I need a sweeper.
You know, a guy who comes in after I've died but before my kids start rifling through my shit. A guy to come in and get rid of all my skeletons.
"You don't have any skeletons," Sean says.
But I do. I have a drawer full of ratty underwear, including a pair of vintage Spanx with a large hole in one leg. I'm too cheap to buy another pair, and occasionally I need a little extra support.
"Those are so gross, I can't believe you wear them," Sean says.
Who sees them? I ask. I even put them on in the closet. If you've ever wedged yourself into a pair, or watched someone do it, you understand why.
My sweeper may also be required to come in cut the Spanx off my dead body. This narrows the candidates down significantly.
"I'd do it. I'd be your sweeper," Sean says.
Yeah, but what if he's already dead? Or out of town? Or playing golf? I need a backup sweeper.
I'll need the sweeper to take care of a few other items. The large tub of powdered Coffeemate Creamer, for instance, should be replaced with a crystal pitcher of heavy cream. Organic, of course. My cassette tape of Paula Abdul's Forever Your Girl should be donated to a desperate 14 year old girl, who longs to be a Solid Gold Dancer (she will teach you everything you need to know, my friend! Let the rhythm move you!). The small Moleskine notebook in the center console of my car should be burned. It includes detailed notes on possums, which makes me look creepy as fuck.
"Spanx, powdered creamer and Paula Abdul? Are you serious?" Sean says. "Those are your skeletons?"
I know, it's mortifying. Maybe I'll buy a new pair of Spanx, but I'll die before I give up my Coffeemate.
2 weeks ago