Seige

I'm on the third floor hiding from the Housekeeper. I can hear her hoovering up the evil that wafts through my house like tumbleweed. The Housekeeper, you may recall, is an FC*.

I'm hiding because she keeps breaking things -- an Italian hand-painted egg cup, the pelican paperweight on my kitchen windowsill, a 100-year-old child's teapot -- and I'm feeling guilty. As in, why do I possess such useless flotsam when there's a War going on?

The Housekeeper told me about this War a few weeks ago, when she caught me at a vulnerable moment. A moment made vulnerable compliments of the resident 13-year-old.

"There's a War going on," she said. The Housekeeper, not the 13-year-old. I nodded vaguely, thinking of the Mideast.

"An Army of Evil surrounds us," she said, looking around the living room, "we're in the midst of it."

If that's true, then this woman's Oreck is an AK-47. She handles that baby like Sigourney Weaver in "Alien." Which is how she sees me no doubt. Nothing new there. I've been alienated since I was old enough to sit up by myself.

When our father died, my sister and I spent the night before his funeral crying into our Pinot Grigio, looking through old photographs. After a few hours one thing became clear (as others became progressively fuzzier): the look on my face in those old photos could bring down a rhino. Make that a Hummer. There I am -- four years old, nine years old, fifteen years old -- scowling into the camera like a dark knight working out troop maneuvers, while various and sundry Scandinavians smile their little beige hearts out beside me.

At midnight my sister and I started making up word balloons to put over my head:

"What do these people put in their orange juice to make them smile like this?"

"I know that guy behind the camera from somewhere...but where?...where?"

"As soon as this is over I'm going back to the orphanage."

I was a stranger in a strange land, in the midst of my own family. Now I feel the same, in the midst of my own house.

I try to think of ways to sneak down to the kitchen for more coffee, but the Housekeeper is everpresent. Like God. My dog lies in wait at the top of the stairs like a gargoyle. My dog doesn't like the Housekeeper, she gives her wide berth. If my dog happens to be out in the yard when the Housekeeper arrives, she won't come in unless I make her a grilled cheese sandwich. The dog, not the Housekeeper.

This is bringing out my inner Edie Beale. I can envision staying up here until my daughter leaves for college, ordering in Dominos and Netflix, blogging about it ad nauseum until my computer explodes. I can throw the dog shit out the window, have my husband rig a pulley system for reeling up essentials like wine and mascara. I think I remember most of my Jane Fonda exercise video. No sense letting myself go.

She's taken the first floor landing now, I'll have to call for reinforcements. Except the cat's in the sauna and my cellphone's in the kitchen, charging. Now she's charging up to the second floor. The Housekeeper, not the cellphone. The dog's hackles are rising like a white flag. That's it, my only option is surrender. Stash the empties from last night and try to sneak past while her back is turned. Except the element of surprise might work against me. Too many glass items in the second floor bathroom.

I'm in a quandary, I need a new battle plan. There's only one option: watch Susan Boyle again. Followed by a couple more times. Like the Cowardly Lion, I could use a dose of courage. After all, there's a War going on.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY

(*Fundamentalist Christian, Fucking Christian, take your pick.)