Folks who know her all say to me, "You know, she's really something special." Really? Because I didn't realize this when I vowed to stick with her, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health. Like I need anyone to tell me how great she is.

(Alexas, if you're reading this, you are my rock. I know you know this, but I probably don't tell you enough. Oh, by the way, don't forget to pick up those silk pajamas for me. The really silky ones. Maybe in a burgundy.)

In addition to her broad and awe-inspiring talents as an actress, decorator, homemaker, friend, and very smart woman, my wife is an up-and-comer for an "urban male" clothing line with a famous rapper/entertainer dude at the helm. A few months ago, the company sent her to Turkey, and before that, Mexico. She goes to these places and works with the folks making the clothing to get the stuff made on time and under budget.  She also inspects factories sometimes to make sure they aren't exploiting people or using little kids.

(Meanwhile, I've always imagined the following scene: Alexas and her small entourage visit a factory and nod approvingly at the clean, well-lighted manufacturing area, the workers in smart, pressed clothes and the lunchroom glowing and smelling of lobster. Then, the second she and her group exit the building, the manager says, "Okay, get these actors the hell out of here!"  They usher the fakes out the back, and then someone opens a dungeon door and hauls out people who look like extras from Les Miserables. Imagining this always makes me smile.)

Immediately after I hung up with Matt, I went online and searched for "stripping French maids" AND "New York." Eventually I discovered that "nude cleaning services" AND "New York" gave me better results. I chose the number of a service based on Long Island and gave them a call. A woman with a smoky voice answered with the company name, which I prefer not to mention here.

"Zis is Gigi," she said in a French accent. "Are we needing our house cleaned? Have you been a bad boy?"

"No, I haven't been bad," I said, "but I do need some cleaning."

"We do baths," Gigi said, her voice suddenly morphing into an Asian accent. "You maybe want Oriental girl give you bath?"

"Actually, it's my apartment."  I explained that my wife was out of town and that I needed a little help sprucing the place up. Then I asked a question: "So exactly what kind of cleaning does the, uh, dancer do?"

"She will dust and straighten," Gigi said. "Make your apartment look beautiful. I have a midnight slot open. You want me to pen you in?"

"What about dishes?" I asked.

All of the sexiness that had been apparent in Gigi's voice was gone.

"Dishes? How many?"

I started estimating.

"How many?" Gigi asked again.

"Do glasses count?"

"Yes."

"Okay then, forty or fifty. A week's worth."

There was no sound on the other end. Maybe she hung up. I cleared my throat.

"Hello?"

Finally, Gigi responded. "We would have to charge you extra. Maybe a double rate."

"No problem," I said.

"So, should I put you down for midnight?"

"Hold on, I'm not done yet," I said. "What about trash? I have three contractor bags that have to be taken down to the dumpster. You know, those really thick ones."

"Perhaps you should do that," Gigi said.

"Of course, you're right," I said. "What about mopping and cleaning the bathroom? And I think the kitchen sink is clogged. Can she do things like that?"

All of Gigi's affection had left the building. "Sir, it sounds like you need a professional cleaning service."

"Then I take it she wouldn't reorganize our closets."

"No, sir."

"It'd be a great surprise for my wife."

"We can't do that."

"How do you feel about barrels of toxic waste?"

"Sir, I'm very busy."

"Okay then, tell me how much this'll cost."

"Fine," she said. "With the dishes, it will come to $150 an hour."

"I think we can swing that," I said.

"Should I put you down for midnight then?"

"Sure."

"I'll need your credit card."

"Actually, what's your position on change?"

"Change?"

"Yes, I have this big bowl of change. There's at least a hundred and fifty in there. Mostly nickels, but a lot of quarters."

Click.

The message was clear: You make a mess, you clean it up. Which I'm planning on doing as soon as I'm finished here.

Thank you for reading another installment of notwriting. Stay clean.


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©2002 Chris Orcutt and notwriting.com. All rights reserved.