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Oh, I've Got Something You Can Clean...

So, you remember yesterday, when I was talking about baseball? Well, I almost didn't. In the end, I decided to go with my original plan, but I almost told you about how I was being held hostage, that very morning, in my own house. By two women. I barely had time to find pants.

Yeah, maybe I should tell you about that now. Just sos you don't get the wrong idea. I've dug a bit of a hole already.

So, yesterday morning started like any other summer morning in Chez Charlie. I woke up around eight o'clock, sweaty and drooly and droopy-eyed. The wife had been gone for more than an hour by then; as usual, I had a vague recollection of her coming back to the bedroom to say goodbye and give me a kiss on her way out.

(I think she likes to watch me sleeping before she wakes me up -- lately, I've had way too many mornings where I wake up with her smirking at me from a couple of feet away. She's a beautiful girl and all, but waking up to a nose -- anyone's nose -- taking up three-quarters of your field of vision is no damned picnic.

I think I'm gonna have to put the kibosh on this little game. Maybe I'll pretend to be asleep some morning, and give her the old, 'Yeehaaahhaarrrgghhaah!!!' when she stops by to snicker at me. Of course, I'd better be sure what she's planning. Otherwise, she might never kiss me again on the way out the door. Or ever.)

Anyway, I got up around eight. Now, our bedroom is on the upper floor of the house. For a few months, my routine was to ooooze my way into the office, just across from the bedroom, to check a few box scores, maybe whip up an entry, that sort of thing. I like waking up with a bit of mental gymnastics -- you know, before I get all naked and ridiculous-looking in the shower.

The problem is, the computer in the office is on the fritz. It looks like a need a new hard drive.

(Which, coincidentally, is exactly the same thing I often think while I'm in the shower. But that's probably not important right now.)

So, I decided to venture downstairs, to use the laptop in the living room. That was the plan, anyway -- quick trip downstairs to check some scores, then upstairs for a quick shower and off to work like a good little boy. Yes, that was the plan. Definitely.

A half an hour later, I was still sitting on the living room couch, wearing my boxers and a T-shirt, surfing the web, halfway through watching a TiVoed episode of Home Movies while munching on a granola bar. The plan be damned, I was careening down the path towards 'in for the long haul'.

(Look, it was a Monday morning. I was sleepy. Don't judge me, dammit, until you've walked a mile in my shoes!

Or, um, slept a mile in my boxers. Or eaten a mile of my granola. Or something. Something that sounds less vaguely filthy, preferably. I think we'd all appreciate that. For once.)

In any case, you can imagine my shock and surprise when I heard two women's voices outside the living room window, and footsteps on the steps leading up to the porch. We don't get many visitors around here, really, and certainly not many unannounced visitors before nine in the morning. None that want to live, anyway. I'm a big softy of a drunk, folks, but I am one grouchy son of a bitch right out of bed. I should probably hang a warning sign on the door.

Unfortunately, just as I was frenzying myself into 'fight or flight' mode -- or in this case, 'scream at the top of my lungs or hide like a little baby' -- I remembered something. My wife decided to hire a cleaner to come in once a month, because she's going to by busy with work and night school soon, and... well, because I'm helpless around certain household devices, and generally wreak more havoc than I undo. I'm okay with a vacuum cleaner, and I can wield a toilet brush without too much collateral damage, but the most useful thing I can do with a feather duster is traumatize the dog in fun and creative ways. And sponges? Um, don't ask. Let's just say that you'd be surprised what sorts of liquids those things absorb. I sure was. Eep.

All right. Where was I? Oh, the cleaners. Okay, then.

So, I realized that these women were here to pick up the place. But that it probably didn't also involve getting me showered up and brushing my widdle toofers. In the meantime, I was outerpantsless, and I wasn't about to let them walk in with Mr. Pookie Bear poking out the peekyhole of my boxers. My solution was to leap off the couch, crack the front door a hair, and call out, 'Just a minute, please! Just one second!'

Suave, it was not. But it worked, more or less. I scampered upstairs, grabbed a pair of shorts, and yanked 'em on. And if I had to act that fast, that early in the morning, I was lucky I didn't trip down the stairs and pants myself with the bannister. All in all, I'd say it was a success.

Problem was, then I was stuck. Half-dressed, stinky, and unwashed, and with two strange women running in and out of the bathroom, and every other room in the house.

There was a time, of course, when such a thing would get my whistle all wet and woolly -- it's a very 'Penthouse Letters' moment, if you think about it. Now, a dozen or so years later, I was just worried that they'd catch me scratching my ass on the couch or something. The times, they are a-changin'. So, I hid on the porch.

Seriously, that's where I went. For an hour and a half, I sat on the porch, outside, with the laptop. I posted, I surfed -- I even got a little bit of real work done. I finally came back inside, decided (properly, as it turns out) that they were done with the bedroom, and I barricaded myself up in there, again with the only working computer. Soon enough, they wrapped up and left. And I could get on with my day, after having funked up the couch, the porch, and the bed.

(Actually, it was probably technically re-funking the bed, since that's where my funky self had originally come from. Still -- I'm sure I didn't help any.)

Anyway, that's the story. I'm not sure what you should make of all that, really. If nothing else, maybe you can treat these as 'extenuating circumstances', if you didn't like yesterday's post. I mean, I was being held hostage at the time I wrote it. Sort of. By two women. In my own house. That's gotta be worth something, dunnit?

Permalink | Comments (4)



You call him Mr. Pookie Bear?

That's cute.

I call my husband's "That thing".

I call Mattay's "Bad Touch".

I stopped reading after the sponge bit. Good grief.

I named mine "Schloffy"

"Mr. Pookie Bear poking out the peekyhole of my boxers." OMG I've been incensed! ahahahaha

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