| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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June / July 2006 Contest Results |
The Maid
By
Cindy Small, Alabama
Maggots with
meatloaf. That’s what my maid, Mrs. Schneider, prepared for the two of
us at dinner. I noticed the wild little wiggly creatures upon opening
the lid on the Dutch oven. The seasoning bottle was slightly expired by
just about 3 years and so those little critters were in heaven at 400
degrees.
You probably think life with a live in female domestic would cause me to
become a spoiled brat. Contraire, I was not only her keeper at a tender
age of 7, but she also became my slave, at times. Mrs. Schneider shared
my pink chenille covered twin bedroom set with me and snored louder than
a self-propelled locomotive. Only on occasions did her buns budge out of
bed.
She became
insulated into my cocoon. Meanwhile, I conducted scientific experiments
nightly by placing Kleenex on her face in hopes it would soar into the
air. In addition, her face became my canvas as I would take
multi-colored highlighters and do fabulous face paintings. Her diet
consisted of beer, martini olives, roasted peanuts and Cheetos.
She was so
hung over each morning; her face painting really didn’t matter. I think
she looked forward to her day-by-day facial persona.
My mother hired maids on a continuous basis and the first one to answer
the ad got the job. The only criteria were that she breathed and was not
blind. My mother never checked criminal and driving records. Orientation
was my mother showing the maid the house and quickly driving away.
No reason
for the maid to meet me. Trial run? Forget it. My family’s comings and
goings would normally run them off. Except for Mrs. Schneider.
She was tall, bone thin, in her late 70's with a few strands of gray
hair in a bun. Long skinny arms covered with liver spots were attached
to a torso resembling a dressmaker's dummy. Physically, Mrs. Schneider
was incapable of an involuntary smile. She always smelled of Vicks
Vapor-Rub and stole my mother’s jar of Noxzema on a continuous basis.
Not to exert too
much energy, she would occasionally spritz the room with air freshener.
It was so much easier than actually “cleaning”. Feeling that the washing
machine never got clothes clean, her best option was never to turn it
on. Toilet needed scrubbing? Dream on.
My maid had no problem with walking over passed out bodies on the floor
following my mother’s nightly dinner parties. Plus she was rather amused
when I was called upon to snap up my mother’s full-length girdle. Mrs.
Schneider held back a laugh when I was required to use huge amounts of
strength snapping at the bottom of the girdle while working myself up to
the top.
When the top
layer of skin came cascading down over the restraint, interrupting
circulation of bodily water and nutrients, my mother would yell, “Push
it up!” Mrs. Schneider sat on the edge of the bed looking fascinated.
She had no idea whalebones had such enormous force.
The other gastronomic experience I had was Mrs. Schneider’s raviolis in
a can. Cold. A 7 year old never guesses it was tomato flavored Super
Glue. But such is childhood when you don’t know what you’re missing.
After my mother would slap a $20 bill on the dining room table, my maid
and I headed to the Piggly Wiggly as though we won a grocery contest.
Up in the air
and into the basket flew sugarcoated donuts, potato chips, and onion
dip, red Cola for me and Jack Daniels for Ms. Schneider. Considering my
daily diet of whipped cream éclairs for breakfast washed down by a
variety of carbonated sodas and then whatever high sodium food group was
available in a can, my ambitious skeleton miraculously grew into an
adult.
During my tumultuous years of co-habituating with Mrs. Schneider, I
experienced a fainting spell in the middle of an afternoon. My world
went spinning and into darkness. Time passed. I heard voices and knew I
was in a reclining position in a room with bright lights. “It might be
polio. We should do a spinal tap immediately.”
I was in
trouble. Darkness again. Time passed. Mrs. Schneider stood before my
hospital bed with a Coke in her hand. “Drink it slow. You’ll be fine.
We’re going home in a few days.” At this moment, I realized maggots in
meatloaf weren’t all that bad. My live in housekeeper was with me at the
hospital. With or without her bottle of Jack Daniels.
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