The Magical Elvitas
If you have sunglasses, I might suggest you don a pair before gazing too long at that photo.
And if you’re a married man, I might suggest you suspend the part of your Male Limbic Brain governing What’s Fair. Meaning, the part where you’ve been trying to get your wife on the same page with something for years…but which she never would…but which she finally up and pulls the trigger on all by herself, completely circumventing the fact that you’ve been willing to sell your soul for it all along.
Read: “It’s not a Good Idea until it’s Her Idea.” (whatever)
And what are we talking about today, my friends? What is it that has me riding the crest of a wave so joyous the smile on my face would pass for transfiguration?
Cleaning ladies.
CleaningLadiesCleaningLadiesCleaningLadies!
That photo up there? That’s the interior of the microwave.
And it’s white.
Did you know it’s white? For the life of me I thought it was a Jackson Pollack canvas. Or a murder scene.
But several hours after The Magical Elvitas left, I wandered around the Waldorf Astoria in a stupor. Inhaling large draughts of lemon-fresh scents and trying to figure out what those shiny, white things bordering all the floors were (answer: baseboards).
So last week Cute Redhead asks me out of my office to meet The High Priestess of Pine-Sol.
“This is [name withheld because I'm not sharing her with anyone] [ever].”
“Hello there. I’m Todd. Will you marry me?”
“Very funny, Todd. Go away.”
And I did. I went away. And the next day when The High Priestess’ team of Magical Elvitas showed up, I ushered the Spawn out the door (myself with them) and prayed to God Almighty in heaven that they wouldn’t take one look at the domicile and decide setting it on fire wasn’t the easier route.
And five hours later…
FIVE. HOURS. LATER which I’m embarrassed to calculate (lie. I think this is awesome.) equals out to fifteen man Magical Elvita hours of deep cleaning.
And why do I call them Magical? Simple. Ten minutes before they showed up I’d forgotten to unclutter the master bedroom and just shoved everything, five million pairs of HER shoes and all, into the closet and shut the doors. No reason to hoist that nightmare on them, right?
THEY. CLEANED. THE. CLOSET.
And all the shoes were matched, paired, lined up, and pointing in the same direction. Just like those little magical elves did in the fairly tale in the middle of the night. I’d detail more but I’m crying too hard to type.
i am sure they fired you as clients too….
Do they have sisters who live in Atlanta?
Censored?