I have a cleaning service, which is fancy way of saying cleaning lady, except these are a squad of them, so we need a plural reference. The ringleader, Aline, is from Brazil where the oddity of naming your kid after an architectural fad or a little girls dress doesn’t exist cause they speak Portuguese. We call her Leeny.
Leeny and I and the vacuum girl (she’s teeny tiny and totes the vacuum around strapped to her back. I call her the Borg because the vacuum is just about bigger than she is which gives the unsettling effect that she is being absorbed, but, since Leeny is the only who speaks English, she’s also the only one to get the joke. But we all laugh. Stupid gringo.
The Borg erupts in a torrent of Portuguese and Leeny asks what are all these bugs. Moths. We were in the guest room which has charcoal gray walls and black WOOL carpet and is only disturbed every other week when the Dust Squad busts in. In other words perfect breeding grounds for the mother fuckers.
Closer examination (or actually, the only examination I have ever given the room) reveals bald spots about the size of my hand where the worthless creatures have eaten the rug down to the base. AND I only bought this rug a couple of years ago when I was trying to deal with the cat’s insistence on peeing in there.
Tomorrow I hurl my self into the world improvement. I don’t mind it, I like decorating, but I just hadn’t planned to rid myself of several hundred dollars this month on a room I don’t use.
Also, the front door lock will suddenly no longer lock. One of those :”You had ONE JOB….” jokes. Of course, the two errands clash. I have to be here for the lock guy and I need to go pick out carpet at the rug store
On the sunnier-ish side of things, the car rental crisis seems to have resolved itself. I kept calling the Hertz guys about this and they would ask for the reservation number and I would explain it was on the paperwork in the car, which apparently was living a carefree life off in some car impound lot. I would ask if they could not perhaps dig up said number by using my last name. The would admit that they could, surly that I had breached their last wall of passive resistance. I would be on hold for quite a little while, listening to what might have been music by Brian Eno, or maybe a computer that looked like Eno. Eventually the Hertz guy would come back on and say they couldn’t find the reservation number either.
I looked in my account. There is a long list there of all my trips to Houston and the cars I have known there. It could be sentimental, but it isn’t. And then when I get down to the very end where this last ill-fated journey should be, there’s nothing. The list ends with my trip there last December.
So here’s what I think: I had Loss Damage Waiver insurance on that little hot rod. The cops eventually contacted Hertz as the owner of the car and told them where to go get it. Hertz fetched the battered hulk to it to their car repair guys, along with all the other banged up vehicles that must pour into there every day and patched it up. From Hertz point of view, the matter is concluded, I got a bill from them that I paid, so I figure it’s over, and I think Super Agent Fred has forgotten the whole sad business.
So. One crisis down and two to go. I ‘m going to go take a nap.