Friday, February 12, 2010

The Laundry Fairy

I don't sleep much. Because of the teething. Love the baby. Hate the molars. The other night, I was awake at 4am. I may have been dreaming or in some sort of sleep-deprived daze. In any case, I had an encounter. I stumbled into the kitchen for a glass of water and saw a large man, dressed in shimmery velour clothes, sitting at the table. He smelled of spring flowers and fresh rain.  The dog was asleep by his feet.

Lydia: "Stranger!  Stranger!  Who the hell are you?"
Stranger: "I'm the Laundry Fairy."
Lydia: "Excuse me?"
Stranger: "The. Laundry. Fairy."
Lydia: "Really? Because you look like a dude in a red velour track suit. Sitting at my kitchen table. At 4am."
LF: "Sorry for dropping in like this but I knew you'd be up, and we need to talk."
Lydia: "I don't believe in you, Laundry Fairy. I wish you were real. If you were real, you'd help me.  And if you were real, you wouldn't be a MAN."
LF: "I can assure you I'm real. Why do you think I would have to be a woman? That's sexist. If you were thinking clearly, you'd understand that the Laundry Fairy would have to be a man. Or a real b*tch of a woman."
Lydia: "Actually, yeah. I can sort of see that. Because if you do actually exist, and you allow mothers all over the world to struggle, without helping them one little bit, all the while flouncing around in your track suit like a surly, winterized Richard Simmons - and basically telling the rest of us to suck it and get back to folding - then yeah. That sounds exactly like a dude."
LF: (sigh) "Are you done?"
Lydia: "What. Do. You. Want?"
LF: "You need to try harder."
Lydia: "Excuse me? I need to TRY HARDER? Did Kate send you? Is this about the clogs?! Or Gwyneth Paltrow? I'm working on self-improvement! OK?!"
LF: "Simmer down. I'm just talking about laundry. You suck at laundry. For the past three days, when your four year old son needs a fresh pair of underpants - he has to walk downstairs to the mountain of clean, but still unfolded laundry, to dig around until he finds clean skivvies. That's not right. You don't even work any more, Lydia.  You have no excuse. Why can't you get it done?"
Lydia: "OK. Now I know you're a dude. You better stand still. Because those are fighting words and I'm about to square up..."
LF: "I. Am. A. Fairy. You can't hurt me. But you must heed my words. Try harder. Get that laundry done, Lydia."
Lydia: "Or what? What are you going to do? Keep NOT HELPING me? You have no leverage here, Buddy. I don't even believe in you."
LF: (shaking his head sadly) "You just don't get it. You are not supposed to believe in me. I'm not here for you. I'm here for your husband, your children, all those who don't have to do the laundry. I'm here for those lucky people who enjoy finding that, through no effort of their own, their clothes and sheets and towels just magically smell fresh and look nice. They believe in me and you are ruining that. You are destroying the magic!"
Lydia: "ohhhhhh... It's getting clearer to me now."
LF: "Think of your husband. He opens his closet in the morning and remarks: 'I don't seem to have any clean dress shirts'. The next morning, as if by magic, he opens his closet and there they are! Do you not see how special that is? It's like a little bit of Christmas every time.  Why are you so determined, through your own laziness and ineptitude, to destroy special moments like that?"
Lydia: "So you want me to do more laundry and do it faster so that you can get the credit for it? Is that right?"
LF: [taps nose enthusiastically while rolling eyes] "Now she's got it. [sighs] Finally. But, yep, that about sums it up. Think how nice it will be for Hawk to have clean underwear every day without ascending Mt. Clothing Pile. Everyone will get nice, fresh and folded laundry and they won't have to say to thank you. Because they will continue to believe in me and my special magic."
Lydia: "Got it. You can go now."
LF: [looking earnest and self-important] "I know you heard me, Lydia. But I hope you listened."

At which point, my Jersey came out and I grabbed my bat and beat him to a pulp all the while screaming: "Suck it! Suck it! Suck it!"

The End.

PS: Here's how I know it wasn't a dream. The next morning I found him on my lawn, unbruised AND unbloodied, still trying to convince me to try harder at laundry. Stupid. Friggin. Fairy.
A reinactment:

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