When I was working at a theatre in Pennsylvania, management decided to make my husband and me the cast house Mom and Dad. My husband is a great choice for a House Dad. He’s mature and responsible and can fix things. I’m mature and responsible and cause kitchen fires.
One day, I was taking a nap in my bedroom right off the cast house kitchen. Suddenly I was woken from my very peaceful between-show slumber, during which I had managed to sleep without crushing my fake eyelashes (which is an accomplishment), by one of the girls’ pounding on my door screaming “Fire!” I jumped out of bed in my tank top and panties and ran for the bedroom door while my husband sat up slowly staring around wondering what I had managed to catch on fire while taking a nap.
I sprang into the kitchen where the stovetop was covered in six-inch flames surrounded by a group of interns jumping up and down screaming at it like cave men at a primal ritual. With the knowledge born of the kitchen fires of years past, I grabbed the jar of baking powder and tossed it on the flames, quenching the fire and saving the lives of the twelve (yes, twelve) residents in the house. I was a hero! A lifetime of kitchen catastrophes had been leading up to this very moment. All those burned curtains were preparing me to save lives!
The interns who had been screaming only seconds before stared at me. I waited for their praise, preparing to bask in their adoration until one of the interns said, “Are you going to clean that up?” I stomped my now cold, panty-clad butt back to my room and crawled back into bed to finish my nap. My husband hadn’t even gotten out of bed.