When our contractor said he was sending out a 'cleaner' to detail the bathroom, the first image to come to my mind was Harvey Keitel, as "The Wolf" in Pulp Fiction. Which is weird. Because we don't actually have a dead body or bits of brain to remove from our bathroom. Just a lot of dust. But there was something strangely appealing about having a man show up in a tuxedo, possibly swilling a cocktail, a cigarette dangling from his lips, maybe a girl under his arm, and directing my contractor on how he can clean up his own damn mess. And I'd be in my bathrobe and more than happy to make them some coffee, and not that freeze-dried Taster's Choice crap, either, but the serious gourmet shit.

But let's be real, I would never serve Taster's Choice. To anyone. Come on. I mean, what sort of man do you take me for? Oh, and The Wolf would definitely be overkill for this job. Clearly. Besides, I was hoping for something in more of a 'French maid' flavor.

Sadly, when I opened the door this morning, neither of these mental images stood before me. Instead it was a bespectacled and entirely bald-headed man by the name of "JB" dressed in dark jeans, a camouflage sweater, and carrying a bucket of cleaning supplies. He wore a cheerful demeanor that screamed, I know how to get tough stains out and I'm not afraid to do it. Indeed, he appeared to be competent enough, but this was no Wolf. And certainly no French maid.

Overall, JB did a pretty decent job. He's coming back Monday to touch up the tub and the floor. But most of the dust is gone from the fixtures and the sink. Now C will feel more comfortable brushing her teeth in there and we can finally move our bathroom stuff out of the kitchen.

So now we have several DIY things to do around the apartment this weekend. Like sanding. And painting. I also plan to take at least ten showers, you know, to wear the new bathroom in a bit. So I'll be busy, to say the least.

And I suppose I might as well announce it. It's probably time to come out of denial about the whole thing, after all. Act like a grown-up. Alright, so here it is: After we get everything cleaned this weekend, we're putting the apartment up for rent. So if you're in DC and have interest in leasing a large, classic, one-bedroom apartment, brand spanking new bathroom, hardwoods, light-filled, the ultimate in convenience - I'm practicing my ad lingo here - near the Convention Center, a quick walk to every metro line, CVS, Starbucks, Whole Foods, etc, well, let me know. We should be ready to show the place by next weekend. As for C and I, our plan is to move to nearby Baltimore, Hon, where we can still enjoy some semblance of city-living with more space and at a greatly reduced rate. I'm sad, sad, sad because I really don't want to leave the District. But I think B-More will grow on me. It already has, actually, thanks to E&M. And for the first time since moving east we'll have a guest room. So we will be expecting visitors! Of course, there are a few minor details to deal with. We need to get our place rented. And find a place of our own. And move. And a whole host of other extremely stressful minutia related to these things. It looks like this was a terrible time to try and quit morphine. (Just kidding - I would never go off morphine.)

Anyway, that's the plan. There I've said it. I've committed myself. Which I really hate doing.

So, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go have a Nervous Breakdown. And wait for The Wolf, who should be coming directly.

Have a good weekend.

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