Boyoboy! You wanna talk about a spoiled, lazy ole’ bat? Welp, here she is!
Yes. I am sooooooo lazy that I actually resent and cringe at the fact that today is Cleaning Lady Day. Why?
- Because I’m too lazy to get up off my duff and shovel out the mess so she can find a few spots to actually clean.
- Because I’m spectacularly not in the mood to have someone banging around my house for several hours.
- Because my son is coming over here later today for an online “meeting” (har har!) with our doc at the Mayo, and trying to deal with that while the cleaning lady is roaring and banging around will be a PITA of the first order.
- Because I’m still mad as Hell at Cleaning Lady for her most recent antic, which caused me a LOT of trouble…and continues to do so.
😀 If that ain’t spoilt rotten, I’d like to know what it is!
Well, in what passes for my own defense, we do hafta say: I’m sick as a dog, have been for days running into weeks, and all I want right now is just to be left alone, dammit.
- No roaring vacuum cleaners
- No stinking detergents
- No wet floors
- No torn-up beds
- No kitchen in disarray
- No…noooooooooo!
Argha.!!!
Isn’t that awful? How spoiled CAN you get?
Well, I do hafta say, one thing I can do without — spoilt or unspoilt — is annoying online meetings…with anyone, but especially with a doctor, one who knows nothing about me and who isn’t gonna believe a damn thing I say.
****
Yes. The idiot cleaning lady…I haven’t gotten around to firing her and tracking down someone to take her place — because I’m too goddamn tired to take on a bothersome project like that.
Get this: A couple weeks ago I was sick as a dawg, felt just AWFUL, and needed more than anything to go back to bed. While WonderCleaningLady was here slamming around the house.
I’d sat down at the dining-room table for a snack to pass as lunch. This being less than perfectly appealing, I folded my arms on the table and laid my head down, waiting for her to PUHLEEEEZE get done with the job so I could go back to the bed. Shortly, I fell asleep.
She spots me there and arrives at her own tee-totaler’s conclusion: she thinks I’m drunk on the quarter-glass of white wine I’d poured to go with the mediocrity of a lunch I’d set out.
No kidding: she decides I’m passed out blotzed!
She whips out her camera/phone, takes a photo of me dozing at the table, and ships it off to my son!
He buys her story that I’m snockered.
Jayzuz!
So now I’m in trouble with him, he’s told my doctors at the Mayo that I’m a lush(!!!), they’ve ordered that my driver’s license be suspended, and he has made off with my car!
To buy groceries, I have to hike through the heat (110 degrees today) and haul stuff home from the Sprouts or from the slum stores to the north of us.
I should have canned the nitwit. But I’m just too sick to clean a four-bedroom shack myself, and the prospect of searching for a new employee is more than I can contemplate.
Without my car in 110-degree heat, there’s not much I can do. Hiking up to the Fry’s or down to the Albertson’s or over to the Sprouts is fine when the weather is moderate, but when it’s a blast furnace: not so much.