I haven't scrubbed a toilet in seven years.
I like living in a clean house, but not nearly as much as I hate cleaning my house. Thus do a never-ending succession of maids pass through my revolving door. With a couple of exceptions, they're middle-aged women who've gone through some sort of life-changing event. A recent divorce, perhaps. Or she was a realtor when the bottom fell out on the housing market. What she generally is not is gorgeous. Until this week.
Assisting my usual housecleaner was the sort of shimmering beauty I don't often see in my home. Okay, ever see in my home. Okay, ever see. While I was still trying to form a word, she went upstairs to clean. The usual maid and I remained downstairs. I tried to return to work. I violently shook my head, hoping the image burned on my retinas would clear like an Etch-A-Sketch. No dice. I worked, but my heart wasn't in it.
Daaaaaaaaaaamn...
The usual maid and I chit-chatted as we often do, and she apologized for being late. The customer before me had taken an unusually long time.
"Was the house disgusting?" I asked, hoping for a validating comparison.
"No," she groaned. "He just really liked Adrienne." She rolled her eyes upward, indicating the Venus fluffing my blankets upstairs, who I hadn't thought about for over two seconds, dammit, and now I had to restart the clock. "It was gross. He wouldn't leave her alone. So he's humping her leg, and I was like, Dude, you're like [AGE SLIGHTLY YOUNGER THAN MINE] years old! She's young enough to be your daughter! Not to mention, to her you're just a disgusting old man!"
"Men are such pigs..?" I managed to gag out.
Adrienne eventually came downstairs, of course, and if she remembers me at all, she probably wonders if she had the sort of booger that would make people so obviously avoid looking at her.