So I've hired a housekeeper. I've thought about it before, but couldn't really make that commitment. I was always like 'it seems so self indulgent to have someone come into my house and pick up after me', but eventually, I got really tired of picking up after everyone else, so I decided if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. And so it was that I found Amanda. At first it was TOTALLY unnerving to have someone come into the house and actually see the mess. Normally when people come over I try to shove the mess under the couch or something, as a bare minimum, and depending on the importance of the company, actually try to clean it up. At first she came for a 'walk through' during which she took notes on various aspects of the household condition and determined a price range. I wanted to take a peek at her clipboard but then decided that perhaps it was better if I didn't, imagining words like "complete pigsty" and "total dive" and then increasingly scowling faces followed by "Note to self: notify social services- totally unfit for human habitation" scrawled across the paper in her cursive script, underlined and follwed by a series of exlamation points. But she was a professional about it and didn't roll her eyes or sigh heavily when looking at the bathrooms, which I might have expected. So, for about the price it would take to feed a small community in Africa for a month and supply them with much needed anti HIV medications, I now have someone to wash my floors and dust my shelves. It still feels self indulgent. But I figure, well, it's too late to become a lesbian and marry a woman, so the next best thing is to hire a cleaning lady?? I think even Geoff is coming around to the idea. At first he was like "What do we need a cleaning lady for, our house isn't even messy!" And I was like first of all: A) It is, dickwad, you're just too wrapped in your own testorone filled world of football and farting to notice minor things like toilet scum and B) the only reason why it maintains SOME semblance of cleanliness is because I practically KILL myself cleaning up after you and your rigging animals. And kids. Even though the animals and kids were mostly my idea. And OK, I'm exaggerating the "kill myself" part. But my back does get sore, and my hands get dry from the scouring.
I mean honestly. Men are so stupid. Like, if they do even one little measly, measly thing around the house they think they're a freaking hero. Like the other day, I come home and Geoff is like "Well, I erased the history on the phone. We had callers on here from way back in August!" And I was like "OK, two things. First of all-- we're losers- that things only holds twenty five phone numbers and August was four months ago. Second of all- THANK YOU for taking the very taxing and onerous chore of pressing a single button on a phone twenty five times. That REALLY takes a load off of me. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll just go and tend to the laundry and the cooking and the cleaning.
Life's too short, right. I'm not even gonna go there, even though I'm pretty sure that I just did. Too late now.
So new insurance policy at work. Big, exciting news. I had the chance to peruse it, and I have to say, it was VERY enlightening. Did you know that I could, for example, stand to profit upwards of ten thousand dollars just for losing a couple of fingers off my dominant hand. And I started to think "Hmmm. How hard would it be to accidentally on purpose knock off a few fingers? I mean- what? A chain saw would do it? It would look natural, I would just say that I was working on some new kitchen cabinets out in the shed. Everyone knows thats my hobby. Part time cabinet work. I just put on my lumberjacket, light up a stogey, and go out to the shed to rip out some cabinets. Best part of my day. I'll just need to figure out what, presicely, a "stogey" is: is it a cigar? Or a cigarette?
And now is the time that I should knock on wood. God forbid some freak accident happens and I somehow lose my fingers and then they seize my computer and read this and then they send me to jail for attempting to commit insurance fraud.
And without any fingers I'll be the least popular person in prison, assuming of course that it's an all female population, which will make my time very hard indeed.
That was a bad joke. Sorry.
Anyways. I've decided not to tell Geoff about my insurance policy, because I don't know if it's just me or if I watch too much 48 hours Mysteries, but honestly, it seems to me like lucrative insurance policies correlate with freak accidents far too often. And it always starts off the same way. Pictures of thier wedding day. "They were the typical, young, happy couple. But after three kids, a house that was heavily mortgaged, and the pressures of stressful jobs, cracks began to appear in the marriage. And then two weeks later, a freak accident. Stay tuned for more of "Gunshots in the bedroom." ("Gunshots in the bedroom" said in a deep and menacing voice as the picture of the happily married couple shatters. And then fade to black and cue a Viagra commercial). And then Geoff and I look at each other and we're like "let's just watch the Seinfeld reruns." Because everyone likes Seinfeld.
I mean, I don't really like to think about murder or Viagra. Both prospects are entirely depressing.
Anyways, that is all for now.
Have a good night and Happy Rememberance Day. OK there's no such thing as a "Happy" rememberance day per se, but still. It's a holiday. So. Enjoy. But be respectful though.