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Sure, the Place Is Clean… But Where the Hell Is Everything?!

Man, did I ever not want to be at work this morning. Or even in public. Or for that matter, vertical. A show last night, a few beers, too little sleep, and a mid-morning meeting do not a happy Charlie make. Not even remotely.

For those first few bleary-eyed, poundy-headed waking moments, I considered calling in sick, and crawling back under the covers. But no. Even if I’d wanted to — and you can bet your perky little ass I did — I couldn’t have. Staying home on Fridays is just not an option.

You see, folks, we have a dog walker. She comes on Wednesday and Friday afternoons, to take the pooch out for a little prance ‘n’ poop. And just about the last thing I need is for her to come in to find me, in full undies regalia at two in the afternoon, groaning and drooling on the living room couch. Not a pretty sight. That’s what my wife tells me, anyway, and I’m inclined to take her word on this one.

Actually, it’s not just the mutt-moseyer I’ve got to worry about. Recently, we’ve been having a cleaning service come by every other Friday to tidy up the place, and this was one of her weeks, too. She comes in at… well, actually, I don’t know when the hell she comes in.

(Seriously, she’s like ‘stealth maid’ or something. I leave the house on days when she cleans, and then magically, by the time I get back, all of our shit is spiffied up and rearranged into different bewildering piles. I’m not sure it’s worth it, frankly. Sure, everything smells a little better, but for a week, I can’t fucking find anything. And just about the time I’ve got my little piles of junk mail and laundry and beer bottles and porn set up exactly the way I like them, in she comes and jumbles them up again. Damned annoying.)

And you know, I used to think that cleaning services were just for rich people, a luxury that I’d never need to — or, more to the point, be able to — afford. And probably, the good services are like that. You want someone to come in and clean all your shit and then put it back where you fricking left it — well, you probably have to pay extra for that. And getting them to put on the little French maid’s outfit while they’re there… yeah, that’ll cost you, too. We don’t have the sort of cleaning lady that does that kind of thing.

(Or frankly, the kind that you would want to do that last kind of thing. Not unless you were really, really drunk. Or blind. And preferably both.)

Anyway, the point is that Fridays are generally pretty busy around the house, and no place for a guy slacking off of work to sit peacefully on his couch eating Cheetos and watching Judge Judy. Not that I would do such a thing — that’s just an example, of course.

(I’m really more of a Funyuns guy. And Montel kicks that bitch Judy’s ass. From, um, what I hear. I’m just sayin’. Ahem.)

All that traffic and hubbub takes the fun out of playing hooky at home, though. It’s like seeing a movie all chopped up with commercial breaks on network TV, or watching porn with those little black bars over the interesting bits — it’s still entertaining, I guess, but you lose the thrill of the whole thing. It’s nothing to get all lubed up and frothy over any more.

So, I went to work today. I made it through my meeting, and — after a greasy burger and two jolts of caffeine — eventually felt almost human again. And now it’s time to go home and see whether that woman moved our TV into the bathroom, or alphabetized all the crap in the fridge. Honestly, it’s like having Rain Woman come into our house twice a month, and wiggling shit around into some crazy order that only makes sense to her. And then spraying it with Pine-Sol, so it smells nice and lemony clean.

(Okay, so that last part’s not really a Rain Man thing. It’s not a perfect analogy, dammit. Cut me some frigging slack, would you?)

Anyway, I’ll try to get the clips from this week’s shows up soon. Assuming I can still find the videocam when I get home, of course; lord knows where she’ll end up sticking that thing. I may be AWOL again tomorrow — I know, I know; ‘Bad Charlie! Naughty little bastard! Bad! Bad!’ — because I’ve got a wedding to scurry off to. So if I don’t see you kids for a day or two, you have yourselves a peachy little weekend, won’t you? I’m out.