Getting out of the House

I stir David and Shane about getting rid of our cleaner. Oh Jasus! She's coming this morning. I hate it when she's in the house. She invades my space. She lurks, tries to be quiet, but then the vacuum whirs into action, making me jump. She doesn't talk and she skulks about in a whisper, but some how, ironically, that just seems to make it worse. Scrubbing floors, which I seem to have to avoid, keep out of rooms. Can't go here, can't go there. Three hours seems like an eternity. It feels like she's here half my life. Dusting, cleaning, appearing out of no where.

But, David and Shane refuse to entertain my termination ideas. They know I won't clean - as neither they will - even when I promise that I will if it means ditching the invader. I'm sure I know how people feel after they've been robbed, even if, strangely, I didn't feel that way when I was, actually, robbed. I was home asleep once, but that's another story.

I tell you, if the first thing I'm greeted with is Marguerite, Monday morning before both eyes are open, I'm not happy. Spoils my day.

I try not to groan when I see her, but I know some times it comes out. Her with her scarf around her head, plastic gloves, face mask. It's like something out of Outbreak.

I am accused of being disagreeable, if I show displeasure if I'm greeted with show tunes just having kicked the coffin lid off for the day. That's from David and not Marguerite, you understand. If she did, the first words out of my mouth would be You're fired. You know, just landed in the kitchen with a hand outstretched for the coffee grinder. David sometimes takes it as a challenge, as in his yellow-daisy-cup of a world he's positive that I am, surely, just putting on an act, in the land where everything is made of sugar, and I get full choreography... to bring me out of myself. I'm sure some mornings it has been tap.

And it's not that I'm disgruntled, it's just more of a blur, 2 braincells are working by then, I'm usually feeling taken a back, as if someone has said Boo!. Some mornings are crossed-eyed, barely, bemusement, at how try-hard gay David looks. The only mornings that I really enjoy are those after David has had a big night and it's like dance steps performed by joining the dots, not able to sing as he's too busy wheezing for breath.

It's not anger, as some people get warned, as I promise if you don't speak I wont either.

Thank the universe that Sunshiny Day has dropped from the repertoire more recently.

So the cleaner, oh the pain. I've even gone out for breakfast, come home around 1pm, then an hour later I hear the front door sound click, click and Marguerite's doing the afternoon shift, mysteriously - even if we have said in the past it didn't matter. Then she's there all afternoon. Ah! Can't win.

I'm getting out before she gets here. I'm going for breakfast then I'm going shopping.

David's left money in a draw for her, I might go and move it. He, he.

Ah! I just heard the front door open and then quietly click shut. It’s her! There will be jiffies scuffing on the floorboards any moment. Eeek! I’m getting out. Gotta go.