I have a really quirky maid in the place where I live.
She calls my pets the oddest names (Soup for my cat, Wono for my dog Misha), and intends to make Indonesian dishes out of them.
She calls me stupid and naïve.
She makes fun of all of my friends.
She makes fun of me all the time.
She’s the only maid I know in the world who likes booze.
She would prefer money to anything else in the world.
But she’s there when I need someone to talk to.
She’s there when I get sick, spooning medicine into my mouth.
She’s there when my room is so wrecked that it takes hours to clean up.
She’s there when I need someone to cover for my ass, feeding and playing with both of my kids, accepting letters, getting the grocery and paying the bills.
She’s there when insanity touches me, with her “It doesn’t bother me if you die out of starvation, but it’d bother me cleaning up your stinking carcasses, so EAT SOMETHING!”
And she’s honest to the Rupiah.
Last night I made her sit on the floor with me.
I just came back from a four-day trip, loaded with ache and loneliness.
I had a bottle of Bailey’s, and needed the company.
Between giggles and name-calling, I half filled the mug with ice and Bailey’s, took the first sip and offered it to her.
She looked at the mug reluctantly, “maybe I should drink from another cup.”
“Why? I don’t mind.”
“Are you sure? I’m just a maid, remember?”
“Yeah? So what am I?”
She looked at me for a beat of a second, and with laughter and appreciation all over her face, she took the mug. “You’re stupid.”
That was the most endearing ‘Stupid’ I’ve ever hear her call me.
