Tiny dogs, Huge house

Today, A. and I cleaned a giant McMansion --no, a McEstate -- on 40 acres in the middle of nowhere. Huge house. 8000 square feet. Every floor in the place was made of wood or marble or stone tile. The basement entertainment lounge had a fireplace, a full kitchen, a bar, a skeeball table, a pool table, a ping pong table and many presents from the asses of the family's collection of tiny, yappy dogs. And larger dogs. And cats. I cleaned a spot of something biological off a window ledge. A. told me the owner told her it was doggie-rhea. I want to bleach my entire body.

That said, the house had a central vac system and the owners had a wheelie mop bucket. This made cleaning the place not so bad. A long, exhausting job, but not impossible. The owner's 24-year-old son (hottttttttt) came into the basement just after A. told me about the 'rhea. I'd used one of my own rags wiping the spot. I said something about mailing it to her ex as a tea bag. Then, as Hottt Sonnnn was walking in, I made one of those comments that echo and expand and you wish you could unsay them.

"You ex'll love it. He lives for tea bagging." Hottt Sonnnn seemed like he didn't mind. Later, upstairs in the dining room (lovely tray ceiling, Broyhill knock-off furniture, three mouldering, hair-shrouded dog beds), he introduced one of the dogs.

"I think something's licking my ankle," I said.

"That's Buddy. He's a mini-pinscher."

The dog looked like a Doberman. Only tiny. I said another one of those echo-y things.

"I want to breed a pack of them and train them to hunt midgets." Hott Sonnn laughed. I laughed. Little People of America sent an angry letter of protest to the mailbox in my head. Joking! But sometimes, I have these bad thoughts.

The family who own the McEstate (40 acres, no mule) consist entirely of 6-foot blondes, including the 22-year-old daughter. They were all so shiny and tan and blonde and perfect that I wanted to have a weird orgy with all of them. Hottt Sonnnn eats ice cream in the tub. I know this because I found an empty carton of Haagen-Daazs Dulce de Leche in the soap niche along with a spoon. I imagined myself in his parents' enormous spa tub, licking caramel ice cream off his chest.

And then we cleaned the rest of the house. The lady of the house came home in the middle of the cleaning, unaware that cleaning and spackling (an impromptu project for her husband) would be taking place. She screamed at Hottt Dad, scattered dogs around the dining room like so many yappy, shitting throw cushions, then went out to have a nice, angry smoke by the pool.

Hotttt Sonnn paid in full, didn't dispute our price, and complimented the work, and said something about having us back the next time the Hottts throw a party.

I can't wait. I'm buying Haagen Daasz and a loofah.