New Mexico Mercury

Those of us still alive survived the busiest travel weekend of the year. Whew! But that doesn’t mean we’re done traveling. We’re Americans, goldurnit, except for those of us who aren’t. We go go go. And when you next leave town, how will you ensure that your pipes don’t burst, or that your copper pipes don’t get stolen, or that your lead pipe doesn’t murder the butler in the conservatory?

Housesitters, that’s how. These people—some of whom don’t even look homeless—are willing to live in your home for about the price of a movie theater ticket per day, minus popcorn. But you can’t trust just anyone to sleep in your bed, care for your pets, water your plants, tend to your garden, fend off your burglars, and eat your food. You need a reputable caretaker. That’s why I’m coming out of retirement.

Actually, I’m coming out of retirement because an elderly neighbor is leaving town for a weekend. He’s got a sweet house that’s only about thirty percent sealed off like a mausoleum. It’ll be like a weekend retreat in a Hitchcock film!

Some housesitting gigs really do offer peace, tranquility, and a back fridge full of beer. But I won’t bring those up here, because though they are good for my soul, they are boring to talk about. Besides, the vast majority of housesitting assignments give sneak peeks into the private lives of other people, which is much more intriguing. It turns out that other people are INSANE.

(I must mention that I am a massive proponent of preserving privacy in one’s own home. When homeowners invite me into their residences, they expect that I will honor their lives and personal space. I agree to do so, because they pay me money. Thus, I will change their identifying features while otherwise dishing out exactly how crazy they are.)

To prove that other people are nuttier than a Planters-sponsored jock strap, you need look no further than their pets. Take, for instance, the dog who was afraid of houseflies. This story will kill you; I nearly died, but it all ended happily, and with Kevin Spacey. I was watching this house in the peak part of summer when every fly brought in by the state fair landed on whatever plate of food I scrounged together.

And “scrounge” is the right word. My clients always insist that I help myself to any food left in the house. Score! Free food helps balance out the piddly pay.

Or it would, if I could stomach other peoples’ tastes. I always thought I shopped at the same grocery stores as everybody else, but man, my supermarket doesn’t even know how to pronounce half these so-called “edibles.” I suspect these delicacies are smuggled goods, because if they were legal, they would come with warnings from the Surgeon General.

Then again, there’s a motto I’ve lived by ever since I just made it up: different tastes for different waists. And “tastes” range far beyond the culinary. For example, I cared for a lovely straw bale house for nearly a month. The owners explained that a relative needed to use the house one evening for a company party, if I would vamoose. No problem! I called the relative the day before the party to see if I could help prepare.

He asked me to clear my things out of the bathroom—not just the bathroom, but the shower.

“The guests are receiving towels as party favors,” he explained, as if that cleared up EVERYTHING.

I still do not know what kinky sex things occurred in that house, but I did not touch any surface for the rest of my stay. Especially the ghostly flour handprint smeared across the kitchen counter.

At first, I was a little freaked out. And I’ve seen some things—one time, a wild predator ate a client’s cat. But I had never hosted a corporate orgy.

Then I realized that I could imagine a perfectly reasonable explanation, such as: the office party bacchanal happened somewhere else, and then they all came to my temporary home to freshen up and eat sushi. I could accept that scenario. Such mental flexibility has suited me well in my other bookings.

By staying in other people’s homes, I become more accepting of those who are less normal than I am. I put myself in their shoes—sometimes literally—and contemplate what they would make of my wholesome American refrigerator, with its German curry ketchup, its soy sauce, its Greek yogurt, and its corn tortillas. I realize that we are all citizens of the—

Jinkies! I completely forgot to finish the story about the dog who was afraid of flies. I’ll tell you that story another day, when I’ve run out of better ideas to write about.

(Photo by Sylvia Currie / CC)