Here's what I got: Francesca.
She arrived at my door about forty minutes late, standing an alarming 4'8" or so and holding absolutely no cleaning supplies. Although she did appear to be holding quite a large chip on her shoulder. (Free of charge.)
I showed her around and headed for the park with my perfect dog, Ed, while Francesca began vacuuming the living room. I returned home over an hour later to find Francesca...vacuuming my living room. Intrigued, I asked her if she had found more to do during that hour than stand in the exact same room doing the exact same thing. No, she informed me, she had not.
At this point I was still hopeful. A shy cleaner. Maybe she didn't feel bold enough to move freely about my house while I was gone. Now that I was home she'd blow my fucking mind.
Not so. She stood in my kitchen sipping a ginger ale. Then she turned to me and said (I will never forget this as long as I live), "My life is so hard. My husband has a gun."
You could have knocked me over with her invisible feather duster. "Pardon?" I whispered.
"He's got a gun." she casually repeated.
Holy shit. "Is this a cry for help? Are you in need of help? Should I call the police? Is this a cry for help and you need me to call the police?!"
Francesca delicately placed her empty soda can on a pile of dirty dishes in my unscrubbed sink. "Nope. I just thought you should know. My life is hard and my husband is mean. I work seven days a week to put food on my table."
"Six and a half," I thought meanly.
She left shortly after that, with several stolen cleaning supplies and a fat fistful of cash I had shoved at her.
I thought frequently of Francesca over the next few hours as I completed the work I had paid her to do. Maybe her life was hard, maybe her husband does have a gun, maybe she did in fact clean seven days a week.
She certainly cleaned me out.
