Okay, we try and do the grown up adult thing and keep the place in tip top-ish shape. After vacuuming every other day and scrubbing the house as best we can, we decide our cool, cream colored shag rug that has turned into a what appears to be an old tortilla one might find behind a suspiciously empty Taco Bell needs to be professionally cleaned. It has lived through two years of Otto rolling over, crawling and walking on it while bodily fluids spilled forth with all the skill of a cracked fire hose. Our dog Brody began nuzzling into the rug as soon as we got it and instead of sleeping on one of his two dog beds, opted to burrow into the rug hourly, giving it the distinct smell of dog ass breath funk. We did institute a “No Shoes” policy in our household the moment Otto and the rug arrived but still, it had taken on a hue of disturbingly gray proportions, what I always imagined Bea Arthur’s nether regions must have looked like before she said adieu to this golden world of equal opportunity.
So on Friday, in order to launch Operation Carpet Cleaner, I had to take Otto on a long trip to the zoo to get him out of the house. After we took off for the animal prison, Tavo, the carpet guy, who came highly recommended from a friend with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and a fondness for a job well done, came over with an assistant and sucked the last two years of tears, Cheerio's and anger out of said rug. I returned late in the afternoon to sparkling, white shag that was still wet but glistening with the promise of perfection and good times ahead. Tavo assured Dave that it would dry within two hours, even though it was seemed that a flash flood had mysteriously passed through our living room, hitting only the area rug and its wildly absorbent fibers. yet missing all the plastic toys we secretly loathed.
That was at 2 p.m. on Friday. It is now 10:26 p.m. on Sunday night and my living room rug is propped up on three garden chairs while a collection of fans blow air around my apartment. I just pray that this 12X12 swatch of wool/poly-blend pubic hair will dry out as soon as possible and stop making me feel like we are living in a Russian bathhouse. The entire place smells of a pile of sour towels left on the floor of a cheap motel bathroom after the parade of bikini clad venereal diseases have vacated their favorite spring break town somewhere in the Florida pan handle. I rather sleep in John Madden’s dirty clothes hamper. Who slipped me a Rufie and stuck me in Larry King's left orthopedic sock? It’s fucking horrible.
In conclusion, Tavo is coming back over here in his white van at 9:30 tomorrow morning to solve the problem by a) either cleaning it somewhere else and returning it to us smelling of water lilies, rainbows and grandma’s cold cream b) cleaning it in less than one hour and remembering to remove all the water with his shitty little machine that looks like a broken down moped or c) taking the enormous mildew riddled kitchen sponge that we clearly chose to decorate our floor with out to be shot in the alley and returning with a thousand dollar check and no hard feelings.
To Be Continued…