I went to Nashville to see the eclipse because my dentist told me to.

Throughout my life, whenever anyone asks me to list my dream vacation destinations, I stare back with blank eyes. It has never occurred to me to cultivate places I’d like to visit. Even now, I have no idea of where I’d like to travel to next. I’ve never turned on the Travel Channel and I don’t find myself fantasizing of being anywhere other than where I currently am. That being said, I go on a fair number of trips. My only rule is that I never try to visit the same place twice. That’s for squares, if you ask me (you didn’t).

A few years ago I went to Nicaragua because someone tweeted the suggestion. Last year I did the fall color change thing in the North East due to a recommendation from a stranger. Because I have no travel goals of my own, I’m a blank canvas. If you provide me a good enough reason to visit Dubuque, Iowa, I just might load up the camper.

I do not own a camper, nor will I ever. My grandfather had a Winnebago and we once went on a multi-state trip. It was miserable. Riding in a Winnebago is the world’s most expensive way to travel third class.

As I was sitting in a dental cleaning this past spring, my dentist asked what my plans were for the global solar eclipse. I understood all three of those words individually, but I had never heard them said together at the same time. Whatever a global solar eclipse was, it must be important, I concluded. I didn’t want to sound like someone not-in-the-know, so I said, “Oh, I haven’t decided yet. What about you?” He said, “Well, ground zero is Nashville, so that’s where the wife and I are headed.”

I walked out of the dental office (no cavities) and texted my girlfriend. “We’re headed to Nashville for the global solar eclipse!” She replied back with, “Can’t wait! What’s that?”

So, we spent the eclipse weekend in Nashville, visiting the Opry, the Ryman Theater, eating barbeque, and watching honky tonk bands. We decided that for the eclipse we’d spend it at the Belle Meade Plantation as they were having a viewing party. We had planned on touring Belle Meade anyway, so this seemed like a good fit.

I hadn’t done the math that pre-civil war plantation + south = slavery. Had that occurred to me, I likely wouldn’t have chosen that location to celebrate the moon passing in front of the sun. As I was setting up the chair for a good view, I realized this was the exact area where people were forced to work and live against their will. It’s a bummer for sure.

My mood soon lifted as I noticed a woman nearby seated in the lotus position chanting and singing with eyes closed. It was, well, weird. I listened to her words and it became clear she was a sun worshipper. I’m guessing in the sun worship faith, an eclipse is a big deal. I started judging her as a kook, because, it’s only the sun and moon doing what they do.

And then I had a terrible realization. That woman was less crazy than me. Or at least not more crazy. She was praying to something you could actually see. I pray to an invisible man in the sky that nobody in history has ever photographed. The sun might not be able to forgive sins and stuff, but at least you can point at it. Also, if the sun didn’t exist, life wouldn’t either, so that could be argued as god-like, I guess.

As the time of the eclipse approached all of us in the plantation field put on our glasses. We watched an orange sun and moon move across the sky toward each other. About five minutes before totality the sky grew dark and the crickets started chirping. I guess they thought it was nighttime, even though it was only 1:25pm.

We stared at the sky with our glasses until the sun and moon were aligned perfectly. Then it was totally black in our glasses. The science lady on site yelled for everyone to take off our glasses. Hundreds of us all removed our glasses at the same time. Since I had done exactly zero research on eclipses, I had no idea what to expect.

At first everyone cheered and hollered. But only for a few seconds. Then, the whoops died and it became eerily quiet. We all were trying to process what we were seeing. There was a black circle in the sky with the whitest of light peering out from the around it. The light was animated and moved like the flames in a fire, around the moon. It was unlike anything I had ever witnessed, and I found myself unable to speak. I’m trying to stay away from hyperbole, but it may have been the most beautiful thing I’ve seen.

We were able to view the eclipse for about ninety seconds before the science lady told us it was time to put our glasses back on. As hundreds of us did, a collective applause filled the air. I could hear people crying. Others were whistling and shouting. It was really something.

I slumped in my chair. In books and movies characters witness something so beautiful that it brings them to tears. That had never happened to me. But there I was, sitting in my lawn chair trying to make sense of what I had just seen. The tears started. Not many, mind you. But a few.

Oh, and by the way, during totality I offered a prayer to the sun-god asking him (her?) to heal my tennis elbow by Tuesday so I could crush my opponent in league play. It didn’t work. My arm still hurts like hell. I guess I’ll go back to the physical therapist. Rats.

Photo Credit: dr.farisvelia Flickr via Compfight cc
Photo Credit: ongsoonkeat Flickr via Compfight cc

The site had been lagging and it was time for an upgrade. Not that anybody formally complained but I noticed the speed issue and it bothered me. The transition was almost hiccup-free. Somehow a few comments slipped through the cracks. I apologize to those readers.

We’re back to business as usual at ThoughtsFromParis. Now, let’s start this post out proper.

Today was one of those days where I didn’t move around much.

Let’s assess today’s productivity. Hmm… searching for something that I engaged in that furthered my evolution as a human being.

• Ate Four Entenmann’s Donuts – No, no pride here. There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts even closer to where I live but since I was in the grocery, those ended up in my cart. By the way, that chocolate one is nearly inedible. Candy wax lips taste better.

• Passed Out For Three Hours After Eating Entenmann’s Donuts – I must not be getting enough sleep during the week. I think I need around nine hours a night and I’ve averaging under seven. Researchers say there’s no such thing as “make up” sleep, but a three hour nap suggests that otherwise. Either that or I’m suffering from crippling depression. That can’t be the case though, as I think way too highly of myself.

• Ate Two Batches of Popcorn – This also occurred in the morning before passing out but after the donuts. In reflecting, I’m seeing that may have been overindulgent in carbohydrates. Why popcorn at 10am sounded like the right call, I don’t know. It’s as if I’m a pregnant woman with these cravings. And I wear protection so I’m pretty sure that’s not it.

• Responded to Blog Comments – Ah, my first win of the day! I made this commitment on Jan 1 and I don’t think I’ve missed yet. I’m usually a few days behind, but I get to everything. Engaging with readers is satisfying and I dig reading comments. Especially the ones that say how great I am. Those, in particular, are appreciated.

• Made Lunch for Tomorrow – Another victory. I cooked up chicken with teriyaki and vegetables. This means that I will not be running over to Walgreen’s at noon looking for a special on beef jerky. I ate so much beef jerky last week that the woman behind the counter made a comment on the fourth consecutive day. I’m now the “beef jerky” guy to her. That’s not how I want to leave my mark.

The strangest thing is that I don’t have shame about my overall activity/inactivity. I’m not exactly proud, but it’s not making me feel like poop. Leaving behind shame has been an interesting process. I still didn’t have a great day, per se, but I’m not beating myself up like before.

This reality of not being productive and also not-ashamed is new. Well, it comes after four years of weekly therapy and a shit-ton of personal work I do on the side. But, the heavy lifting is paying off. I can just have a “didn’t do dick day.” Nice alliteration.

Just remembered – I didn’t get around to cleaning the cat box or taking down my Christmas tree. Oh, and forgot to shower.

Hmm – maybe bringing back a little shame wouldn’t be so bad.

photo credit: erlyrizrjr via photopin cc

I will now switch to first person as there is not, nor ever has been, a narrator.

Laying on the ground I started to lose focus. Blood itself didn’t really bother me although I’d seen little of it in my life. Other than the occasional knee scrape or paper cut, my skin stayed tight and whole. Never had I broken a bone, been in the hospital for an illness, or needed a wet nurse. I was a healthy kid.

But now, my essence was spilling out onto an elderly couple’s porch.

The ambulance finally found the correct building and buzzed to be let up. I’m not sure who had called 911, but I very clearly remember the voice (male, probably Adam) saying, “No – he hadn’t been drinking!” The dispatcher was onto us, as there had been drinking. I had only had six beers or so and possessed a high tolerance. Still, as not knowing if the police were going to be making an appearance, I watched from the balcony as all the beer cans were swiftly thrown into a garbage bag and then moved out of sight, probably underneath Adam’s bed.

By the way, once our cleaning lady Dorothy totally ratted me out by pulling a similar bag of smashed beer cans from under my bed and showed it to my mother. I never forgave her for that.

The apartment was clean by the time the paramedics came through the door. They had a gurney with them and they rushed to my aid.

In the past post I wrote about how I was terrified of women through this time in my life. I had just fallen through a table, there was glass in my butt, and I was ruining an otherwise pleasant day for the ladies present. The little bit of self-esteem I possessed at that moment plummeted, and humiliation had set it.

I was going on the gurney.

Face down.

The EMTs asked me if I had been drinking. Not knowing if the paramedics would be phoning the fuzz, I lied. I should have noted that I still felt fine at this point. This fanny was not apparently shooting pain signals to my central nervous system. Wait, is that how it works? Something about receptors and neurotransmitters. I’m not smart. Maybe it was just the layers of fat that stopped the pain messages from traveling up my spinal column. Whatever was happening internally, I felt great. The beer buzz helped with this, of course.

I was starting to lose a little focus on reality, and my vision was narrowing.  I was clearly beginning to go down. I made a final request to Adam…

“Don’t let the girls see my glass-ass!”

Then I fainted.

He must have hurried all the birds into a back bedroom because when I came to, nobody was around. I was loaded on the stretcher. Fanny up. I still had glass sticking out of my rear, and I’m sure it looked like the world’s worst ice sculpture.

I was placed into the ambulance and taken to the hospital. Once again they asked if I had been drinking. I’m sure I smelled a bit like Keystone Light, and they knew it. I was about to take the fifth but I passed out again.

When I woke up I was being wheeled through the hospital ER waiting room. My parents were there and they looked worried. I, clear as day, said, “This is no big deal! I’m fine!” as I went past. Adam must have called them.

In the room where they put all the glass-ass victims a big nurse came over. A doctor poked his head in, pulled the glass from my wound, and starting poking around back there. He muttered to the nurse who grabbed her sewing kit.

The doctor told me I had severed an artery and may require a blood transfusion. He didn’t seem to think so, but he was going to check back after some sort of test. He put the nurse to work stitching me up. I asked for something to throw up in, because I was feeling sick. They tossed a bed pan under my face, and I barfed. I couldn’t figure out why this had happened as I had been fine moments before. Then, I urinated all over myself. Again, I’m face down. Not the best position.

Then, I pooped.

As she was stitching up my fanny.

I couldn’t help it – my body was doing things I couldn’t control. I was so embarrassed and kept apologizing for making earth on the nurse. She said, “Honey, if this is the worst I see today, this is a good day!” I still wanted to hang my head in shame, but it would have plopped down into the vomit-covered bed pan.

She mentioned that when you sever an artery all sorts of funky signals shoot through the body and not to worry about it. So I didn’t.

I spent the next few weeks on my stomach in my bedroom. My whole crotch area had turned black and blue and it hurt like nothing else I had experienced. Twice a day I required a cleaning of the wound and bandages changed. I made my sister do it the first day, and she just about retched.

Even now, I think, you can see the scar where eleven stitches once lined my backside. I say I think because I don’t spend too much time looking back there. I can feel it, though, and I hope it isn’t as hideous looking as it feels. My friends started calling me “AssMan” an homage to the episode in Seinfeld where Kramer received the wrong license plates meant for a proctologist.

Oh, I just remembered that the doctor told me that there would be no “fooling around” while my wound healed. He was very adamant about this. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I didn’t have any dates at that point anyway. But still I took note hoping that I’d meet a girl and turn down her advances during this time. That would have been a step up from my current situation.

I had lost so much blood that the porch needed to be powerwashed. Except it had already stained the concrete and seeped in permanently. My folks had to pay for the porch to be refinished. I just love that under the new layer of concrete my fanny DNA is still present.

I am the AssMan!

A woman I’m seeing who requested that I don’t use her real name (it’s Helen) asked me over for dinner tonight. The first bloggable moment came in the way she brought up this dinner over the phone.

Would you like to come over for dinner?

Sure! Thanks! What are you making?

Well, here’s the thing. I have some stuff, but you’re a much better chef than me.

Okay…

How about if we made dinner together and you assisted?

—

Now, I do love to cook. And, I’m decent at it. But it’s not often when someone invites me over to dinner. It’s even less often when I’m invited over for dinner but have to do the cooking. Truth be told, I was thrilled to even be invited. I have no problem putting together the dishes, and I’ll even clean up afterwards. I just love entertaining. When I told my friend and co-host of oSex Karen that I was having dinner made for me she said:

It’s not a true invite if you have to do the cooking. You’re getting gypped!

Now, when I got to the condo, there was much less work for me than was anticipated. All I had to do was take chicken breasts and put them in the oven. All the prep work was done. I was expecting to don the apron, open up a Bon Appetit and start slinging paprika.

The next hilarious moment came when I went to sit down to eat. Since I’m not a total animal I always take a napkin and lay it on my lap before eating. As soon as I went for cloth (which was ON my placemat as seen below), I was told…

Oh, please don’t use that cloth napkin.

But it’s on my placemat!

Um, the thing is… it’s dry clean only.

I’m not worthy of dry cleaning?

—

As I said this last line she was already up tearing a square off of a Bounty paper towel holder to hand to me. I started laughing that not only was I not getting to use the decorative hand towel, but that I was going from the best case scenario (cloth) to the worst case scenario – the paper towel, half piece.

Even worse she accidentally wiped her hands on the paper towel and started mashing it together as she handed it to me. As I accepted it I asked if she could get me a fresh piece since I didn’t need the one that had her hand gook all over it. She laughed and was embarrassed, not realizing she was handing me the soiled square.

Dinner was great and then we relaxed until dessert. She told me excitedly that she had ice cream waiting in the freezer. I was thrilled at the idea of finishing off the evening with some Breyer’s vanilla bean.

So, about that ice cream. Let’s do it!

But you’re on a diet and need to lose ten pounds to win the bet with your father!

That’s true. So, I probably shouldn’t have ice cream.

No – that’s a good decision.

But you offered ice cream! You promised ice cream!

I’m really looking out for you.

I just got gypped again!

—

So in the end, I didn’t exactly get a homecooked meal, a real napkin, or dessert. But I do have to say that my host is an amazing person and we laughed about all of this. She made me sit down and write this post from the condo, and has been reading over my shoulder the whole time.

The truth is she’s not bossy, inconsiderate, or selfish. I almost never write about dates, but she insisted that I had to. I told her I was just going to write about my bike ride to work, but we agreed that would have been boring.

Next time I’m bringing my own cloth napkins, because I’ll be damned if I’m not worth a little dry cleaning.

Oh, I need to go buy some cloth napkins, now that I think about it. I don’t own any. I guess I don’t even think I’m worth it!

Mine is the moment my mom walks through the door of my condo. Without exception, she mentions that she can smell cat pee all throughout the house.

To be fair to her there was a time where my place smelled like urine. First of all I’m a guy. I’m not cleaning the litter box twice a day like some of your fanatics. Second, I’ve well-documented here my struggles with my cat peeing outside her designated area. I probably wrote twenty pieces on it last year alone. The bottom line is that she’s on Prozac and doesn’t do it anymore, thank God. Not my mom. The cat.

The place used to smell pretty bad because the cat would spray all over this enclosure I had for my cat box and I had no idea she was doing it. Once I removed that piece of furniture, the odor disappeared.

Well, the cat still does go outside the box once in awhile. She pees on the rubber mat in front of the box. But I clean that up as soon as I find it.

My mom is on the “your place always smells” trip. She hasn’t changed that tune in two years. And it drives me nuts.

I guess the biggest problem is on my end. I expect her not to do this each time she comes over. I’m violating that Buddhist principle of “What is, is.” What is, is that my mom is going to say the place smells bad. And my insanity is that I keep wanting her to change.

She made this comment when she came in last night (I had two air fresheners going), and again once this morning, blaming the smell on her inability to sleep last night. I became offended and the reason is that I thought she was lying. Not out and out lying, but exaggerating.

Growing up I was blamed for a lot of the family’s problems. That was my role – the scapegoat. And whenever anything touches around that “it’s your fault” thing, I go nuts.

So, I asked my father who was also here if he noticed any smell. He said he didn’t.

I asked my mom to pinpoint the location of the smell so I could find and eliminate it. She just said the whole place smelled. I brought my dad into the bedroom where they slept and we both couldn’t smell anything.

It’s hard to correct something you can’t locate, of course.

My mother accused my father of lying to protect my feelings. Now I was really confused. Did it smell in there or not? Was someone exaggerating or lying? It was a mess.

I’m not so sensitive I can’t handle the truth. If it smells like cat pee, tell me where and I’ll fix it.

So, we’re all basically yelling at each other at 7:30am. It was brutal.

Here’s what I know. I can’t control my mother’s nose. If she’s exaggerating about the smell (and I don’t think she’s doing it on purpose), that’s her deal. Only she knows. If she’s being honest then I have a horrible sense of smell.

Either way she’s going to say it smells like cat pee, as she does every time. And that’s going to trigger the “It’s all my fault” pattern in me. And I’m going to go nuts and explode.

So, how do I avoid this?

Well, first is to make sure the place actually doesn’t smell like cat pee. After this ordeal I ordered a three pack of professional cleaners to come over. After three cleaning sessions it should be roses in here. As a dude this is a solid investment.

Second is to learn to release control of someone else’s hangups. I’m a big control freak and need things to happen exactly the way I want them too. Not a good strategy in life. I’m working on it.

Also, I need to remember that aside from their best intentions moms are just built to annoy their kids. It’s the way of the bushido.

I am picking on my mom a bit. My oSex co-host, Karen sent me a message today saying I have the greatest parents in the world. We all went to a Cubs game last night. She’s right. I’m very lucky. 99.9% of the time we get along perfectly and they’re generous, supportive, and loving.

She’s coming back this Thursday to spend the night again. I will hear more about the smell. I will not go nuts. I will not go nuts. I will not go nuts.

But, since I’ll definitely go nuts, I’ll try to record the audio so you can see just how batty I get. Will make for a great post.

Sure, there are moments when my condo resembles a dishelved hobo riding the rails, but mostly it’s close to tidy. Note I said “tidy” and not “clean.” I never dust and rarely sweep. If I’m having someone over I run the Swiffer. It’s not really supposed to double as a vacuum, but, hey, close enough.

My mom has thoroughly shamed me over the years since the divorce by saying, “If you bring a woman back to this mess she will run screaming.” And, to be fair, she’s got a point. Nobody wants to date a slob. Well, I guess other slobs are cool with it. Let’s put it this way – I  don’t want to date a slob.

I’ve become masterful as keeping the place tidy. At first glance it will appear as if I steer a pretty tight ship (I don’t think that’s the correct  expression, matey). Upon further examination you will discover that the baseboards in the kitchen are splattered with marinara sauce, there is tiny chihuahua hair all over the pillows, and the underside of the top toilet seat in the master bath has a small pee stain.

I should write a whole essay on how a  physicist  would have a hard time explaining this phenomena. Pee should not be there. I can’t explain it. But it is.

My mom however sees through this charade and simply walks in and goes, “I can smell the cat box! Gross!”

I finally broke down and ordered a housekeeping package. I vowed this time to only use a reputable service as the last person I hired via Craigslist stole a bunch of my shit. I found a Groupon for half-off and placed the order. They called me a day later to schedule and upsold me on the deep clean package. It was like $100 more but, hey, I’m pretty sure mold is not supposed to be growing on the ice cubes in the freezer. I needed the full monty.

The woman who came to the apartment lumbered up the stairs with her supplies. She was in her early forties and overweight. I always feel bad when delivery people come visit and have to hike up four flights. It’s hard enough when I do it every day. She had to take a few rests and now that I think about it, I probably should have offered to carry up the mop. It didn’t occur to me.

She was very sweet and got to work. Since I had the bad experience with the thief I decided to stick around. Now, I only have 1250 square feet. It’s not like I was just going to hang out in the west study while she dusted up the portiere. So I took a nap, read, and watched some television.

Cut to five hours later – she was STILL cleaning. I hadn’t had a woman stick around that long in my condo since my sister who came to spend the night on a business trip last April.

After each room the cleaning lady would come up to me and say, “Mr. Paris, can you come check my work?” Now, I never check even my own work, much less somebody else’s. But she insisted. And each time I would give it a two-second glance and say, “Looks perfect.”

Then, without exception she would get excited and say the exact same thing.

“That’s cool beans!”

I haven’t heard that expression since I was a lame white kid in central Illinois saying that during my junior year of high school. Bowling on a Friday night since I didn’t have a date? That’s cool beans!

Each time she said those words I would LIL – laugh in loud. I should have recorded it. She did such a good job I’m going to have her back in a month or so and we’ll get that voice on tape. She didn’t just say it, she exuded those beans. First, it was funny that she was so excited to get my approval. I always feel a little shame that I should be cleaning the place myself. Then, those words. Cool beans. It’s just a perfect expression of joy that nobody says anymore.

The weird thing about that phrase is that if you actually ate cool beans, you’d be disappointed. Hot beans trump cold beans.

Oh, to get back to the beginning on why my mom was wrong. Since I’ve started dating a number of women have made their way into the condo. For dessert or a drink or to meet the dog. So, I’ve had to keep it tidy. It’s not clean. Well, now it is. But it never really was before. And nobody has run screaming.

photo credit: kugel via photopin cc

It turns out you’re supposed to clean the filters every few months or so. You’d think this would have dawned on me after eight years of owning a place. But I’m kind of a moron when it comes to that stuff. I’m good at sitting down on the ground, pulling up a laptop and writing. I don’t do much cleaning except to say that I try to reduce clutter. That is my version of cleaning – putting things away. As the dust piles, it piles on empty tables. I’m proud of this. It’s a sad badge of honor.

Once I realized the furnace wasn’t working I pulled out the filter and took it into my walk in shower. I turned on the faucet and rained shower water upon the filter. Heavy black stuff (dust I guess) fell off and onto the floor of the stall. I then used my big toe to push the dirt into the center where the drain sits. I smushed it down. This is probably not protocol in the handbook for proper furnace maintenance. But I was naked at the time. I didn’t really want to get dressed to solve this problem.

The furnace kept blinking four red lights in a row. I took to Google and found out that my max limiter had most likely busted. A direct result of not cleaning the filter. Poops!

I looked at the thermometer. It read 62 °. That’s getting on the cold side. In fact once I saw it I felt instantly colder. It was a mind-f**k for sure.

Thankfully I live at the top floor of our building. This means I get the heat from all the other units. Probably the farts, too. No matter. I ain’t a complainer.

When I called the furnace guy, after $145 he confirmed what took me five minutes to find on Google for free. The max limiter was busted. It would take them until Tuesday to fix which meant I had the weekend to myself in the no-heat.

I had completely forgotten that I had bought a space heater for work. Problem with that purchase was that it blew every fuse in the office when I used it. That was a funny day. So I had taken it home where it was collecting the aforementioned dust.

The space heater worked just fine over the weekend and I only had to transport it from living room to bedroom. It even has a remote control. Things that shouldn’t have remote controls but have remote controls always excite me. Like ceiling fans, lighting, blinds, car starters, and now space heaters. I kept it at the same temperature the whole time so I didn’t get to use it all that often.

That last paragraph was  unnecessary. Oh well, it’s staying in!

This is funny – the technician tried to screw me. I had a coupon for $35 off. I told the dispatch woman on the phone as much, but only after she gave me the total amount. She said just to mention it to the guy when he was there and they’d take it off the bill.

When I mentioned I had a coupon he decided to add $35 to the bill and then subtract it out. Thankfully I had memorized the total given to me earlier and realized what he was doing. I called him out. He,  English  not being his first language used that as a convenient excuse to why he “misunderstood.” Thieves are great, aren’t they?

So, heat is now back and I really kind of miss the cold. It made me get used to something uncomfortable at first and then learn to live in it. I’d even say I got more done is the discomfort. There’s a life metaphor in here somewhere, but, who am I, Deepak Chopra?

Oh, by the way – I’m back. Get ready for the stupid.

Getting into it with my parents is not on my must-do list. I’d just rather not. They’re lovely enough people and I just come off like a spoiled brat. Which maybe I am. I mean, they are pretty generous.

Last night we were getting ready to see The Hobbit. My mother had made a fantastic dish of pasta fagioli, one of my favorites. She even served the soup in a breadbowl. How’s that for finesse? Pretty damned finesse-y if you’re asking a white dude named D.J.

It was 5:30pm and the show started at 6:05pm. The food wasn’t quite ready. I told them there was no way we were going to eat and be out the door in twenty minutes. My father started saying, “We can do it – it won’t be an issue.” I knew better, as someone who has a relatively decent sense of timing. There are things I’m not good at – any math beyond fractions, house cleaning, keeping women interested, not eating all the Life Savers I just bought yesterday. Lots of stuff I can’t do well. But I can see the future of being on time or late. And my crystal ball ain’t cloudy.

I dismissively told my dad he was plain wrong and that I knew what was up. As a normal person being told this sort of  thing, he did not appreciate it. In fact he became more adamant we would make it on time. I continued my stance as I knew I was actually right in this instance. We weren’t going to make it on time.

Now, I know there are ten minutes of previews. I don’t need to see the trailer for the next Adam Sandler travesty. But this is the number one movie in America. It’s Friday night. It’s PG13. Kids are out of school for the holiday. It’s party time.

In my family we pass the popcorn back and forth and we need to sit together. Getting there five minutes after the previews started guaranteed that we would be ten feet from the screen staring upwards at Gandolf’s grey bush. I became vigilant that we needed to get their fifteen minutes early and to hit a later screening. This movie was going to be full of fourteen year old dudes who couldn’t get dates. Like me.

Well, my dad and I came to an impasse. He was exhausted arguing with me. He was plenty angry. He was turning to my mother and pointing at me like, “Look at what a shit you raised.” That part was kind of funny. I know it sounds sad, but I was sort of acting like a shit. Fair enough.

We made silent amends and decided the 6:15pm showing was doable. We raced to the theater and into the movie, popcorn in tow (plus the drinks we snuck in).

There was a group of four teenagers sitting near the back. That’s it.

The theater was totally empty.

I turned to my father after we sat down and said, “I could not have been more wrong about this.” I was, not joking, a little bit in shock. It’s like finding out you’re adopted at thirty-six. I don’t know what that’s actually like, but I suspect it’s a little jarring.

That  simile  was poor.  Adoption  and getting late to a movie with no people in it are not relate-able. Screw it! I’m making it  relate-able   You hear me God?!

I felt like a dick. I apologized. All is good again. But it is funny to be super wrong. I know what it’s like to have these moments, and the ability to say you’re sorry is one of the most powerful phrases I know. It not only accepts accountability for being a dick, it also sort-of says, “Hey, I was a dick – get over it.”

I will admit it was a little weak. Ahem…

Last night I went around surveying her work. It was not great. Little things I hadn’t noticed before like corners with large dust bunnies, the bathroom mirror that hadn’t been washed, and the microwave she didn’t clean after a chili explosion. Oh well.

Are you wondering if I hadn’t done a walkthrough of the place prior to her leaving? Actually I did. But I’m also the guy who pees in his kitchen sink. What do I know from clean?  I mean, it’s not like I had her go around with a black light to see the real dirt. I will not be expounding further on this matter.

The reality is that I did a mini  walk-through  when she was here but I just wanted her the shit out of my condo. She was a yapper and I literally had to go from room to room to escape her stories. She was nice, but if I need a friend I’ll ask your mom to start paying me again to hang out with you.

Now, the last time I had a cleaning lady the cat peed on my comforter during and I had to run out to the laundromat because the thing is too big for my washer. When I came back the trollup was gone with a bunch of my stuff.

She was smart enough to leave her cellphone behind and all of her vacation photos from Hawaii with her daughter. At least I can feel good about ruining her ability to ever visually reflect on this family vacation.

So this time I had to take precaution.

The new cleaning lady was half an hour late – always a great first impression. I didn’t really care but I had to go run and get groceries. I had this coupon that was $11 off a $70 purchase. It just so happened I needed a bungload of groceries. Plus, a coupon like that is exciting to this paleface. But the last time I left with a cleaner there I got rooked.

So I did what anyone with half a brain would have done in that scenario…

I took her car keys.

Yep. I asked her for her car keys so I could go to the supermarket and shop. This way she couldn’t make off with any of my guitars, the upright piano, or the faux-suede sectional. She could continue to, however, line her pockets with anything small. I’m not digging around in her Wranglers. I’m no animal. If she can slide it in a purse, it’s hers.

Asking somebody for their car keys presupposes that they’re going to steal. It’s kind of a slight to their character. Okay, not “kind of.”

I explained to her that I got ripped off the last time and it wasn’t personal. Surprisingly, she understood and didn’t seem to take offense. She kept mumbling something about “karma” this or that for people that steal. Ever notice karma is a word only stupid people use? Because it’s the high tech version of “what goes around comes around” which we all know doesn’t actually translate into reality. By the way, if the world runs on karma it is definitely not on a one-to-one ratio.

I made it down to my car with two sets of keys. I have to admit I did love the power grab. I could take her car to the grocery if I wanted! I could go make a copy of her set of keys and break into her house! I could set off her car alarm and not turn it off!

Or I could just go get a bunch of asparagus and fat-free milk. Which is what I did.

I’m just going to resign myself to the becoming-more-and-more apparent fact that I’m just not going to become skilled at cleaning. I received a cold-call at work the other day from a big commercial cleaning service wanting our business. I had put off hiring a housekeeper since the last time the skag I hired stole a bunch of my crap.

This particular company has been around Chicago forever with a great reputation, but to my knowledge they only deal with offices and apartment buildings, not individual units. Since this woman seemed to think I owned the company I asked if she would be willing to send a crew to clean my place. I believe she thought this would be an “in” to the other buildings the company I work for owns, because she became very excited.

She didn’t seem to have any sort of pricing set up – I don’t think they really clean individual units. She was so thrilled to start the relationship, however, that she couldn’t wait to get the details. A few days later, and we had it all worked out. Except the price.

She kept asking me what I thought was “fair.”

Strange to offer service without a fee structure, but whatever.

I, having at least a modicum (one of the fancier words I know) of business savvy asked her to figure out her best price and to let me know. I’m not about to pay more for cleaning than necessary. Plus, I’m not about to tip my hand if she would have come in cheaper. Personally, I found the whole conversation annoying. “Just figure out your best price and let me know,” I told her.

This broad’s a little wacky. She has called me eleven times in the past three days. It started with having a crew (two-three) people come out to my little 1250 square foot apartment to now she may do it herself. I think they really just don’t do these things at her company and she probably couldn’t get anyone to cover. I mean, she’s on the sales team and will soon be cleaning near the cat box. Which will be hilarious.

She’s also a little dumb. I don’t mean that in a condescending way. Some people are just dumb. It’s okay. We all know it. I’m dumb in certain ways. She’s dumb in all the ways I’ve communicated with her. Her last call, which was late last night (I just let them all to go voicemail at this point), asked if I had any…

You know what? You need to hear this, just so you realize I’m not exaggerating any of this…

Yep. I almost thought of going out last night and buying a  Burmese Python so that I could greet her at the door with it wrapped around my neck.

So, finally we agreed on a price. I told her the last housekeeper cleaned for $80, which was true. (not the one that stole from me)

Would you be willing to go higher than that?

(Not exactly a great question. But since I’m a nice guy, and she was struggling, I helped her out.)

Uh, well… what price do you think is fair?

Well, we’d really like to do it for $90.

Yes, but I’m used to paying $80, and, I’m not trying to be offensive but, I don’t know if you guys will do a good job. But I’m reasonable, so how about this – we’ll do the first one for $80 and if you knock it out of the park, we’ll go $90 on the subsequent trips. Does that make sense?

—

Now, here’s the reality. I’ve never had someone call me 11x in two days for any reason. Other than her my phone hasn’t hang once this weekend. So, on one level I appreciate the effort.

I’m going to keep my eye on this kooky broad, though. Maybe I’ll live tweet it. That would be fun.

Now, time to edit this piece and “clean” up the errors. Oh yeah I know how to come full circle and complete the story arc!!!

photo credit: Vim Trivium via photopin cc