Private Cleanliness is Poetically Futile

One week to go until Vancouver...

Mother hired some cleaning company to come by and clean our home on Tuesday. Ironically, the whole family including Shmelly spent Monday night cleaning house, tucking intimates and valuables out of sight. Amongst all of the tucking, of course some things were forgotten. Come Tuesday afternoon, however, the house was sparkling--anything that had been previously organized by the family the night before had been picked up, cleaned under, and then reset right where it had been found. My room looked exactly as I'd left it, only wiped and vacuumed; everything was where it should have been.

Except ONE thing.

See, for my birthday last year, G (being the thoughtful and great friend that she is) decided to jokingly buy me a vibrator that came in a case cleverly designed like a familiar chocolate bar wrapper. As cute as this gift was and still is, I never thought too much about hiding it anywhere and just simply kept it on a discreet corner of my desk, in plain view, though wedged between my stereo and the bookshelf.

Anyway, after the cleaning crew came and left, I arrived home to find this cute little chocolate-bar-esque toy front and centre in the middle of my desk. There was nothing else touched, not another item within two feet of this vibrator. Just the vibrator (in its case) by itself. Figures. My guess is that they found it and thought it was funny and decided to leave it out of place as though to say "We know what you've got!" Bastards.

I suppose that having my birthday toy found by a couple of strange cleaners that I never met and probably never will meet wasn't so bad though. Definitely not as bad as opening the utensil drawer in the kitchen of your newly purchased home to find a plastic vagina. And certainly not as bad as having your parents coming to your res to help you move home and them finding your super-deluxe purple dildo/vibrator in a drawer before walking out into the hallway where your housemates can see what device they're wielding and questioning you about. Yeah, I suppose I had it easy, especially because I thought that my own ordeal was pretty funny itself... Hehehe.
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Quotes of the Moment:

"Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem 'Ode To A Small Lump of Green Putty I Found In My Armpit One Midsummer Morning' four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos is reported to have been 'disappointed' by the poem's reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his twelve-book epic entitled My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save life and civilization, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain.

The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England in the destruction of the planet Earth."
    -- The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams
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I'm right smack in the middle of reading that book. It's great. My type of humour exactly. I don't know why I've held off so long in reading it (oh wait, I remember why...SCHOOL). However, there's this one part I came across that just doesn't do it for me. It's during a part when an alien character continues to intone to his prisoners that "Resistance is useless". That threat just doesn't hold as much foreboding as it should for me because unfortunately for Adams, the Borg came along with their timeless droning credo: "Resistance is futile." I'm waaaay more threatened by the Borg than I am some random Vogon--if they could turn Picard, they can turn anyone. I digress...