OCD Santa Claus and Buzz Lightyear in curtain 2

     I knew it was Monday, because when I got into work I looked down at an unmade bed and thought "is this blood or shit?" I hoped it was blood.  I wonder if other people say these sort of things at work?

    Yes, one of the more delightful aspects of my job is cleaning up after tenants when they vacate units.  Despite not really liking my job, I'm actually rather good at it.  So there is an upside to living with cleanliness OCD.   I've been doing this job for so long that I can look in your freezer and tell how clean you are, just based on the amount of ice cubes you have.

I don't even know what the fuck this is 

    I've actually become accustom to seeing other people's gross and odd living habits, and none of it really phases me anymore.  You know those X-ray techs that are responsible for looking at pictures of the things people have shoved in their ass? I feel like my job is kind of like that.  At first you're like "oh a lightbulb and a vibrator!" But by the end of the month you're just like "we've got another Buzz Lightyear in curtain 2."

      Today, I picked up what I thought was a wad of paper towels that someone had left on the dresser.  When I looked a little more closely, I realized that it was a used, child's diaper.  There weren't any children in this unit.

     People don't realize it, but what they leave behind reveals more about them than they would probably like to admit. I clean for people from all walks of life; families that are neat freaks, crazy-lazy pet owners, athletic shopaholics and perverted corporate slobs.  I clean for all of them and they all leave me colorful mementos to remember them by. I usually don't meet these people while they are living in these units, but what I find while cleaning, always tells a story.

I assume this is what John Hinckley Jr's place looked like while he was obsessing over  Jodie Foster 

     I work by myself most of the day, which probably doesn't help my weirdness and isolation, but it allows me to ponder many questions.  Questions about life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness but mainly questions about what the fuck these people were doing while they were living here.  I feel like sometimes I know what they are doing, but maybe nobody else knows.  Like you might be the CEO but I know you haven't changed your sheets in 6 months.  Or maybe you claimed that you didn't have any pets, but the cat toys all over the carpet and the rawhide slime all over the couch just gave it away.

     It's like being OCD Santa Claus, because when I'm cleaning up after you I know what you do in your sleep and what you are doing when you're awake.  I know you scrunch your pillows when you sleep.  And you broke the piece that makes the microwave spin, at some point while you were awake.  Unless you were on Ambien and sleepwalking, so you really were asleep and it's totally cool that you don't remember.  However, it would explain why you left superglue and bananas on the desk in your bedroom.

This guy shared a unit with a coworker.  He also kept an 11 pound bag of rice in his closet.  I named him "rice-a-roomie."

     So the next time you think about trying out your pirouettes during an IBS flare up, remember that someone will always be on the other side of that equation.  The moral of the story is to think about how you want people to remember you. And if you chose to leave with more than just a trace, hope that those people aren't blogging the stories that your departure might tell.