So it takes a lot to shock him.
Something like hearing his sister say the following sentence:
"There was a part in the blood orgy that reminded me of my children."
Let me explain.
Saturday night I went with my husband and his brother, Gilligan, to "Sleep No More," which is probably one of the most awesome experiences of my life. It is, to paraphrase my cousin-in-law, like "MacBeth" on peyote.
An entire building in Chelsea was turned into the hotel set, and the actors go from room to room performing (very) loosely interpreted scenes from The Scottish Play. Guests are given creepy masks to wear, and are instructed to break off from their group and not to speak. At all. People who've been to "Sleep No More" have varying philosophies on how to do it best so that you see all the scenes and don't miss anything important, but honestly, even given the three hour window you have to wander around at will there is no humanly way to catch everything.
|The Duke of Juban models the creepy "Sleep No More" mask.|
So that's the situation I found myself in on Saturday night: Running silently around a dark, creepy hotel in a "Scream"-like mask, chasing actors covered in stage blood and getting grave dirt all over my feet. (Note to self: Don't wear open-toed shoes to "Sleep No More.")
Naturally there is a blood orgy. I mean, duh. How could there not be a blood orgy at something like this?
And part of the blood orgy reminded me of my kids. I won't say why, but if you've been to "Sleep No More" you know what I'm talking about and you know I'm not a pervert. Well, I probably am a pervert, but not because the blood orgy reminded me of my kids. In fact, I think I am the real victim here. Who wants to think about their precious little babies at a blood orgy?
Charles Manson might. But I am not Charles Manson. Not even a little bit.
Besides, my husband and I were paying a very nice young woman $12 an hour to think about our children for us. The last thing I wanted was to be reminded of them at all, but especially not during a blood orgy. Now, suddenly, I couldn't help but think of them.
|The Juban Princeling in the popular "Sleep No More" mask/Darth Vader pajamas combo|
One thought lead to another and before I knew it my maternal instinct told me the nice-seeming young woman watching our children was probably a Charles Manson-like pervert who was at this very moment kidnapping my babies and bringing them to a blood orgy. Which is how I wound up being one of the jerks at "Sleep No More" who hid in the stairwell to check my phone.
As if a Charles Mason-like pervert is going to send me a text message saying, "Got your kids. Blood orgy. Be back by 11."
I tried to shake it off, but the baby carriages in the psych ward didn't exactly comfort me.
Anyone else get accidentally reminded of children, or other family members, during really inappropriate moments?