A Stinky Dilemma

I've received a lot of unsolicited advice on the PU lately but tonight I am compelled to solicit some. The reason couldn't be more insignificant but I'm at a loss here.

I love our cleaning person Leticia; she cleans the undercarriage of our toaster oven and thinks it's funny when Vito tries to hump her vacuum cleaner. Not to mention, her Monday morning visits have kept us from living in utter squalor. She and her Brazilian cohorts have been cleaning our house since one of Caroline's chocolate Munchkins rolled into a tumbleweed of dog hair two years ago.

While she doesn’t speak a shred of English, we've developed an unspoken rapport; she waves, I wave, it's cordial. A few weeks ago, she started bringing her husband along to help her out. This way, she can work faster and perhaps squeeze in a few more cleaning jobs while she’s at it. (I guess. Again, we don't speak.)

Since I work mornings, I usually flee the premises on cleaning days while my sitter/magician brings the kids to the park. Also, Paulie is frightened of the vacuum. Last week, I ran back into the house because I’d forgotten my sunglasses -- and for some reason, it was steamier than a power yoga studio in there. Leticia's husband, who’d just started vacuuming Caroline’s room, was already drenched in sweat. He waved, I waved. Then I headed off to Panera for a few hours.

When I returned home, the house didn’t smell like lemons and vinegar. There was something offensive, almost menacing wafting about and it only got stronger as I walked upstairs. Ground Zero was definitely Caroline’s room, the scene of the sweaty vacuuming. Also, it was still burning hot. I checked the thermostat and found that the heat had been turned up to 90 degrees ( I later learned that cleaning folk often do this to help the floors dry faster).

Here, we were dealing with straight-up, unadulterated BO and man, it was pungent. An entire bottle of Febreze and some PetFresh carpet cleaner were no match. I opened the windows a crack to get some fresh air flowing – the usual repertoire. We’re no strangers to larger-than-life stench here. Caroline used to hide her soiled Pull-Ups in desk drawers and elsewhere around the house. But in those situations, you just follow your nose, remove the offending diaper and thus the stink. This was an entirely different animal, it was neither contained nor concrete; it was suffusive.

Hours later, it finally dissipated.

This week, I played charades with Leticia upstairs, turning the thermostat down while fanning myself with a tissue letting her know it was too hot. She got it. I waved, she waved and I thought: problem solved. Nope. This week, it was actually worse. How do you communicate this? Six years of French and Latin are completely useless. I only know how to swear in Portugese: “Caralho!” the Brazilian’s equivalent of “Balls!” (literally translated: cock. Two different things, whole nutha blog).

There is no diplomatic way to inform someone you like that their husband is stinking up your house. At least for me. I’d rather die. The guilt would chip away at me (the nuns got to me early). I know Jimmy would have no problem dismissing them without explanation but I’d feel like a giant bag of dirt for far longer than I’d care to admit. Damn you, Sister Jeremiah.

Cream Shop Friday: FED-EX

K-Fed, we hardly knew thee. While you were mostly known as Mr. Britney Spears and for tacking the word "ass" onto all of your adjectives, you touched all of our souls and made them feel icky. However, we now know that you're an intelligent creature after you recently opened up to GQ about your "amazing ass" GED scores. You've always had a way with the skanks and when you turn on that charming-ass charm, nothing can stop you. "Any of you sexy-ass ladies wanna dance with a pimp." That's the stuff...what a sweetheart. We'll never forget you.

The Pointy Universe invites all to pay tribute to this glorified wigger by taking in an encore performance of him here jamming out to one of his own songs, a "Brazilian ass shaker" called Popozao. This instant classic captures the true essence of all that was K-Fed. I'm thrilled he will be immortalized on YouTube for generations to come.

Doo It

I was supposed to hold a sign and "wave at the dump" last weekend for Deval but ended up going to one of his South Shore rallies instead. I was so enthusiastic about voting for him this morning that I ended up spilling my coffee on my ballot. And I almost had to put a smallish elderly woman in a headlock to get another one. Get out there, vote out the boneheads and truthiness, but don't bring any food or drink into the voting stall...the wee old ladies at the registration table can be complete savages.