I wish I had a little fairy, or even several with different job descriptions. The dish fairy, the dust fairy, the budget and bills fairy, and most importantly, the phone fairy. Imagine a little winged creature that can answer every survey call, every wrong number, and can take messages for you. Oh sure, I screen my calls all the time; I wouldn’t survive without an answering machine. But sometimes that blinking button gets pushed by someone else. They hear the message for me, but it's a tossup as to when I'll get that message.
The fairy would be my personal assistant, but would never get underfoot because she or he would fly. A male phone fairy would be good to have, because brevity on the phone has a direct correlation to testosterone; he wouldn’t be preoccupied with phone calls or texting. I can text three paragraphs to my brother and his reply is "Yep." Drives me crazy. And the male fairy would paraphrase too much; females like all the details. Think of all the time you'd add to your day with a phone fairy.
But what I want most is a supervisor fairy. Maybe I should just say what I mean - a Mom Fairy. Someone to just take over my life for a few hours a week while I rest, in my room, alone. It would be time when I am responsible for nothing.
Ahhh...I smell roast in the Crock-Pot (she's a smart Mom Fairy) and cookies baking in the oven. I heard the vacuum running earlier, after she made my son’s breakfast and lunch for school. The dogs are yelping for her attention, she dealt with all school issues, paid bills, washed dishes, did laundry, hung the pictures that have been down since Hurricane Ike, got the oil changed in my car, took care of all emails, phone calls, and appointments, and now she's playing Crazy Eights with my son before his bedtime.
It's heaven on earth.
After a delectable dinner, I’m on the couch, eating my gluten-free iced doughnuts that don’t make you gain weight (hey, this is my fantasy, with magic doughnuts), watching Barefoot in the Park with no interruptions. The house is sparkly and perfect. Even the dogs are clean. This fairy chick makes Flylady.com look like a slob.
I feel a slight breeze on my face and look up to see my winged miracle.
But her expression is not her usual pasted on smile, like Tinkerbell after botox.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“My blood pressure,” she answers in a tone that reminds me of, well, me on days when constant interruptions have plagued me throughout the day and I’m exhausted and my husband walks in and says, “What’s for dinner?” As if there has been enough time and energy to even think about dinner. But I digress, and my blood pressure just elevated.
“Oh my gosh,” I continue to the fairy, “I didn’t think you ever got upset. What’s wrong? A hard day in the atmosphere?”
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?! I’ll tell you what’s wrong, princess! This ain’t no Disney film that you’ve been written into; that’s evident by the fact that both of your parents were alive during your childhood. I am not your Fairy Godmother. I am not here to make sure your every whim is met. That would be that Aladdin genie. I AM A MOM FAIRY. And, as such, it is not my job to make sure you can sit on your butt all day while I do every little menial task. You even had me wash the dogs! Do you know what it’s like to be a miniscule, fragile thing like me washing a hairy, smelly, bad-breathed dog? It was like a Stephen King movie in there! Hair follicles the size of Redwoods, teeth that looked like stalactites, nails that were daggers. And then there were the back ends of those slippery creatures. One false step, and I would’ve slipped into a noxious black hole!”
I was stunned. Although she wasn’t exactly what I’d call fragile, I did understand her points. She felt taken advantage of. She felt, perhaps, invisible.
But still, she had shown up at my doorstep one day after noticing the state of my unpruned rose bushes. She had approached me.
Before I could remind her of this, her rant continued.
“And then I have to touch the underwear of a teenage boy and even a grown man. Do these people not wipe? And you’re no better. Those favorite jeans of yours could have walked to the washing machine on their own today. For goodness sakes, buy a second pair!”
Now she was getting personal.
“The refrigerator has been condemned by the Health Department, tumbleweeds of dust bunnies blew past me under the couch, and what’s with that film of hairspray on your bathroom counter?”
That was it! Housekeeping may not be my forte, but this menopausal moth with bling volunteered for this job. I paid her pretty sugar cookies and hot chocolate for her labor, out of the kindness of my heart. That’s what fairies like best, you know.
“I think it’s time you found another family to help. You call yourself a Mom Fairy, but I’m thinking you’re a Mommy Dearest Fairy.”
Her rage knew no bounds. She flew around the room like a hummingbird on Red Bull.
I got the broom and helped her out the door.
“Don’t let the door hit you in the tutu,” I screamed out after her.
Breathe, Kim, breathe, I told myself.
When I’d gained my composure, I went to my bedroom closet shelf. There it was. An old oil lamp that had belonged to my great great great great great great ancestor of some kind. Or so I was told when I was a child.
I rubbed that thing like there was no tomorrow. But, nothing. It just looked shinier.
Suddenly, I realized that things had progressed in the world of wishes. I was doing this “old school.” Quickly, I made my way to my laptop and googled, of course, because I google everything.
Ahhhh. My face flushed, my heart quickened, my spirits soared. There was hope at the click of a mouse.
Without hesitation, I logged onto BlinkedIn and signed up as a member. The process was easy. I found the “Help Wanted” tab and perused the ads. My Mr. Mom Genie will be here next week.