Why I Hate the Housekeeper; or It All Boils Down to Steve Guttenberg

I don't know how many of you are Steven Guttenberg fans, but I personally heart The Gutt, especially when his co-star is a quirky robot. But I digress....

You see, it's Thursday, the "cleanest day of the week" here at MoMP's urban HQ (also known as the day the kids can literally eat off the floors - we have about a one minute rule after the housekeeper has made her weekly dust cattle drive). The housekeeper is in her fifth year of service here, and for most of those five years I've dreamed of throttling her (even while I was employed elsewhere - perhaps I'm a little obsessed...). She's a meddlesome creature, always trying to foist her opinions on childrearing on me.

Her favorite activity is undermining my authority. As I am a type-Aish, Aries-ey kind of gal, you can see how this might not sit so well with me. Example: I take a loose approach to balanced eating. I figure as long as the kids are getting all of their food groups, I don't care about the order of the courses. On the Thursday in question, I gave O a bowl of miniature cheese ravioli, a bowl of apple slices, and a glass of milk. He's merrily eating away, alternating between ravioli and apples, and I'm having my PB&J (BabyPants lurves the PB&J). Between trips to the feather duster and the vacuum cleaner, she keeps coming over to the table, moving his apples out of his reach, and saying, "No, no. First your ravioli, then you have the apple." During this exchange, I am sitting right there.

Hello?

Trying to avoid a conflict, I take the passive aggressive road, and give him back his apples when her back is turned. Three more times she comes over and "corrects" his eating. Three more times I play possum and just slide the apple bowl on over to him when she leaves the room.

It made me crazy.

Another example: the family is redoing the master bedroom right now, and there has been a veritable army of contractors around here. The guys have access to the two bathrooms in the kids' rooms during the day, since otherwise they'd have to trek downstairs to use the "guest bath" on the second floor. All I ask of them is that they use whichever one doesn't have a sleeping child in it. Fair enough, right? These guys are nice - I like them. They respect the fact that we have to live here during all this nonsense. It's cool.

Two weeks ago, while O&I were out playing, the housekeeper lectured the lead carpenter about using the bathroom in E&J's room. She told them they were dirty men and that they should never use Miss E's bathroom. When I came home, and eventually put O down for his nap, the lead guy says to me, "So now which bath should my guys use?"

I answer, "The other bedroom, of course."

He tells me about his encounter with the housekeeper, and I assure him that my employers, the homeowners, and financers of the remodel, are fine with them using which ever bathroom is available to them at the time.

Now, I can appreciate her concerns. I can. But instead of telling off the contractors, shouldn't she have voiced her concerns to me, or to the bosses directly? The whole thing bugs me, because I had made sure to establish an easy, respectful relationship with the carpenters, and she was blowing it. I have to share the house with these guys eight hours a day, for six weeks. She's here for four hours on Thursday. Gah!

You likely think I'm psycho by now.

Lastly, and this is me at my most petty. She sounds like a Latina version of Johnny-Five. Don't get me wrong. I love that robot, but his vocal timbre is not attractive on a 55 year old Domincan woman.

Steve Guttenberg, please come and collect her! She needs to go back to the lab to be disassembled!