Brad and I have been fantasizing lately about having a maid, a butler, and a driver. I think we’re the perfect people to employ household help. In other words, we’re lazy. The only thing missing is some family money for us to fritter away. Damn glitches!
I’m not sure what Brad would have the butler do (probably whip up some hot wings and appoint the living room with a loaded ice chest), but the first thing I would have the maid take charge of would be laundering the bedding and making the bed. I despise this chore. I am a short woman and cannot be expected to make up a California King-sized bed. It’s simply too taxing. I like a neatly made bed, neatly made by someone else. My bed-making technique involves haphazardly spreading the successive layers over the mattress, tucking nothing in, and then sloppily tossing the pillows up top after I have sweated and cussed them crookedly into their cases. This is clearly a job better suited to a professional.
We’ve gone so far as to deliberate over our staffing choices. For example, we seemed to have different ideas of what sort of person our maid would be. I had a hunch this was the case when Brad named her “Tiffany.” I, on the other hand, had kind of a Mrs. Doubtfire character in mind, or a nice, fastidious European woman who would tastefully refrain from expressing her disgust at our slovenly way of living. I did, though, envision our driver as sort of a young, swarthy type with a smoldering gaze–kind of like Joaquin Phoenix or my latest Major League Baseball object of lust, the Giants’ Angel Pagan. (The butler I don’t think either of us gave much thought to. Maybe somebody like Coleman, Louis Winthorpe III’s help in the 1983 film Trading Places. I’ve never had anyone fix me Crepe Suzette tableside, or at all, for that matter.) Either way, we decided we couldn’t have the members of our staff be too much alike, or they might team up against us in a plot to steal our vast wealth.
While there are plenty of crappy, monotonous chores I’d love to hand over to a maid, I have to say if I had to choose only one household employee, I’d like some kind of hybrid handyman/driver. Brad and I are hopeless at anything that involves home repair or improvement, and I don’t think he’ll object to my including him in that assessment. We are, however, as the song goes, Pretty Good At Drinkin’ Beer. I can see us relaxing in the back with a couple of good friends, some cold beverages, and vintage Stones on the sound system as Angel/Joaquin safely transported us to whatever concert/show/destination/lack of destination we have chosen. I know drinking and driving is inexcusable, but darn it–a moving vehicle is one of the most festive, exhilarating places to imbibe! It would be so much fun to be dropped off ceremoniously in front of the bowling alley on league night like movie stars hitting the red carpet, and then trade wisecracks and niceties with our our hired designated driver a few hours later as he helped us back into our waiting car amid a trail of stray french fries, bottle caps, and dollar bills Brad won in the high game pot.
While the joy of a good buzz is probably the best reason to have a driver, it isn’t the only one. Traffic, even in this mostly rural and small-town-dotted area, is becoming thicker and crazier and more maddening by the day. I love shopping, but after half a day of navigating the freeway, streets, and parking lots, my energy is depleted and all I want to do is rest. Imagine, if I had someone to help preserve my strength by driving me all over town, how much more browsing and trying on and purchasing I could accomplish! If I had a driver, I could be of so much more help to the US economy, and I’d look fabulous. Absolutely Fabulous, probably.
There are lots of people out there who have the money to hire household help, and I still believe I could become one of those people. If I just had a housekeeping staff around here and somebody to drive me around, I’m sure I could figure out a way to become rich enough to afford them.