Oh...my...I can't believe people live like this

This morning, I had a 2 hour training stint with a potential client for what some have come to call my taking-care-of-old-people job. One of the people who works with this client showed me the ropes. We'll call the client Bre (as in Desperate Housewives) and the worker Saint. I feel like I just had a glimpse into what the 63rd season of Desperate Housewives might be like.

Bre has very, very specific expectations. Certain foods are placed before her at breakfast time and only after those are eaten is the rest of breakfast prepared and set before her. Everything is measured to the nth degree and glasses are filled to specific heights. Saint happily goes through all of these details with a Edith Bunker "well whatcha gonna do" charm.



It just gets worse from there. As I learned the following details, I went from feeling like I was in an episode of Desperate Housewives, The Senior Years to a scene from Sleeping with the Senior Citizen Enemy. The pillows on the bed are each separated by a handtowel and must barely go around the puff of the pillow. Doors must always be kept closed and locked. Lights must be kept off unless currently needed. Every morsel of food has a specific place. Cans must be stacked neatly and in order and labels must face outward. Food that is thrown away is wrapped (!) before being put in the garbge can, and, get this: plastic grocery bags are folded! and put away in a closet for later use (note: the bags cannot be folded on the kitchen counter - only downstairs) Also, the garbage bag from the kitchen cannot touch the kitchen floor. No kidding. I cannot begin to tell you how many times I imagined bringing TT over to Bre's house.

Yeah...so when the working-with-old-people office called me to ask how my morning went, I told them I had to be honest and share my feelings as noted in today's headline. After all, if we're going to categorize based on the Desperate Housewives type inventory, I'm mostly a Lynette with a dash of Susan. I'm completely, definitely, certainly not a Bre (years of therapy erased any trace of that possibility, thank God!), nor am I willing to work for one. I'm not that Desperate.