“We’re a domestic couple. We work in the elite residential concierge services industry.”
David and I had just started enjoying a Friday night drink at one of our favorite local outdoor bars when the man and woman at the next hightop table leaned in to introduce themselves, eagerly including this little tidbit. Apparently they missed my memo that explicitly defines “happy hour” as “a time when I’m happy to drink, happy to take and post lots of envy-invoking photos of said drinks, happy to people-watch/people-bash-and-trash, and happy to order refills,” NOT “happy to make small talk with overly perky weirdos.” (We tried being friendly to strangers once. They ended up asking us to go with them and their dog to a nude beach. Their request was beyond creepy. For God’s sake, we’re totally cat people.)
Anyway, in no time, the domestic couple at the bar, whom I’ll just call Mr. and Mrs. French (even though I’m pretty sure Mr. French was single and had a thing with Uncle Bill), were prattling on about getting paid “crazy money” to microwave some rich woman’s gluten-free frozen dinners and sort her husband’s jockey shorts by color, pattern, fabric and waistband type. I was surprisingly rapt.
I suppose I always knew that some people actually pay others to do all kinds of shit for them, but since I’m not among those folks who have more money than Melania Trump has excuses to keep the D-meister at bay, I had never given much thought to the specifics of it. But by the end of the first martini, I found myself thinking that maybe David and I should reinvent ourselves as a domestic couple and start combing the job openings. I hoped we could find one that only expected half the domestic couple to do much because, as much as I hate to say it, ONE member of this particular domestic couple is a bit on the lazy side. (Hey, if I wanted to work my ass off, I’d still be teaching.)
By the bottom of the second martini, I had an even better idea: We should post our OWN ad for people to do all OUR shit, since we’re obviously going to be rich the minute Ivanka’s
sugar daddy actually launches that new tax plan of his. We may not understand the nitty-gritty details of it all — hey, neither does he — but what we do know is that as soon as that plan’s in place, we’ll be loaded faster than North Korea can shoot another missile. Because if there’s one thing T-Daddy is all about, it’s helping his people. We’re white and own numerous tiki torches, so aside from a few tiny little details (like not already being criminally rich, both of us having brains, and one of us having a vagina) we’re totally his people.
As I finished off the olives in the third martini (and took a picture of empty glass — Sad), I put my phone to work Googling for an advertisement I could use as a model for the one David and I would definitely place the next day. Because when all those tax savings inevitably start piling up, I’m going to be ready, that I can tell you. I found this one to use as our template:
Lovely, private couple seeks a trustworthy, organized, dynamic and well-mannered domestic couple to maintain their home. Must have 24/7 availability to attend to the varying needs of the family (including three delightful children ages 7, 12, and 13), experience working in a fine home, and skill in all aspects of household maintenance. The domestic couple will work together seamlessly and oversee the well-being of the property in the absence of the family, ensuring that it runs like a five-star boutique hotel. Professional etiquette and discretion are of the utmost importance.
Of course, one of the many things I’ve learned from our esteemed Prince of Orangeness is that it’s stupid to use language the way this ad does, what with its fancy-shmancy succinctness and correct spelling and words used in the proper context and all that total crap. It was probably written by some unpatriotic snowflake son of a bitch who was captured in the war and is going to hell. God bless America.
So here’s how we’re going to rewrite our ad, using real talk.
Couple way too good to do their own dirty work (or any work, for that matter) seeks desperate doormat domestic pair to do whatever the hell they’re told whenever the hell they’re told if they want to keep their damned jobs. Did we mention whenever, bitches? Good, because the domestic couple will need to be on hand 24/7 to do everything from mixing cocktails, to fetching us Krispy Kreme donuts and kettle-cooked chips that don’t have calories or carbs — you’re the help; figure it the hell out!), to scooping up assorted turdballs that the family’s three precious cats (ages 6, 11, and 16) routinely deposit in their litterboxes/on the floor if you’ve pissed them off by buying the wrong litter/cat food or looked at them funny. Must have experience working in a home that could very well be fine except cats. (Also, there will be lots of vacuuming.) The domestic couple will leave the owners the hell alone because, ew, they don’t want to have to interact with or think of the help as people in any way and what’s the point of having household help if you can’t treat them like it? When the family is gone, the domestic couple will not get too big for their tatty not-even-designer britches and try to sneak in and use the family’s toilets or anything because, again, ew. The home must be run like a really nice Holiday Inn Express. (That’s the best we’ve stayed in, so I guess it was a five-star. Also, our room was pretty small, which screams “boutique.”)
Oh, and I almost forgot:
Domestic couple will not go out to bars on weekends and annoy strangers by talking about their work as a fucking domestic couple.
So is our new domestic couple going to make our house great again? We’ll see.