"Delegate," I'm told. Like I can really get people who don't do their own stunts, to do mine. I get these questions like, "Where is my underwear?" What am I, the Panty Keeper? Hey, I track my own boxer briefs and you can track yours. (Hanes Her Way makes those for ladies. Practical. Logical. Also comfy.)
I remember back in the late 1900's asking Hunneypunkin to cook supper
while I was folding socks with one hand, bathing an infant and a toddler with the other, scrubbing cabinets with my head, mending shirts with my teeth, vacuuming the carpet with my left foot, and setting mouse traps with my butt, and he complained from his recliner that he didn't know how and anyway he was busy drinking a Coke. I failed to find a non-condescending way to say, "Read the directions on the BOX."
Sometimes I can't even bring myself to ask someone to turn the TV up because I can't bear another dillweed excuse like, "I can't reach the remote."
I'm uninspired to seek assistance outside my household. "I can't lose that last forty-six pounds from when I was pregnant with my sophomore," sips from third triple-shot five-flavor mega-vente latte that day. "I don't know how I'm going to pay the power bill. I'm going to pick up cigarettes and a lottery ticket."
I'm even hesitant on rare occasions when sweet people offer help. Can you vacuum my carpet without sucking up the cat? No, don't lift the whole stack of plates into the cupboard at once...ohhhh, (shatter-shatter) cool, I get new dishes.
I didn't realize till too late that everyone forgot to water the salamander, and a dehydrated lizard does NOT come back if you just add water.
That's why I, like Jeremy Renner, do my own stunts.
I can't even get anyone to do something as simple as going pee for me.
No comments:
Post a Comment