I’m tired. I don’t know why I’m still awake. Because I miss you. But I miss my woman too. But I didn’t get to go dance and so I didn’t get to vent any steam from my crappy 8 1/2-hour cleaning day. So I want to vent here. Ready?
So I’m not posting as regularly right now, because this is my busy busy workworkwork time of year. Every jerk in northwest hills wants her house cleaned RIGHT NOW and by the way, that bitch from the bad poem stiffed me my money. If she doesn’t pay up I’m considering taking her to small claims. On principle. Also on the fact that I need every single fucking cent I fucking earn right now, especially from jerkoffs who live in rathole cesspools. Today I cleaned for lesbians. It was absolutely no different than any other one-timer. Except they worshipped their cat and had two women’s worth of crap on the shelves, and the crap was pink Fenton Glassware about which they wrote in a note “DO NOT TOUCH THE FENTON!”
So when I’m not stealing Fenton pieces and selling them on Ebay I’m doing the job I really love, my art commissions. I get to work on them at my kitchen table while listening to Rocky and Mo play with Play-Doh in the next room. I love making art. I have this favorite client, a local small biz starter-upper, and she’s having me do her logo and a bunch of art for her business. She’s totally manic and bubbly and forgetful, and she calls me “Babe” and gives me great hugs. And she has such perky, tight little boobs. I’m in a mood. Am I in a mood? I’m in a mood.
Actually I cleaned another lesbian house today too. One of my regulars, a real nice law student exactly my age. I don’t get the lawyer thing. If I got up in front of a judge and jury I’d probably get all red in the face and start to cry. Because, when I’m under pressure, to quote Rock’s favorite movie, I’m not so good with the putting the words together and the making them come out good thing. I don’t think red-faced blubbering would work so well as an attorney. Maybe my client doesn’t make the words come out good thing either; she says she just wants a nice boring desk job. I definitely do not get lawyers. But they do get to do some cool things, like say “calumny”.
My mother and I cleaned houses together for a year, after I got out of college. I loved working with Mom. We would sing such hits as “Oh, I’m mopping my way back to you, babe” while we worked. We had this one client who was a used car salesman or something, and had himself a mint little car and nice things in his house, and was always telling us we weren’t doing a good enough job (my mother, by the way, is the second cleanest cleaner I have ever known – right after my sister) and one day we showed up and he was waiting for us with his hands on his hips and he held up two sponges and said, “THIS sponge is for the kitchen, and THIS sponge with the knotch cut out is for the bathroom. DO NOT use the kitchen sponge on the bathroom, ladies.” And my mother told him, in that nice way of hers, to go fuck himself. He stood there sputtering and as we drove off she laughed her ass off, and from then on we called him “Farting Through Silk”.
I wish Mom could come and clean with me until I’m able to quit. I think I could bear it then. But not only does she live 15 hours from me, but she had the good sense to 1)marry a guy with money and 2)get a new career. She’s an LICSW working with battered women and kids who’ve been abused. Me? I shine the chrome on people’s faucets. Name? Blue Ox. Age? 33. Occupation? Shit-Scrubbing Chrome-Shiner.
By the way, if you hear me say things like “mint” and “awesome” and “jerkoff”, it’s only because I’m an escapee from the prison-planet Eighties. Seriously, I barely got out with my brain intact.
Here is a picture of Ripleywannabe saving Blue from the planet Eighties. Obviously we were both a little younger then.
In the eighties I made out with skinny guys with names like Bagel in front of “A Clockwork Orange” and went to Zoot’s in Portland and “danced” in the mosh pit until my friend Rick got his nose broken by a bunch of skinheads for looking like a pansy. OK, that was only one night. The rest of the time I was writing LYLAS (“love ya like a sis”) on notes passed in Geometry to girls I actually LMLAG (“loved more like a girlfriend”), and getting stuck with boyfriends who slobbered on me like Saint Bernards when we kissed.
Then came the nineties, when I pierced my nose with a needle in the dorm bathroom, openly courted a violent thug’s gorgeous girlfriend and had a nice vacation in the psyche ward with people who farted a lot because of their meds and occasionally attacked a nurse or two.
Ripley, can you help me with that mean woman who owes me money? You know, with your flamethrower?
“Get away from her, you bitch!”