The maid came too early. The maid--who had taken my dog back to her home 35 kilometers by public transportation--brought her back along the same route and arrived at my house at 7 a.m. sharp. And I'm COMPLAINING about it. Complaining about someone who has probably been up since five and who definitely left her house before five-thirty to get here. Jesus, what sort of person am I?
Am I such a horrible person? She did me a huge favor, taking Duchess Doggie to her own home so I didn't have to worry about three-time-a-day walkies while recovering from surgery. I did offer to pay for a taxi both ways, but she blithely slung Duchess into an oversized bag and took off (pocketing the taxi fare, I might add.) Duchess is used to it and has mastered the trick of hanging her head out of the bag and looking adorable and mild. While on dog-sitting duty she (the maid, not the dog) didn't have to come in, and as I lived off ice cream for the past three days, there aren't a lot of dishes to do or clean-up in general. And yet, I am pissed that she came so early.
I'm aware that this is like complaining that your Birkin bag doesn't match everything. It's just that I had hoped to get some private stuff done before she got here, as it's impossible to eat, brush teeth, or shower when she's here. An example: as she is cleaning the floors, she has stuff spread out in all the rooms. The kitchen is impossible to reach due to the number of buckets, basins, rags, brooms, and towels. If I say the hell with it and go brush my teeth, she finds it necessary to start a long conversation or possibly to scream, as the turtle moved ever so slightly in the tank and startled her. A shower? Forget it, that's the signal to stop cleaning the floor and move in to the bathroom to clean the toilet. While there, she will use the same rag she used to mop up the floor around the toilet on the wash basin (yeeech) while rearranging my cosmetics. The dental piks and q-tips which I had placed in demitasse cups will be tossed into a heap on one corner of the sink and she will take the demitasse cups back to the kitchen to be stored away, without washing, somewhere convenient, such as the back corner under the dripping sink.
I will be boiling hot as she has snapped off both the fan and the air conditioner ("You don't need them, they'll only make you sick,") and worse, she's cleaning the house clad in bra and panty, stopping occasionally to bring me an unsolicited glass of water. I fear it may have come from the sink. The guilt trip continues: if I'm typing away at my computer, I will be asked repeatedly what I am playing, and if I reply that I'm working this reply is met with a sort of smirk. No, the smirk says, cleaning your damn floor is work, what you're doing is for pussies.
Normally, when I'm on vacation we reach a state of detente: I give her the time off, paid, so that I don't have to worry about being dressed and fed before six-thirty a.m. Ironically, according to my neighbors, she usually arrives around ten-thirty when I work. Lord. I just figured out the scam, and since this is the same maid who once safety-pinned me to the bed to help my sore back, she's bulletproof for life. Sigh. If I want a clean toilet, I will either have to resign myself to getting up at the crack of dawn, or cleaning it myself. Let me just be grateful that I have both a toilet and a choice, and quit griping about what are clearly first world problems.
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