Sometimes when I’m having a bad day, I like to retreat to a special place inside my head known as ‘Housewife Fantasy Island’. Now, don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing I like better than folding a bunch of freshly washed towels only to have my two maniacal children use them as tackling dummies and I equally love struggling to match 7,938 pairs of seemingly identical white socks just as much as the next gal, but sometimes, when it all just gets to be too much, I take what I like to call a little mental vacation with a rock star. I’m guessing that most of you have your own version of “HWFI’—I know for a fact that one of my bestest friends vacations mentally with Matthew Mcchoweverthehellyouspellhis last name. A very dear relative of mine vacations with TWO UFC fighters (you KNOW who you are, you nasty thing) and I have two more friends who vacation with Michael Buble’ (I know) and John Mayer (I said I know) on a fairly regular basis. I personally prefer to alternate my victims, errr…guests. For a while, it was a certain masked drummer whose identity I refuse to divulge (but his name sounds like ‘Schmoey Shmordison). Another former guest was the current guitar player for Guns and Roses whom I also wouldn’t have named, but I couldn’t think of anything that rhymes with ‘DJ’ so now you know.
I have the perfect spot for my rock star and I- it’s out in the middle of the ocean, on an uncharted island which sounds a little like Gilligan’s except my island has a mall, restaurant, and most importantly a liquor store all open 24 hours a day. There is also a sweet little hut right on the beach I lovingly refer to as ‘Bungalow 8’. I should clarify that ‘sweet little hut’ in my world means five star hotel with a full staff just waiting around to do things like peel grapes for me and to explain what in the fuck a bidet is really for.
Now, to answer your next question, though I honestly just ooze sexy right out of my pores, NO I don’t actually know any rock stars. **See my next post titled “Why I’m Not Allowed to Meet Famous People Because I Either Get or Randomly Say Things Like ‘Diarrhea’ and Make a Total Boob Out of Myself”.** And if that’s not bad enough, there’s time I fell on the lead singer of my favorite band, but I’m getting away from the point which is that to enjoy HWFI it doesn’t matter if I KNOW a rock star or not. I have a great imagination PLUS I can take a different one each and every time I go, if I want to. And the best part of that is that it’s soooo not a big deal if it sounds slutty because, HELLO, it’s imaginary!
At this very moment, although it may seem to a casual observer that I’m scrubbing pee stains from around my son’s toilet (what the fuck is up with little boys and their aiming abilities?? Seriously. I’ve even cleaned pee off the wall in front of the toilet. I hope nobody ever tells me how that one happened) I’m really in Bungalow 8 with my rock star- right now he’s insisting that we go to the mall and buy all new dishes and clothes because he feels very strongly that my oh so precious time should NOT be wasted cleaning shit. AND while we’re there, he wants to take me to Sephora because he ‘gets’ my need to have 73 different kinds of black waterproof eyeliner. He encourages me to buy the $200 Kinerase eye cream guaranteed to work better than Botox (even though he insists I don’t need it because he thinks I look TOO young already and he also suggests that I should get ice cream while we’re at the mall because I’m TOO damned skinny) He waits while I load basket after basket with things to scrub, condition, pluck and perfume myself with (I should add that I’m also extremely super rich in my daydreams). What he does NOT do is stand in Sephora tapping his foot and looking at his watch, nor does he roll his eyes or ask me inane questions like “Don’t you already have something EXACTLY like that” or “How much longer till I get to go to Dippin’ Dots?” He just stands there looking sinister and delicious…holding my purse.
Because he is a creative person just like I am, he understands that creative people are super messy- he even picks up after me while wearing a cute little French maid outfit. He also understands that my creativity sometimes takes me into the wee hours of the morning so he won’t even think about disturbing me with bacon and waffles and Dunkin’ Donuts coffee before noon.
And sometimes, every once in a while, he has to go out on tour which leaves me BLISSFULLY alone in Bungalow 8 (I got so excited I could barely type the alone part—a-l-o-n-e. Sounds like angels singing, doesn’t it??)
Now, just because I’m sure you’re DYING to know (and to perhaps inspire each of you to take your own HWFI vacation) I’m going to reveal my rock star guest (or guests, If I’m feeling particularly fickle) each month. I would love to hear about yours, too. Don’t be shy!
Oh! I almost forgot- I want you all to know that I’m perfectly aware that my hubby, Frank, likely has his own den of tranquility known as Henpecked Husband Fantasy Island. I’m also 99% sure that he would like nothing more than to take little ole me with him on his excursions-well…the me that has the butt I had when I was 20, pre baby boobs and in his version, honestly, I’m probably mute.