The Carpet Guy

On Wednesday, I had my carpet and sofa cleaned. If you've looked at any of my Flickr photos, you've seen our couch, you've seen our carpet, and you know how desperately overdue they were for a cleaning. This, coupled with the fact that I'm still in this strange nesting mode, constantly attempting to better my living space without actually spending much money, ever since we said goodbye to the big ole' fish tank.

Because I'm so enjoying the amount of physical space I now have around my "home office," as well as the emotional cushion provided by the backyard-camp my kids have been attending these last two weeks, I find myself forever compelled to fix and improve stuff: replace lightbulbs, put pictures in frames, toys in compartments - all the little things I had no motivation to do before. I guess it was like, what's the point? There is still going to be a GIGANTIC fish tank taking up 90% of my apartment, who really gives a shit if those magazines should really go in a rack. It couldn't have helped much anyway.

Sorry, sorry Y. I know that was a bit unnecessary. Love ya! Call me!

In this frame of mind, you see, I managed to finally call James, our carpet cleaner. I first found him through my mother-in-law, and was blown away when he charged me $30 to clean my entire carpet a year ago. I'd never met a carpet cleaner willing to step foot inside a residence for under $80 a room, so I thought it must have been a mistake. But James was really just that nice - and inexpensive.

But you don't get anything for nothing. James's real price? He's chatty. To an extent I'd never before witnessed in a human being over the age of five. The Man. Can. Talk.

I think I've mentioned in other posts that I'm something of a noise-phobe. I have really good hearing, thankfully, and with it comes - tell me if you can relate - an exact, ideal listening volume for each kind of sound. The level of loud, but not too loud, above which the too-loud factor becomes excruciatingly uncomfortable.

I think I've also mentioned that when I'm home alone, I like a little music, sometimes, but otherwise dead silence. I'm able to manage the whole working-at-home bit because I'm motivated to work and I work best when I am utterly undistracted. This means I NEVER watch daytime TV, I have to remind myself to eat breakfast and/or lunch because otherwise I'd forget - that when I'm working at home, I just work. Unless I'm plugging through something tedious and mindless, any and all background noise disrupts my regular time-efficiency. I'm a freak.

So James. The carpet guy. He came in the morning while I was out taking the boys to camp, but my brother who is visiting from Chicago let him in, and apparently James began "Shmooze Fest 2006" long before I got back. Which might be why, come to think of it, when I get home Sim gave me a "look" and retreated upstairs for a two-hour nap.

Two hours later, I was begging the good Lord for a nap myself. I'd been trying to work, had a new client I wanted to impress, but James was working hard on the twenty-some loose cushions of our 1950s-era inherited couch, and he had a lot to get off his chest. Sometimes, when I get a bit talkative, Y will smile at me suddenly, and ask in an incredibly patronizing tone of voice, "You having lots of thoughts and feelings tonight, honey?" Which annoys me to no end.

But now I get it. Because James has lots of thoughts. And feelings. And because it would be pushing the boundaries of hideous behavior to be curt with someone who is painstakingly tending to popcicle- and quite possibly vomit-stains created by your own children, I had no choice but to act equally engaged in our conversation.

The guy is kind of an oddball, besides, so we were never on the same wavelength. I devoted three long hours to agreeing with everything he said, or at least trying to, so that it would seem like I was obviously hanging on every word. Admittedly, it wasn't always that convincing.

James: "So my wife used to listen to all this teen-pop music, like Backstreet Boys and stuff, and now my ten-year-old son listens to it, she made him some CDs, and he locks the door to his room and blasts it and dances around singing along."
Me: "Mmm. That's awful. Such terrible music. It'd drive anyone nuts."
James, clearly taken aback: "Uh, yeah, well...I mean actually, I just meant...it's pretty cute, you know?"
Me: "Mmm? Yeah! So cute. Love it. Kids are cute."

So he wasn't complaining? G-d help me.

I didn't get much work done that morning. I listened, instead, to stories about James' church group, his regular poker game, the problem with poker these days, ways to make my computer run faster, the cost of summer camp, the heat, and worst of all, hourly wages.

He was kind of feeling me out, I think, to see how much I charged per hour for web design. We by-the-hour types are always trying to figure out who's making more than us. When I gave him a roundabout number, I could tell immediately that it was way higher than whatever it was he charged to clean carpets. Ok, I told myself. Fair's fair. I've put in plenty of hours of schooling and self-teaching to justify my price. And it's still too low! And mind work can't be comparable, compensation-wise, to physical labor.

I felt awful anyway.

Particularly when he gave me the bill: $75 for over three hours of intensive, sweaty effort. And he asked me if that "sounded fair." He even left me a gigantic, professional-grade fan, to help speed up the drying process before my kids got home, which he drove all the way back today to pick up. Who does that?

So, while I'm still a little sick over how little I paid for it, my apartment does look worlds better, and, to be honest, my ears are still ringing from so much nonstop stimulation. Which kind of makes me feel like I paid fairly. Or that he charged appropriately. Or that I'm getting old and intolerant.

Or that, as I've always suspected, I'm just a terrible person.