Back in the day – OK, a couple of years ago – I cleaned houses in a part-time, on-the-side sort of way. Not for a living so much as for my own amusement.
What’s so funny, you may ask.
OK, maybe it wasn’t so much my own amusement. Maybe it was more to stave off boredom. Maybe it was to make a couple bucks.
Maybe it was to get a look at how the other half live.
And how do the other half live?
Turns out that some of the most expensive homes I’ve ever been in – or even driven past – are pretty darn dirty. Turns out their kids stuff dirty clothes under their beds. Turns out their fridges have pools of ticky-tacky Kool-Aid at the bottom of them. Turns out their dogs poop on their rugs.
Turns out some can’t be bothered to even – shudder – flush their toilet before The Help comes.
But this isn’t about the Filthy Rich.
This is about me and my pathological need to keep busy.
This Sunday’s job is actually the cream of cleaning jobs: an apartment move-out.
An empty two-bedroom! No people, no furniture, no nothing.
Can you believe I’m excited about that?
What’s become of me?!
The best part, though, is that I’m not even doing it myself, this cushy job, but have contacted my dear friend Mary. Ah, Mary: Scrubber of Floors, Bleach Devotee, one of the few people on the planet who can make me laugh until I fall, helplessly, off furniture.
Luckily, she rarely uses this gift to pick my pockets.
Not everyone gets to clean other people’s houses, you know.
Really, I’m lucky.
Remind me of that when I complain Monday about not having had a weekend, would ya?
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