Tuesday, February 22, 2011

The Assistant (the G.) Weighs in on Getting played (hard) by a three-year-old, a commentary by The G

[Brief note from J-Bags who's not completely comfortable with the nickname J-Bags: The following is a Comment from The G. our assistant and Otis's sitter. Before you read, let me note that Barb, who cleans for us, is awesome -- as is The G. We hired Barb when we first moved here because she was much less expensive than marriage counseling and the only thing Dave and I really fight about is house cleaning. I don't believe in it -- willfully like those who can stare at fossils and not believe in evolution -- and he does. As you read this post , you might think that we ask Barb to scrub our car with packing tissues. This is false. The Volvo is a second-hand wagon with a third back seat drilled into it. Okay. I'll shut up now.]

Oh J-Bags. The latest post made me giggle because it's all too familiar for me.

Otis suggests “I want to play Barb.” Now, it's important to know that Barb is the Scaggott-Bott's cleaning lady, and playing “Barb” has, in the past, consisted of scrubbing down the car with water and packing tissue. Mysteriously, it was never clean enough for Otis. The kid has the eyes of a hawk for dirt. He's like Mr. Clean, except far less brawny, and in neon-pink tights. He catches me gingerly dabbing a headlight in a lackluster fashion. “You need to kwean over heeewre!” He's pointing to the caked on dirt underneath the the plastic thing above the rear wheel (I'm no mechanic, and don't know the proper terminology for such things). My eyes widen and my stomach drops, he giggles because he knows I'll do it. It took fifteen minutes and the rest of the packing tissue.

Vacuuming as Barb is the worst. I'll explain why: It used to involve me, with Otis on my hip, sweating profusely as I pushed around a rather heavy yellow vacuum. “Get dewre” he'd point, and I'd scoff.

“You missed over dewre, Dill.” Then we started using a purple Playskool vacuum that didn't suck up anything, it would just wiggle it's eyes at us, I felt mocked. All the labor of cleaning and all we get is wiggly eyes?

It got to the point where I'd have nightmares about the curly-headed-tater-tot—popping out at me and uttering the dreaded phrase “I want to play BARB” in a comically slow way, and I'd scream and be buried in dirt-covered packing tissue and get chased around by purple wiggly-eyed vacuums.

I'm happy to announce that we don't play Barb anymore, and I'm sleeping more soundly.