As the world gets busier, the list of Things People Want to Pay Someone Else to Do rapidly grows. Professional dog walkers. Personal trainers. Life coaches. What we have here is a failure to be self-motivated. Of course, I include myself in that last statement.
Often, I need Baskin-Robbins Jamoca Almond Fudge delivered to my door at midnight, when all the sugar gremlins wreak havoc on my willpower. And in the midst of a mayo shortage in our house, a catastrophic event for my son, Cowboy, I need the ability to contact my nearest grocer, at any hour, to bring it right over.
Oh, the countless hours the human race would save if every imaginable service were available by credit card.
The five-year-old has diarrhea, and just used the last of the toilet paper? Keep him on the potty, watching a movie on your smartphone, while you wait for a 60-pack of toilet paper to be delivered to your doorstep. Worse yet, the dogs have gastrointestinal issues, and you need a professional carpet cleaner ASAP, before the noxious smell knocks you out? Bam! In ten minutes, a professional Dog Poop Scooper who needs extra hours is doing the Grossest Job on Earth.
Husbands would no longer get last-minute text messages from wives requesting they stop by the store on their way home from work. When you’re ready to make a cake, but discover that the egg carton in your fridge is empty, your marriage is saved by that nice grocery delivery boy you call three times a week for those mayo emergencies; he’s like part of your family now.
The implications of 10-Minute Home Delivery would revolutionize the world.
Recently, my friend Bebe told me, “I had my hair blown out at a bar.”
Shocked by her admission to both having her hair “blown out,” and her hanging out in a bar, I exclaimed, “You what?”
“I went to a blow dry bar.”
“You’re kidding me,” I replied, feeling out of touch with the twenty-first century, yet again. My friends Bebe and Coco keep me abreast of what’s happening in present-day culture.
“You go there and have your hair done. It was wonderful.”
Well, of course it was, I thought. I’d pay someone to simply rub my scalp for awhile. The only reason I have pedicures is because Flash no longer rubs my tired feet; that was just a ruse to get me to marry him.
But I’m still not sure why these palaces of poofiness are called “bars.” Why not the old standbys - beauty parlors or hair salons? Do these hair bars serve liquor? Are they similar to salad bars, with customers going through the line and picking out the shampoo, conditioner, and stylist they want? I don’t know. But I plan to find out the next time I have a special occasion coming up. Such as any day when the Houston humidity is at 0 percent; I don’t want to waste my money.
When I had my dogs groomed three months ago, by a groomer, not a hair bartender, Pete and Bobbie Sue needed a shot of something strong by the time the deed was done. For years, Flash trimmed Pete; Pete’s hair has a lot of poodle curl, so it gets matted, and is difficult. Bobbie Sue, in only this respect, is low-maintenance.
The vet had recently told me that sometimes those hair mats are painful. And so, I began doing background checks on dog groomers. I’d had Pete groomed when he was little, but was so disgusted by the smell of the “back room” where I picked him up later, I never took him again. Bobbie Sue had never been.
The FBI soon sent me their report of all acceptable groomers in my area. I called the one at the top of the list, and she answered all my questions sufficiently. But, like all groomers told me, I’d need to drop them off and pick them up a few hours later. Bobbie Sue’s separation anxiety was surpassed by my own. I slathered on my essential oils, got on my knees in prayer, and fed them each an entire bag of snacks. Endorphins were flying across the room by the time I was ready to load them up.
“Okay, guys. I’m taking you for a haircut today. The lady is really nice, and you’re going to feel better.”
They gazed out the car window, wagging their tails, unaware of what was to come.
But when we walked into the groomer’s business, and they saw the large crates, Bobbie Sue began to shake. Pete, a true male, was happy as could be; he is the canine epitome of “oblivious.” The place smelled great. There was only one other small dog there, so it wasn’t so overwhelming, and there were two groomers who work together. I was assured all would be well.
Whining and tears were abundant, but I pulled myself together when I got in the car. Three hours later, I picked up two much skinnier puppies. If my haircuts reversed my age that well, I’d be at the hair salon weekly. They were adorable.
When Flash came home that night, he said nothing. Nada. Not even, “How did it go at the groomer’s?”
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I asked.
“Pete looks disgusting,” he said. Thankfully, Pete was busy licking something other than wounds, so he wasn’t scarred by the remark.
“Flash, what do you mean?” I asked.
“He looks naked. Like a rat. And way too skinny.”
It was true he looked skinny; with a much shorter cut in order to get rid of the matted hair, he looked like one of those dogs in the commercials about abandoned animals - the ads that stab us in the heart and make us want to adopt all the lonely animals in the universe.
“But Bobbie Sue looks adorable,” he added.
I thought they both looked cute. Because, of course, I am a mother.
Pete seemed to take his trip to the groomer in stride. But the Girl Dog had absolutely nothing to do with me for 48 hours. She didn’t try to sit in my lap. She didn’t gaze lovingly into my eyes. In fact, for two days, when I said her name, she turned her head in the opposite direction. She was giving me the cold short-haired shoulder.
I was amazed. After years of Flash’s saying, “Cut the umbilical cord, Bobbie,” as she followed me every minute of every day, Bobbie was cutting me out of her life. Clearly, we’ll never use a Doggie Daycare service, since that would entail my dropping her off with yet another stranger. Thankfully, on Day 3 Post-Trauma, she was back in my lap. Both dogs looked better, and must have felt better in the August heat. It was worth every penny.
But I won’t be paying for them to take Dog Surfing lessons. Yes, dear reader, that’s a thing - a service to teach pups to hang ten. When I researched, i. e., googled, services people pay for, Dog Surfing was listed between Communicating with Your Dead Pet and Ear Cleaning services.
Now, I love my dogs. But if, on any occasion, they want to tell me something from the hereafter, they’ll have to wait until I get there. It’s hard enough to get them to stop “communicating” with me every time I walk through the front door. Or in the morning. Or when I get off the couch to leave the living room. Or when I open the pantry door.
And Ear Cleaning services? Why? Why does anyone need a stranger to clean their ears; are their arms a bit too short? Is there so much wax that a drill or plunger is needed? Is this out of the realm of an ENT doctor? I don’t get it.
Now, hiring interior decorators makes sense; this service is for people like me, although I’ve never hired one. Which is why my home will never be featured in Southern Living magazine. Maybe we’ll have a chance in Southern Hodge-Podge Living.
But if I won the lottery, my first order of business would be to hire a personal chef. The poor soul. Our chef would have to be a strong person to withstand the gluten-free, dairy-free, peanut-free, margarine-free, nitrate-free, chemical-free, squid-free, liver-free diet we require.
Second up would be a chauffeur. But I had the next best thing during my first Uber ride a few weeks ago. Of course, I didn’t initiate this adventure. Coco did. She’s a risk taker. As I got into the front seat with the driver, I took comfort in the fact that my pepper spray was mere inches away, inside my purse, if needed.
As Coco and my friend Jaime visited in the backseat, I avoided any awkward silences or rogue thoughts by talking the entire time. I began what I call my Barbara Walters interview, firing questions at the driver and learning more about him than most of his friends and family.
When we arrived to our destination, we thanked him. As we walked through the restaurant’s front door, I said, “That was pretty cool. He did a great job driving.”
“Oh my gosh,” Coco responded, “he scared us a few times whipping in and out of traffic like that.”
“Whipping around traffic? Really? I didn’t see that. He didn’t scare me like Flash does.” Being married to a Jersey driver changes your perspective on a lot of things.
The list of what professionals could do for me is astounding, such as providing me a goldfish for my hotel room, for a rental fee.
In Japan, you can hire someone to apologize for you. Flash is, at this moment, asking me for their business card. I’m thinking the targeted clients are vocabulary challenged males or egotistical females who think they know everything and have a monopoly in their field of business. I have a few in the latter category who need to look into this service. But I’m not bitter.
The Land of the Rising Sun also offers services to rent a foreigner. Not only will that never be necessary for me, I’m a little afraid to know why anyone would need that service. Perhaps to appear politically correct at a dinner party?
But, above all services offered, the most intriguing to me is the professional mourner. With my expertise in funeral attending, I may have a future career cut out for me. But, dear reader, how would this be played out?
“Yeah, I need a mourner for 10 a.m. next Tuesday,” the customer would request.
“Okay, sir. Do you need a woman or a man mourner?” the employee of the professional mourning service, Rent ‘Em and Weep, would ask.
“A woman. They are better criers.”
“Hmmm. Yes, I have a 35-year-old woman available at that time. But wait, I have a man also. Would you like to super size your order and have a couple?”
“Sure,” the client would say. “The more the merrier. Or whatever.”
“Would you like silent weeping, or full-out soul-shattering screams?”
“Just medium-sized weeping; we’re a somewhat repressed white family. We just need mourners to sit with us; we’ll feel better having someone cry at the funeral, to reflect the grief we all share over Uncle Oscar’s death.”
I suppose for every need, there’s someone out there who’ll meet that need, for the right price.
Personally, I’d pay an extraordinary amount for someone to cook Thanksgiving dinner, clean up afterwards, serve leftovers three hours later, clean up again, and entertain our guests while I take the obligatory Thanksgiving nap tomorrow.
Any takers out there?