Friday, October 28, 2011

The Happy Helpers Club

Afternoon Readers,

     They showed up unannounced. One minute I was doing chores, and the next, I'd recruited a rag tag help service I don't remember ever hearing or asking about. It happened about two weeks ago. Just as I'd reached to open the dishwasher, a chubby hand holding a business card, stuck itself in my face. Hesitantly, I took the little piece of cardboard out of the waiving paw and read it over:

The Happy Helpers Club, Inc. 
-We "help" out -

     I looked the two of them over. "So, you guys are some sort of maid service?"

     The boy looked at me. "Ma."

     "Well, if I hire you, what can I expect?"

     The little girl held out another piece of paper, on which was a list: 

     "We "help" wit da dishes, wendews, sweeping, and laundy. Pease pay wif cookys."

     Feeling a little sorry. Wait, no... wary, that's the word I'm looking for, "wary" of the offer, I nodded reluctantly. "Ok, you can help. I've got a lot of dishes to put away, so I guess a few extra hands couldn't hurt." 

     My first clue things weren't going to go so well was the stature of the workers; they looked like they were only about two feet tall.

     "How are you going to reach the dishes, if you can't even reach the count-?"

     But they'd already gotten to work. I watched as one opened the door, while the other one helped weigh it down. Quicker than a shark on a shish kabob, they climbed into the dishwasher and started unloading it. I had just enough time to catch a fork before it took my eye out. 
     "Hey, watch it. Do you guys have references?" 

     Too late, my china was being pitched left and right. It was all I could do to stack everything and run it to the cabinets. By the time everything was unloaded, I was ready to write a strongly worded letter to their manager. "I think I need to speak to your boss. I'm afraid this was terribly unsatisfactory."

     The boy, who seemed to be site manager, pointed at me. "Ma ma."

     "If you won't tell me, I'll find out myself. What do you have to say for yourselves?"
     The girl put a finger around her curls. "Hair?"

     "Is that it?"

     "Moo."

     Refusing to be called a cow, in my own house, I gave each of them an animal cracker and sent them on their way. I think I'll be a little more careful with who I hire from now on. Then again, I could use some help with the wendews....

Until Next Time, Readers!