I wonder if I can become a professional house sitter. Not because I’m good at it, but because it’s so darn weird. It’s like trying on someone else’s life, and realizing things they think are normal aren’t even part of my reality. Leaving directions for a housekeeper, taking a tupperware of water to the spa store, convincing a poodle to poop — for her, mundane activities; for me, bizarre adventures. At the same time, the things I used to consider normal — like television, the internet, or plowed roads — are not even a part of her home life. This could be okay – I get my internet fill at work, no doubt; the roads are totally manageable if I drive 10 mph or less; and I will never again (for the next six months) get sucked into an America’s Next Top Model-athon on VH1. Now I have lots of time to do productive grown-up things, like work on my resume and look for jobs. Or I can just read (burned through three Calvin and Hobbes collections this week).
My new house comes equipped with a cast of characters. There’s the cleaning guy. He visits every few weeks, and although we’ve never met, communicating solely through post-it notes, I might just be in love with him. He cleaned my house. He fixed the furnace and the water softener thingy. And he folds everything. Then there’s Roger, the priest who loves my poodle. He visits the dog rather than me, but he does send me witty notes, and he filled my hot tub.
Good grief, did I just write the plot synopsis of a romance novel? A priest with a thing for poodles…a very helpful housekeeper…and the woman who kinda liked them both, or maybe was just bored and had an over-active imagination. Look for The Hot-Tub House Sitter on trashy romance shelves everywhere this spring.