The Snob and The Help

Are you mad at me? I don’t blame you, it’s been a while since I had a seriously snobby post, so you probably should be pissed!

Anyway, you know the people who get paid to do the shit you don’t want to do . . . Saving us from dehydration in the form of letting us not sweat over domestic shit. They rock up and get rid of most things dirty until we help them keep their jobs by making them dirty again. Yes, the Help.

Mmm yeah, there are so many ‘wonderful attributes’ here so we’re going to categorize . . . a little.

The Help and English: As in the help and no English. The language barrier is annoying at times and sometimes for me it’s just an excuse (a great one) to not have to really talk to people, because you don’t understand me and I don’t understand you and small talk generally just doesn’t interest me. It does become difficult though when you actually want to express “Uhm, why did you iron my black jeans? Because now they are GREY, I would’ve bought grey jeans if I wanted grey fucking jeans!” or “Where’d you put my lip balm?” like honestly. How do you say ‘lip balm’ in Afrikaans or Zulu? It’s so retarded, I end up randomly saying ‘Ooh’ or ‘Ah’ in every emotion that they can be said in. ‘Ooh’ (apologetic) when I’m walking over a wet floor, ‘Ah’ (understanding) when I realise she wants me to put the teaspoon in the sink and all the other shit that I say with awkward breaks between words, trying to figure out how you say it in whichever language.

At least I don’t have an old woman busting into the bedroom (anymore) where I am sleeping with minimal or no clothes on, picking things up around me while I pretend to be sleeping to avoid an awkward moment like ‘AHHH!’ (surprised, annoyed). Also when she finds me in bed on the weekend she asks if I’m sick, it’s like “Really? No dude, it’s the weekend and I’m gracefully sleeping off my hangover instead of waking up and having a cranky parade all over the place”, of course I can’t figure out how to say that.

The lunch we make her is always the same kind of nice, whatever it is. It’s not amazing, delicious, the best. It’s always ‘nice’ or ‘very nice’. It’s funny but we know she liked it . . . Because it was ‘nice’, haha.

Dinners revolve around what day she’s coming, I know it sounds silly but we’re more likely to make something other than a sandwich or something that requires sauce, oven dishes, lots of chopped vegetables that need to be cooked separately in separate pots, a sieve, a grinder, five wooden spoons, etc the night before she comes rather than the night after she leaves. Obviously that means we can just go to bed and by the time we wake up, all of that shit will be gone. TADA!

Then there’s the obvious shit like not knowing where they put your shit, which can range from stuff you can forget for a week to really important stuff like . . . My favourite hairclip and my favourite necklace and the skirt I wanted to wear out and a driver’s license. the dogs toys, goddammit, where are the dogs toys? This dog is getting REALLY CRANKY! Where are her toys?! This is actually a seriously mindfucking, whiplashing occurrence. When I was little, my helper cleaned my room and I had to go a whole school week or two not knowing where the fuck a few of my books where. Not cool. A week is a long time to be in shit with your teachers, walking around with an exam pad and having to copy a whole week of work into different books! Ah!

The wardrobe is another thing, I can’t stand having blouses folded into a cupboard, knitted sweaters hanging because it ruins the knit pattern, ironed denims, ironed stretch fabric, pleats ironed into my fiance’s trousers (the one’s that don’t have pleats, leave them! And the one’s with pleats at the waistband have unfinished pleats which you aren’t supposed to iron all the way to the hem.), ironed leggings, missing bra straps, muddled clothing (and those light linen shorts that crease so easily that are still folded into the cupboard instead of being hung, so every time I take them out, they are already creased which naturally adds 20 minutes to my getting dressed time – 15 minutes of freaking out and 5 of ironing) . Every now and then someone walks out of a room asking “Is this yours? Have you seen my . . .?” haha, and some of my blouses are on my fiance’s side of the rack and some of his waistcoats on my side. I figured no one can do my wardrobe other than me, I want shit in order, colour coordinated, blouses, tops, skirts, dresses, jackets, coats, shorts, belts etc. That’s just how I want it, so I re-do it every now and then.

The Precious Pans: Yeah, the teflon coated, non stick variety that aren’t supposed to be scratched . . . Well, they get scratched, somehow the heavy purpose steal wool is the only way to wash a pan. We thought we were making everyone’s life easier getting those pans, apparently not.

The BLEACH: I literally have a headache smelling the amount of bleach being used for surfaces that don’t actually have stains that need it. Obviously using bleach on fabric makes the fabric weaker, but I’m not sure if that’s common sense or if one would know that after a career of using different detergents, hmmm.

Very interesting people and sometimes funny too. Like the gardener/handyman using a watering can to wash the car! I laughed at that for days, what was he thinking? ‘Ooh, look at this big flower, let me use the watering can!’. Also the sadness that I experience when the gardener mows my flowers 😦 maybe they look like weeds, but come on, they are (were) so PRETTY!

Even though I know I can do all this myself, one needs to appreciate help. So much energy getting pissed off when one doesn’t listen to you and ruins, loses or throws away your shit just seems like the price (on top of the price) to pay, not that it’s something one should tolerate but people get over it. Until I get my very own Dorota, with her cute accent, calculated anxiety, nurturing personality and basically an older Polish woman who’s ‘got your back’ then you know, whatever, do what they can’t do by yourself which, of course, defeats the point.

Later Snobs.

 

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