Yesterday, our house enjoyed a long, LONG overdue window cleaning. Darren and I are pretty good at tidying up after ourselves, but I have to admit that we're not the best at removing grime and dirt that appear on their own. (Nor, apparently, was the woman from whom we bought our house.)
To say our windows were spotty and smeary is to pay them the highest of compliments. They were pretty damn filthy.
Now, however, a mere $145 later, they are sparkling clean. It's almost hard to believe that there's glass in the frames anymore. I assume there is, because it would have been a lot colder in our house last night with all that wintry-fresh air.
Having fully transparent windows is great, but even better, the fellow who did the cleaning could have been this young man's twin.
Granted, Squeegee Boy wore a shirt, and (as far as I know) he was wearing underwear, but he was smokin' hot anyway. We chatted as he made his way from one grimy window to the next, and he was funny and personable.
While he worked, I found myself thinking of the scene from My Own Private Idaho, in which River Phoenix is picked up by a creepy John who just wants to watch him scrub his floors.
"Scrub, little Dutch Boy, scrub!"
I refrained from any such outbursts, but I can't wait until our windows get dirty again.