The following story is darker than what Lady Di saw just before she walked towards the light. Was that too soon? Not that I care, since I have experienced more grief than her, and she slept with Prince Charles at least twice. Twice too many times, in my very humble opinion.
I was working from home on the same day that the cleaning lady came to do her thing. I have always bitched given constructive feedback about her performance to Olivier, but a bad cleaning lady is better than none at all. So we haven’t done shit about it.
My cat is the most affected for personal reasons. He was once trapped behind the toilet while the maid took the nastiest shit in front of him. He hasn’t been the same, and frankly, neither have I. My poor little furball has more PTSD than a Vietnam veteran, and I, who heard the farts bombing from outside the door, am just as triggered. But that’s another horror story.
Back to the main story: she makes $20 per hour for a minimum of three hours (imposed by her) for cleaning our very small apartment. One would expect that she would spend the full three hours cleaning, but my expectations did not match her reality. Oh, no. The three hours include a half hour lunch break and two 10-minute long cigarette breaks each.
Now, this was not ideal, but I’m a feminist, so I believe in women rights. If the house is sparkling clean and she still has time to indulge, by all means do it, sister. Yeah, except the house is not perfectly clean, and it shows. The woman cleans around the furniture, not under. She never moves things around when dusting. She takes a huge dump after cleaning the bathroom, just ask my cat. So, as a feminist, I just have to say this bitch needs to know her place.
This time around, she did all of the above and she also had the audacity to leave a little past the second hour and took the money for the three hours. What the actual fuck? She dared to do that when I’m in the house watching her? That made me wonder: what else is she doing when I’m not around?
So I took a stand.
I asked Olivier to tell her something because she was literally robbing $20 from us every week. Not like the other $40 were well earned, but let’s pretend otherwise. So he got tired of my constant nagging agreed to share our concerns, or rather mine, as he totally threw me under the bus.
He told her that I had noticed she had left early and that I thought she could do better. Then he followed with a list of suggestions of what I thought she could do if she still had time left. He was playing Good Cop, Bad Cop and clearly I was the cunt in that game.
I was shooketh.
I couldn’t help but wonder: Was I Jesus? But more importantly, was my boyfriend Judas?
I was like, “I’ve seen your balls (and they are big) so why are you acting like you don’t have any?”
Moving on… It was actually a very nice text once I got over the whole Brutus backstabbing Caesar. But did the maid think the same?
You won’t believe what happened next.
