My cleaning lady Francesca...

My cleaning lady has gotten a little too comfortable.

A of all: She moved her start time from 7:30AM to 8:30AM. Fine. I let that go because it actually gives me an extra hour in the morning to chill out with my babe.

B of all: After she takes off her shoes and coat, instead of grabbing the mop and broom she runs right over to Oliver and coos with him. I let this go too because I thought it was sweet. But as of late 2 minutes of cooing became 5 minutes. Then 5 minutes became 10 minutes. And last week, I kid you not, she cooed for a half an hour all the while telling me how she wanted to have kids of her own but her body would not let her, how she's now too old, how her husband was just laid off, how her mother is dying back in Mexico, and how if she had a baby she wouldn't be so stressed out and...I'm sorry but TMI. (mom: that means Too Much Information.) I'm thinking to myself, "Francesca, I'm so sorry for your stresses but really, you're my cleaning lady. I've got a handle on my baby. What I don't have a handle on is my kitchen floor. So maybe now's a good time to grab that Soft Scrub."

C of all: She asked me if she could borrow a shirt of mine to clean in. Apparently she brought her cleaning shirt home the week before and forgot to bring it back. My mother is going to die when she hears I actually lent her one. I couldn't have her cleaning my apartment in the huge turtleneck sweater she wore, right?

D of all: I put Oliver down for his morning nap and was excited to use the half-hour to catch up with my girl Martha Stewart. (I know she's dry and condescending as all hell, but I've taken a real liking to her.) During this time Francesca cleans out my refrigerator. She hollers from the kitchen that my milk is bad. "Fine," I yell back, "throw it out." Then she hollers that my bananas are rotten. "Fine," I yell back, "throw them out." Do I really need to "approve" everything? If the bananas are black, toss'em!

E of all: Seeing as it was almost 60 degrees out, I threw Oliver in the stroller and off we went to the park. I didn't want him to be breathing in the fumes once Francesca got going on the bathroom. She doesn't usually leave until around 2, but when we came in the door at 12:30, there was Francesca putting her shoes on. Huh? I was a little shocked and clearly so was she. She hurriedly said goodbye and was out the door.

After a moment it hit me.

She just walked out of here wearing my old crappy shirt, carrying a jug of milk in her right hand and holding a few bananas in her left!

It's come to the end of the line for Francesca.