One of the newly added perks of being a renter is that I get maid service. Someone told me not to call them “maids” because it’s a derogatory term for a housekeeper, but they know what they are….they’re maids.
Last Thursday was the first day that the maids were scheduled to clean my room and I made it my duty to put them to the test. I emptied my desk drawers and clothes in my closet onto the floor and left money in secretly obvious places. After I strategically set the scene, I went to school for my last day of classes.
Hours later, I got home and saw that the crew was still at the house. Rather than entertain petty conversation, I went directly up to my room and inspected everything with a fine tooth comb. The clothes were put into the closet, the random items were put back into their rightful places, and the money was still there. I observed even farther and saw that they found my laptop adapter, wrapped it up and put it into my desk drawer. Also, they cleaned under the bed and vacuumed my rugs.
But they weren’t perfect.
Right now, my most important possessions are my sneakers, which are typically limited-quick releases, stored in their original boxes to limit their exposure to impure sources of oxygen, while maintaining their original luster and preserving the unique “Nike Sneaker smell.” Unfortunately, the cleaning people (and 99.942% of people in this world) did not understand my unsafe sneaker infatuation and threw the sneaker boxes (sans sneakers) into the trash.
As soon as I realized the lack of a contained living environment for the sneakers, I was ready to pounce. It was like walking into your house and seeing the family piranah out of its tank. These things need to stay in their natural habitat!
Right before I transformed into a ball of fire to release my wrath upon the maids, my mom came into my room with all of my sneaker boxes in her hands. She understands me.
Man, by nature, would attempt to retaliate in some degree when faced with this type of situation, but somehow I retaliated before they got a chance to, um… taliate. My mom told me that while cleaning my room, one maid let out a loud shriek. When the other maid heard the noise, she entered the room to discover the cause of the ruckus. Seconds later, maid # 2 also let out a shriek and bolted out of my room.
My mom asked them what was the problem and they kept saying “BOMB!” She then walked into my room to see what they were talking about and she discovered my grenade in the middle of the room.
Lesson to be learned: I’ll pretend to blow you up even before you think about touching my prized possessions.
-or-
Lesson to be learned: My room is da BOMB!