Nightmare on Lange Street

[actual size--and doubles as a punching bag!]

Horror of Horrors

Today the housekeeper found my bullet vibe. It was stashed, forgotten, under a pillow on my bed, and she moved it on top of my desk chair so she could wash the linen without having to look at it. Sheesh. Nothing like exhibiting your "needs" to a stranger.* The worst thing about it is, the little bullet has a hair-trigger control button, and no safety. If you even so much as breathe on the thing, it starts up with a roar and proceeds to scoot across any flat surface.
I found myself wanting to call her, like I did the time my roommate, Mike, put a giant flesh-colored dildo in the dishwasher (half to sterilize it before donating it to gf's and my film and half as a joke on our other roommate, Brian.) I called her and said, "Have you looked in the dishwasher? If not, don't."
She said, "What? There's a bad connection..." And then, "AAAaaaaaaaaaah!"
I felt like a real ass explaining that it was a practical joke on Brian.
Yeah, right, loca puta. You think I even care?
Tonight, in the immediate aftermath of the bullet vibe discovery, I imagined several "make it better" conversations--well, actually, monologues--in my mind's ear, such as casually informing Juana that I hadn't even gotten the chance to use it that night, as I was too tired and the battery was dead. ("It may have been under my pillow, but it wasn't just used!"). Or, even better, that Brian's sister had stayed the night in my room while I was out of town over the weekend and must have left it there. The harlot! But offering excuses only makes things worse. The best bet is to pretend it never happened. And give a big tip.
Thank god she wears rubber gloves.

*A stranger who's actually inside my home every week. As opposed to those who read this blog.

Comments

[Mick]

Being in a "service industry" and having keys to people's houses, I know way more about my clients' personal lives than I need to. Generally, I think we all just shrug and go about our business...cleaning house, walking dogs, etc. It's like Elvis' beloved cook: she knew he was fat, but if he asked for a peanut butter and 'nanner sandwich, she'd make it.

And yep, I've seen a dildo or two. And dirty magazines. And lots of underwear/bras strewn about. But I don't care...I'm just the dog lady. :)