random toys upstairs, I began sorting laundry.
I sorted the hell out of it, I owned that dirty laundry pile. Like if they had televised contests of laundry sorting, I would have been a star, but not the shoe-in star with the perfect teeth, tanned pecs and coiffed hair. I’d be more like Rocky Balboa…the Rocky Balboa of domestic maintenance, in this case, laundry sorting. I’d be the lovable underdog sort of star, one that the fans could really rally behind. Maybe I’d find a Love Interest in the first act—Annie could totally play her. We’d fall in Love in the second act, then that shoe-in star with the nice teeth could become an obstacle of some sort. The third act would involve me winning the girl but losing the contest (because I’d have to, you know, make a choice I suppose). Anyway, losing the contest would make my character even more sympathetic, and it gives me the moral victory because everyone knows the guy with the perfect teeth cheated. Seriously! Boxers in the delicate pile?
There he is standing over three perfect piles of dirty laundry: darks, lights and delicates. His arms in the air bathing in his victory. Meanwhile I’m a broken man, my chin is touching my chest, my shoulders are slumped, two—I lost by two pieces of laundry. Annie, is briefly held back by security until they realize who she is and they allow her to burst through to help me back onto my feet and lead me back to the privacy of my locker room where she confesses her Love for me. Then she like, totally kisses me. Cue the Credits. Maybe we can add an Easter egg of me timing how quickly I can empty the vacuum cleaner canister. It’s a wrap! Time to start working on the sequel.
I bet the movie poster would be eye-catching, particularly if they air-brush abs on me.
Too bad Don LaFontaine passed away.
My eyes focus back to the here and now. Reg stripped herself naked. With a self-satisfied smile she dropped her clothing into the pile. Then she turned around and shook her butt.
Nope. Not a hallucination.