Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Maids
by venitha
Riding up in the lift with three Filipino maids, I am Dorothy, suddenly thrust into Munchkinland. These women are tiny. I must be careful not to squash them, I think, while we all nod and smile.
The lift stops, and as the women exit, I look down on the tops of their heads. Each woman is at least a foot shorter than I am. And we all four have the same red hair. Perhaps this is Oz...
Jim and I agree that the one thing we will miss about Fraser Place is the daily maid service. We have grown used to the bed being made, the dishes being washed, the towels being picked up from the floor. Each week we happily fool ourselves into believing that we are cleaner and neater than we actually are, that the tornado that uprooted us from Colorado also stripped us of slovenly habits. Sunday, the maid's day off, ushers us briskly back to reality and by the evening we are restless, crowded out of our small apartment by its clutter.
Daily battles with the maid provide an irksome entertainment. The towel I drape through a drawer handle in the kitchen consistently disappears, as does the pamphlet I've wedged under a leg of the wobbly dining table. I'm not sure why I bother. I will ultimately lose this war for control when we abandon the battlefield, withdrawing in a matter of days now to the serenity of a home of our own.
There, the bed may be unmade, the towels may lie on the floor, and the dishes will definitely sit in the sink. We will not have daily maid service, and, tragically, our kitchen has no dishwasher.
venitha
The lift stops, and as the women exit, I look down on the tops of their heads. Each woman is at least a foot shorter than I am. And we all four have the same red hair. Perhaps this is Oz...
Jim and I agree that the one thing we will miss about Fraser Place is the daily maid service. We have grown used to the bed being made, the dishes being washed, the towels being picked up from the floor. Each week we happily fool ourselves into believing that we are cleaner and neater than we actually are, that the tornado that uprooted us from Colorado also stripped us of slovenly habits. Sunday, the maid's day off, ushers us briskly back to reality and by the evening we are restless, crowded out of our small apartment by its clutter.
Daily battles with the maid provide an irksome entertainment. The towel I drape through a drawer handle in the kitchen consistently disappears, as does the pamphlet I've wedged under a leg of the wobbly dining table. I'm not sure why I bother. I will ultimately lose this war for control when we abandon the battlefield, withdrawing in a matter of days now to the serenity of a home of our own.
There, the bed may be unmade, the towels may lie on the floor, and the dishes will definitely sit in the sink. We will not have daily maid service, and, tragically, our kitchen has no dishwasher.
venitha
