The Panty Bandit: Part I in a Series of My Irrational Fears

It’s funny how certain events in our past really stick with us for the long haul.

As I sit here, having just washed my windows and cleaned out my fridge, I can't help but feel that my life-long fear of the existence of an international underpants-stealing ring is at least partially to blame for my failure to hire a cleaning lady.

Hmm...Perhaps I should back up:

I’ve been thinking more and more about how J and I should hire someone to clean our place. And by “more and more,” I mean “since we got married nearly four years ago.” We both work full-time, and thus don’t relish the thought of spending our precious little free time cleaning. Furthermore, I am admittedly a total delinquent when it comes to matters involving Windex and mops. Oh, and cleaning off my chair o’ clothes in the corner of our bedroom.* And finally, in a recent development, I can no longer pass off inadvertently dropped coins as “my art,” since Toopweets is proving himself to be a quick study in the field of penny-finding.

Hiring someone else to do all of this annoying housecleaning just seems to makes sense.

If I’m being honest with myself, however, I will acknowledge that I make that statement with the same sentiment with which someone says, “Hey! We should buy a Tuscan villa!” or "I'm totally going to call you tomorrow, baby!" That is to say, it’d be a nice thing to do, but there’s no way in hell you’re ever actually going to follow through. The question here is why I keep putting this off:

You see, as far back as I can remember, my parents had a woman come every week or so to clean our house. Although I sincerely doubt that she reads my blog, I’ll change her name. For reasons that will soon become evident, we’ll call her…Mildred. Mildred was from Poland, had been in America for upwards of a decade, and spoke about 10 words of English. She shared an apartment with an even older lady named Old Lady (“OL”), with whom she would fight constantly. My mother (who I believe I've already mentioned is the nicest person in the world) then tried to help out OL, bringing her groceries, taking her to appointments, and of course, listening to her vent about Mildred. And I can’t really blame OL for the need to vent.

For Mildred was batshit crazy. To wit:

-- She had a tendency to yell at inanimate objects, which, by virtue of their BEING inanimate, weren’t really doing all that much to provoke her. On particularly exciting days, she’d swat them with our broom and utter what were no doubt some kickass Polish curses.

-- She once brought an accordion to our house, and, without any warning, began playing it. Very, very poorly. Then, as quickly as she’d started, she put down the accordion and went on with her work.

-- She was obsessed with the cleanliness of doorknobs, but would overlook the fact that my brothers had decided to play a fun game which, for all intents and purposes, should've been called “Let’s Rip Open a Pillow AND Have a Tomato Sauce Fight…Oh, Crap. Mom and Dad are Home; Abandon Ship!”**

At the time, I never thought much of it; I just assumed that everyone who had a cleaning lady dealt with similar types of situations...and then came the underwear thing.

One day, my mother received an urgent phone call from OL. She suspected that Mildred was planning to leave the country, and further suspected that MILDRED WAS STEALING HER UNDERWEAR. (I can’t provide all of the details, but OL had devised a foolproof plan that involved permanent marker. And making dots on the underwear. And, well…that's pretty much the whole plan.)

I can't adequately express how much mileage my brothers and I got out of this. I'm not saying it was nice of us, but we laughed about this for a solid week. Those of you who knew me when this happened (about 10 years ago) know this to be true.

A few days later, Mildred showed up, as scheduled…but she wasn’t there to work. Instead, she turned to us and said, “Mildred…Polski…bye, bye.”

And off she went.

My mom called us the next day from OL’s place to inform us that perhaps OL had been right all along: “I mean it, you guys; she has no underwear left! The drawer was completely cleaned out.”

Huh.

Now, I have no idea what Mildred could’ve possibly wanted with an 80-something year old woman’s underpants, and frankly, the possibilities scare me. All I know is that the absurdity of the event stuck with me, and, I suppose, manifested itself in me thinking (only half-jokingly) that it’s just not worth it to hire someone to clean your home, because they could be completely demented, make disparaging remarks to your sofa about your end tables, and possibly STEAL YOUR UNDERWEAR FOR WHAT COULD ONLY BE NEFARIOUS PURPOSES.

Okay, you guys. Your turn. I haven't been around all week, and I miss you. :) What are your irrational fears?

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*I’ve mentioned this chair before, but what I hadn’t mentioned is that when we’d gotten it, I swore up and down to J that it would be for decorative purposes only. Its actual sole function, however, is "thing upon which Metalia throws all of her clothes. And never moves them. EVAH." Ha ha! I knew that would happen all along. Sucker.

**I’m exaggerating, of course. The game was really only played with ketchup.