Yes, Freddie has Rock Star Syndrome. He plays Electric Bass in a Wannabe Band – sometimes Jazz, sometimes Heavy Metal. Translation: late nights followed by mega-sleep-ins on weekends. Somehow on week days, it doesn’t gel well with early morning school starts! Onward to Victor’s bedroom.
Victor, bright-eyed and mercurial quick, is dressed for school and is shovelling milk and cereal into his mouth while watching Weird Al Yankovic on the laptop for the 100th time. Weird Al sings a parody of Michael Jackson’s BAD. Victor swallows and laughs like Jim Carrey.
He sings, “I’m fat, I’m fat, you know it!“ As if! The dog who shadows me all morning, changes camp and jumps onto her master’s lap. Victor cuddles her and she licks his face.
“Ace Ventura Pet Detective”! I take out my handy dandy notebook and pen and write that down. As Weird Al puts his fat body and other obese dancers through a series of Michael Jackson’s precision moves, I look to my son who is reed-thin and lanky. I see the irony.
“Finish your breakfast and brush your teeth,” I say. “I’m having a shower.” No response.
I glance at the clock in the bedroom. Damn! It’s 7:40 am. I dash to my wardrobe and grab the first outfit on the rack. I notice it’s green so it must be Monday. I rush through the showering process so I have fifteen minutes of my own brand of meditative yoga/ American Indian chanting to get myself into a calm state in readiness for working with High School students who have various disabilities. Who knows, today I may have to play Touch Football with them or coax one of them down from the roof? I pull out my handy dandy notebook and pen and write down, Touch Football willing the former rather than the latter to be true.
It’s 8 am. I have a 30 minute commute to work to be there at exactly 8:30 am. It’s time to go! Freddie is still unmoved. Now, I go into Sergeant Major mode. “It’s Mission Impossible! Your bed will self-destruct in five minutes.” I hear a groan. Success!
I glide into the kitchen, slick on orange lipstick, stuff school lunches into backpacks and wonder why isn’t this like “Two and A Half Men” where the men of the household are bright-eyed and armed to ample witty retorts, as Berta, the housekeeper has all the household duties done with precision and ease, while still managing her own brand of sarcasm.
I look into the china cabinet and examine my reflection. What’s the difference between Berta and me? My hair is damp and limp. I’m wearing an odd color combination teamed with well-worn joggers. We’re similar in that respect. Ok, Berta’s hair is dried and braided. She probably has her own hair and make-up person and a costume designer. Not much difference really except she heads home at night and can chill out if she likes. I take out my handy dandy notebook and pen and scratch out in bold strokes, “When paid for being a professional screenwriter, hire a housekeeper preferably with all the qualities of Berta who can also feed me witty lines for my Romantic Comedies.”
It’s 8:10 am. I’m late for work. Freddie has now missed the last school bus which means a mad dash to his High School through a mountain of traffic and road works, before hitting the freeway to return to the shortest route to my High School.
The second load of laundry has run through it’s wash cycle. I turn off the machine at the wall. There’s no time to hang it out on the clothes line. I shut the laundry door and make a mental note to revisit this place when I return home.
I make one more round of the house, pile the boys into the car and throw a puppy kong filled with dog biscuits down the hall to give the dog something to do while we’re out.
Yahoo! We’re all out the door.