I can totally sympathize with Paula Deen, and why not? My maids have, and I am certain of this, robbed me for years. Proof? I have none. I need none. I have many fabulous things. Who wouldn't want to rob me?
It got so bad that, at one point, I had to hire my son Byron to be a maid. He did an okay job, but when he needed time off, we had to end the charade. Byron thinks cleaning a toilet involves never touching the toilet with human hands, and that won't do. I need the porcelain polished and disinfected by a scrubbing pair of mitts because nothing else will do.
Anyway, Paula Deen has been scammed by her own maid:
Food Network chef Paula Deen says her maid cleaned her out of more than $10,000 in jewelry and other expensive stuff before she fired her and had her arrested.
According to a police report filed by Paula's husband, Michael Groover, and obtained by TMZ, Mary Alice White stole jewelry and other precious metals during a fairly long period of time -- August, 2009 to May, 2010. Groover claims the maid did not have a sex bias ... she stole men's and women's jewelry -- allegedly.Groover told cops when he found some of the missing jewelry in White's possession, he and Paula fired her immediately.
What I hate about TMZ, and I know you hate it, too, is that there is a complete and utter ignorance of decorum or writing ability. The pieces are crap, they're written by ignorant hacks, and I do hate blogging them. I'd rather do a straight news story and add some brilliant commentary. That's how I do things here.
Anyway, I used to have a maid named Maria, and I think we still have a photo of her in our archives.
Maria was a professional wrestler on the Tejanomania circuit of women's wrestling. Maria could crush a human larynx with her thighs and people would scream the Spanish equivalent of "sweet dreams" when her opponents would go limp. She had a very powerful grip, and I hired her because she could scrub a toilet clean and wasn't shy about it.
Every morning, I would awaken and Maria would be standing in the bathroom, pointing to the toilet with a huge smile. I would always inspect it, lift the seat, look around the bottom of it, and give her a fifty cent tip for her stunning attention to detail. She was able to do such fine work because of two things: liquid cleansers and an old cloth baby diaper that she would hold in her hands and buff the toilet like a shoeshine boy.
I can't really say enough about a clean toilet. Sure, there's the science aspect of it. You don't want to relieve yourself where there's been an outbreak of cholera at the bacterial level. You don't want to have to break out the science kit your eldest son left in his room when he ran away to live with his step-mother. If you do, and if you take samples from the areas surrounding the toilet seat, and place them on the glass slides with the cover slips firmly in place, remember to archive them and name them. You have to follow the scientific method. Let me explain.
By getting a handle on the situation, with regards to a dirty toilet, you can determine what kind of "petri dish" you have festering in your own home. It's a safe bet that most people don't have the time or inclination to take clearly identified samples from the toilet seat and affix them to the glass slides. I do. I am aware of what the scientific method entails. I know how to label and preserve my slides. I know how to keep them properly organized in a sanitary location in a specially-cleaned and ventilated room where research and trends can be identified.
For example, I took several samples from the toilet in the basement, and I calculated that Maria wasn't cleaning it properly. Each slide, archived and preserved for a ten day period (I took a sample every four hours for ten days--what a lot of work!), told the story of a nasty outbreak of bacteria. A veritable colony of disease appeared, and it grew. It grew inside of my very own home, with a maid who was going about her business as if nothing was new under the sun.
Finally, when the bacteria spread, I could take no more. A cut on my finger from handling an improperly beveled glass slide from the junior scientist kit reddened and seemed to swell up on me. I frantically applied rubbing alcohol and Neosporin. I, frankly, had a near meltdown. I summoned Maria to my desk, in the library, and dressed her down.
I took her by the hand (my clean hand, obviously) to the basement and confronted her with the evidence. She broke down crying. She admitted that she had only been swabbing out the inside of the toilet with bleach and liquid Comet cleanser. We hugged, and that was that.
My finger healed, my maid cleaned the toilets a little better, and I discovered something about myself. I really am a good person. I didn't fire her. I didn't have her arrested after planting some stolen money or credit cards in the worn-out little purse her grandmother in Guatemala made from a rice sack that fell of the last truck that ever visited her village before the tragic seasonal landslide killed all of the people from her village who didn't have polio. I just led her back to sanity. I calmly instructed her on how to be a good maid. Isn't that what a good person does with the hired help?
Anyway, when Maria was transported illegally into this country by some coyotes, after visiting her family in some obscure part of Central America, she ended up being shot by my Father. He was messing around with one of the Czech machine guns we own--it was no big deal. Eventually, they let her leave that hospital on St. Kitts. Or was it St. Thomas? I forget. If you see Maria, tell her she still owes us fourteen hours to complete her last week on the job. We were kind enough to issue her last paycheck with the full forty hours, but, really, we could only see where she had put in 26 hours. Having her complete that last bit of work for us would be helpful.