Back in the day, when Smurfs were still quite common to see on the one-channel TV on Saturday mornings, Sister and I would sometimes play House.
Sister always enjoyed being the mother, because she enjoyed doing the bossing. I was quite content to be the homeless, orphaned waif who was found by Sister while I was wandering aimlessly on the pretend farm, and she usually adopted me and fed me oatmeal with raisins, and, quite often, we talked the neighbor boys into being Lost Boys, who also needed to be adopted by Sister, and then we became one, giant, non-traditional family. We probably pretended to have a wood-paneled station wagon and everything, and sometimes Sister would have to do double duty, switching from the role of the mother to the one of the teacher, because, goodness knows, the band of wild, orphaned renegades she’d adopted needed some lessons and some schooling, and probably some Ritalin, too.
And never, that I can recall, did we ever bring a Husband into our game of House.
We simply dreamed of one day being married, and how perfect our married lives would be, and how we would probably dress in elegant gowns and attend marvelous functions, with husbands on our arms, almost every single night of the week.
And then real life hit.
And tonight, our scene of House over here at the Jedi Place is simply this:
The small boy is off, spending the night with his grandparents, because he is apparently on a mission to sleep everywhere this summer except in his own bed.
Hubs is sprawled out on a love seat, with both of his feet dangling over one end of it. He’s watching a Lakers game on TV, and he’s hoping that they lose to Boston. He has his laptop plunked precariously in his lap, and, while the basketball game goes nonstop at full volume, he’s surfing through You Tube, watching old videos of Eddie Van Halen thrashing the stuffings out of a guitar. Eddie is also playing at full-throttle-volume, and his guitar is in huge competition to break the sound barrier with the basketball game.
Every now and again, Hubs shouts out, “Good!” Apparently, this means that Boston has put some sort of smack down on the Lakers. Either that, or Eddie broke a guitar string.
There are no fancy ball gowns tonight, and no stately dinners to attend.
And this, apparently, is why Sister and I never had husbands in our games of House. We should have given it a shot, though, and asked one of the neighbor boys to please slump sideways on our sofa and play an old Kiss cassette at full-tilt-volume on the walkman, but we would have been hard-pressed to find a basketball game to go with Gene Simmons on our one channel TV.
I’m not sure why Sister and I never thought to practice life this way in the game of House.