A Man Needs a Maid

I lost my glasses. They are somewhere on a golf course in North Carolina. Since I don’t need them to play golf, I never intended for them to leave the car. But that’s history now. So are my glasses.

This will be highly amusing to my eye doctor’s office staff. I think they have a running pool, betting on how long it will be before I lose my glasses again.

The doctor took his entire staff to New York City recently. I got a thank you note.

My brother-in-law, playing golf with me on the day I lost them, told me I needed a life caddy. He knows me well enough to make such a statement. He knows that after a round of golf, he can drop me off at the house, and I’m liable to get out of the car and just walk away.

“Wanna get your clubs?”

Oh, yeah, I might need those again. Thanks.

“Don’t forget your hat’s in the back seat.”

Oh, yeah.

“Don’t forget your shoes are on the floorboard.”

And so it goes.

I don’t think anyone would describe me as flighty, but it’s probably fair to say that I don’t pay much attention sometimes. And by making that statement, I know I have just given my wife a little more ammunition for the next time I lose something.

Some of you will know that the title I used for this piece is the title of an old Neil Young song. I don’t know that I would call her my maid, but yeah, I could use one. A life caddy. A Girl Friday. A personal assistant. Someone whose sole job would be to tend to the details in my life.

“Where are my glasses?” I would ask.

“They’re on the kitchen counter, I’ll go get them,” she would say. “While I’m in there, would you like me to make you a martini?”

Question: does your assistant need to be a female?

I think so. While that’s a bit sexist, having a female assistant will make me feel a little like James Bond. Especially if she’s making me a martini. I would have my very own Moneypenny. (Yes, yes, I realize she was the secretary for Bond’s boss. Literary license.)

Question: what would your wife think of this?

Honestly, I think she would feel like she’s done the job long enough already and be happy to let someone else take over.

So I’m giving my (thus far) fictitious assistant the name, Sara.

Sara would go to the golf course with me, making sure I’m wearing sunscreen and that my cooler is properly stocked. She’d make sure I have enough tees and balls, and that my shoes are tied. And she would carry a ball marker, because I’m forever forgetting to put one in my pocket.

 Away from the golf course, Sara would remind me to keep my doctors and dental appointments and not to forget I’m getting my hair cut at 11:00 tomorrow morning.

You know why your doctor’s office smothers you with calls, then emails, then texts about your appointment? Because of me. I forget stuff. I do a lot of apologizing.

But not anymore! Not with Sara! And I think we can see that Sara would have a pretty easy job most of the time, so she should be happy.

“Sara, would you make me a sandwich?”

“I’ll be happy to,” she would say. And why wouldn’t she be? It may be the only thing she has to do all day.

Question: how much would Sara make?

I’m thinking I’d pay Sara about $50,000 year. That’s more than the average teacher’s salary in most states, and Sarah would only have one snotty nose to look after, not a whole roomful, so I think I could attract some quality applicants with that pay level.

This topic, however, brings us to just the tiniest of problems with Sara: I ain’t got that kind of money.

Today, on the way home from golfing, the solution hit me. I stopped and bought a lottery ticket. Because what better way to get money than to play the lottery, eh? I figure in another week or so I can start advertising, so keep an eye out if you’re interested.

But if being Sara interests you, there are a couple of qualifications you must meet. Sara needs to be in good shape, because while grabbing me another cold beer while I rock on the porch isn’t all that hard of a job, at some point, I’m going to need to take a walk, and she’ll have to do that for me.

Sara also would need to be fairly attractive. James Bond wouldn’t have it any other way.