The one that I had this morning as I was staring out my balcony with coffee mug in hand had me all suited up in a casual Brioni ( why ever picture myself in a burlap sack in a fantasy? ) coming down on a Monday morning to utter mindless chaos as the monstrous adopted Himalayan brats run helter-skelter all over my pristine perfect Pottery-Barn-inspired kitchen even while Charming Calvin tries his level best to maintain some semblance of order by placating the pint-sized mountain rebels.
Can already picture myself drawing my breath trying to contain my mounting anger by counting to ten but not for long though. Is it any wonder that even in my blissful daydreams, I'm usually the raging maniac of a father slamming the kitchen counter with my briefcase threatening them all in a suitably dark, menacing manner to get into their places?
Deep breaths! I gotta cool off! Count to ten!
Unsurprisingly Calvin will end up being the Good and I'll be the Bad and Ugly laying down the law. And can I say that I'm a little horrified by the fact ( even hypothetically speaking )that I am rapidly turning into my disciplinarian mother?
Don't worry, I have not turned into a dark, tortured clairvoyant savant artist with a fetish for intravenous drugs and self-mutilation like Isaac Mendez. This particular alternate future fantasy ( unlike my usual sweat-soaked dreams about a naked, oiled Chris Evans ) was possibly prompted by my occasional rants about uncontrollable tykes raising hell in the shopping malls - and how I would raise ( Spank them really! Damn the overly generous bleeding-heart liberals! ) them if they were mine. Usually the only palpable reaction I'd receive from our unfazed hero Charming Calvin is a blissful nod and a sleepy yawn as they run chaotic circles around him - while I'd be the one busy frothing at the mouth.
Once in a while I'd imagine the impossible ( and possibly desperately criminal ) fantasy of actually raising a family with the sleepyhead. Somehow or rather I have the strong suspicion that the kids would probably run amok all over him. Probably have to ride ventre à terre to the inevitable rescue after he's been hog-tied and locked up in the closet by the wily Home Alone rascals.
And mete out the terrible punishment in the proverbial shed.
Like I've reiterated before, I have this sinking feeling that I'll turn into a minor domestic tyrant, growling, intimidating and terrifying the little toddlers into submission as they run in terror into the sheltering arms of my sleeping partner, the Lord of Perpetual Yawn, who'll probably forgive anything and everything ( if not spoil them incessantly ) since he was asleep and utterly oblivious while they enacted their juvenile tantrums at home :)
No doubt I'm forever doomed to be the bad cop in this partnership.