One of the perks of paying a painfully large amount of money to go to a private college is that there are cleaning people. They come round three times a week to scrape the vomit off the bathroom floor and restore the dwindling supply of toilet paper and they wash the floors too, God bless them. At least that's what they're supposed to do.
Ours is a little .... questionable.
Her favorite hobbies include smoking on our back porch, talking loudly on the phone for hours on end, and mopping the staircase halfway, then leaving the mop and bucket strewn across the floor while she disappears for an undetermined amount of time.
I always try to smile at her and say good morning. Usually I get a "hmph. ehhh errr heh" kind of noise in response (this isn't Spanish. I've babblefish-ed it). So, who knows.
Then there is the matter of the Van. The cleaning lady comes in the Van. It is a maroon deal, the kind they stopped making years ago. I believe it's a Windstar. Oh, yes. So the cleaning lady comes in the Van, and then she leaves. But the Van? The Van remains, parked outside our house, in the driveway. Two days later, the cleaning lady re-appears, and the Van is still there. It has not moved.
The only thing I can think of is: she must be living in the Van.
These things do happen, you know.
No comments:
Post a Comment