WHAT SHADY BOSSES, LIBERAL-ESQUE POLITICIANS AND OVERRATED CELEBRITIES DON'T WANT YOU TO READ
A Big Fat Disclaimer:
Please be forewarned that this is going to be a long, bumpy, jagged ride. If you're in the mood for a drink, and you're of drinking age, make one now. Repeat, make one now.
Firstly, this book is not a sex stuff book ... or anything my employer should be reading and holding against me as my alias has nothing to do with my job or birth certificate information. Now, would I read all that you may have allegedly 'engaged' in with, say, your female employees, Mr. So and So? Probably, but I wouldn't necessarily believe it all either. Like some people, I try to keep an open mind.
Anyway, back to sex stuff! For those thousands of horny folks from around the world who still visit my site every month only to be disappointed time and time again, sorry, you guys :/.
For those of you who are 'trolling' this page (you dirty, aggressively crazy 'trolls'!) about Amy Schumer, hold your horses for a bit. And when you get there, some of you might go, "WTF ... but that just can't be??" I can only say yes; yes it can. And I be going there like a mother fucker. You've been warned.
Also this: Find out how Amy Schumer EVEN sponged off details of my vacation with MY mother BACK IN 2001 AND 2003 after my boyfriend repeatedly turned me down after I asked him to go on vacation with me .... before breaking up with me. Sound familiar? That and I used to work in retail. Voila, Snatched was born. Amy Schumer is actually a cowriter for this movie (other than some other Josie Grossie douche who wrote yet another movie bomb, Ghostbusters Reboot) ... and that's even if Hollywood has been sort of hush-hush about it.
My private life (and obviously my work history in retail) was horrendously violated and exploited by the likes of Ditch Pig Schumer ....via another shitty, unfunny movie .... and now with Goldie Hawn .... a wonderful actress .... who can suck it! (Welp, Goldie had to buy new digs after all :()
Moral of the story: this is how badly my private life was hacked by these retaliatory shit heads. For that, I'm not too proud because I want all to know ... no matter how much SM/media has wanted to denounce me as disturbed and petty. Apparently, these spoiled over paid/drugged up dick heads never heard of karma. Apparently, people in Pig Skull's industry assume that it's typical and petty for people to violate people's privacy...before lifting stories off someone else's book and private life. Well, I don't. I think it's wrong and worth bitching about.
About the author in a manner of words:
One thing that I've learned after self publishing my book, which is indeed a lame and peasant thing to do in this day and age, is that I am one of the most sought after self published authors in Hollywood! Yes, indeedy! For free joke and production ideas, that is. And that is because if you happen to write a book that lampoons celebrities and market it on Twitter (and not just under @MaidNotForYou, but say, @JonHammsSlimJim), some social media hounds and other uncreative folks in Hollywood will take notice before incorporating YOUR own sentiments and satire in their in own literature and productions. Yupper. But please keep in mind that I may be purely delusional and not just bitter as many have come to "know".
I'll get to the privacy violation shit a little later.
Take for example, and here's where my grand delusions start: a multitude of Gawker and Huff Po articles and their titles (some with similar imagery depiction from my book and my tweets); movies and series productions like Spy, The Intern, Trainwreck, the last season of Nurse Jackie, Shameless, Silicon Valley, Baskets, and Veep ... just off the top of my head. Perhaps making fun of Edie Falco and Julia Louise Dreyfus, who are quality actresses no less, in my book wasn't the best idea. But then, Edie's known to get people fired if they're too "aggressive" and "attitudinal" since she must assume she's also the producer of some show she's on and can do whatever the fuck she wants ... so yeah, maybe she actually deserved it. Note: I'm not going to spend time and length giving all examples as they're already slathered on Twitter from the pit of my bitter and coo coo booboo soul. It's my belief that Jack Dorsey and Co. have done their best to 'minimize' my Twitter troll tweets these days, so they may be hard to find.
Of course, parallel thinking can easily be called into question. But I know my book (since I couldn't afford a ghostwriter like 95 percent of Hollywood), and I've sort of discerned what may peak some people's interest, especially when it comes to making fun of one of the most sought after actors in Hollywood and Vanity Fair/Jezebel/Huffington Post female/gay subscribers ... thee Jon Hamm! "Thee who?" most of you may ask. Because most of you may have skipped watching Mad Men ... or became increasingly bored of it's slow burn, creative Avant Guarde qualities that you forgot about who the star of the show was and all. "Who, what?? Hey, aren't I supposed to be reading about something else already?? What is your book about? Who are you? What is this all about??"
Bare with me, this might get good. Follow me on this journey and maybe we can learn something together ... even in a mediocrity where every other person wants to be counted for something while rolling their eyes at shit like this. Did that make sense to you?
Anyway, I thought it was just a good marketing ploy and good o'l fun lampooning acting ranges and penises on the Twitter; operative word thought. But, by now, I feel as if my book has been sort of raped and stolen from. Not any kind of legal matter ... but then, who just LOVES inspiring uncreative writers, producers, and comedians for free? I didn't think so.
So who am I as a first time author for the book Maid Not For You? A fucking annoying narcissist! Not really, but I get it. I'm an aging former cleaning lady who wrote a story that parallels true events in my life as well as my coworkers and clients. I've also written about the connections of poverty to mediocrity in America, bad television ... bla bla bla.
But more importantly, I'm someone who's been identified and marked as a crazie, maniacal, deluded and very immature sociopathic celebrity stalker who's been trying market a book via shameful 'cyber bullying'... which probably has given Drew Pinsky and Phil McGraw major hard ons by now. They're probably jumping at the chance for me to be publicly exposed as a villainous maniac on Gawker already.
Anyway, I've met people and experienced a few things by now ... as I live in NYC ... which kind of helps. Maybe this will all make sense to some or none of you, but yes, it's a very long, crazie story. So, best of luck.
Update, Summer 2016:
Full Disclosure: Although I didn't want to do it, I was morbidly curious. I actually watched Trainwreck for the first time recently. I vowed to never give a cent to the likes of Amy Schumer ever again. But I caved, truth be told ... which is how good advertising works.
Although there are residual sentiments expressed in the movie that are sort of 'parallel' to sentiments in my book, like say, being a broken drunken hor; being disgraced by condescending, shady bosses; trying to find a taxi in NYC ... dealing with gnarly "ghetto" meanie people on the subway, I have to say the movie wasn't nearly as bad as the trailer. Admittedly, I spent a lot of time putting down Amy Schumer for hacking some of my book and her "terrible" movie. But I can not honestly say it was all bad. Not great, but I guess that's what's great these days. Yup, let's grab a tissue together, shall we? And that is because Amy Schumer is capable of being a natural and an original ... even if she's not that great or ORIGINAL. After all, she is compared to what's popular among female comedians these days. When she say's "So easy!" at the end of the credits of Inside Amy Schumer, she's talking about workin it in our lovely mediocrity without even realizing it.
So with that I say, good going, Aimz. And YOU'RE WELCOME. But then, you still hacked from me as you did from your colleagues ... and way worse, you hacked into my privacy. (I've since deleted those details on this site, since there's already too much disclaimer shit.) You still should be ashamed of yourself, even if you and your narcissistic inferiority complex could careless. We of course don't know each other or share the same industry or all life experiences, but at least one of us has had the decency to be honest about ever being wrong over one's work without trying to be someone they aren't or ever galvanizing anyone's private information. How about you?
Update August 7, 2016 ... lemme guess, it's about Amy Schumer.
If you've ever written anything or created anything at all and ever felt plagiarized by someone else, you'd probably not only be offended and feel "hacked" by that would be plagiarist, you'd probably second guess yourself a thousand times over ... especially after the Amy Schumer Joke Thief scandal vs. parallel thinking debate that came into play in early 2016. But then, there were already people in Schumer's industry accusing her of such a thing ... including self publishing authors like myself. Actually, I think I'm the one and only self publishing author who seems to have done so ... all over Twitter and #AmySchumerSucks hashtag page. Of course, I wouldn't doubt if she'd do this to any author, whether high profiled or not. Duh. It's Amy SCHUMER. So yes, my verdict is that it's definitely possible Schumer has hacked from others when writing her book as well. Not only is it possible, but get a load of this newer shit: she continued to plagiarize sentiments from my book with her book. "Okay, coo coo booboo! Oi vey!"
For some of you who are reading this montage of WTF?, you might be so kind of enough to just shake your heads while thinking "This poor deluded soul .. and failed, disgruntled author. Maybe your book just sucks anyway? And I mean, hello? Why would any celebrity or the likes of AMYSchumer do this to someone LIKE YOU?" Okay, well, it is Amy Schumer. I guess I'll keep reading ... when is this going to end ... where's the fucking summary of this book already??!"
As of now, it's before the due date of when The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo (or as I'd call it, The Plagiarizing Book with the Stupid Title) will be sold in all major book stores and online all over the world. In a little over a week, at least hundreds of thousands (if not millions) of "OMG, Amy is totally hilarious--and ORIGINAL dammit! She's my hero! Fuck you all very much!" female fans and maybe a few thousand male ones who aren't misogynists so much as guys wanting to fuck her up the ass ... since she's extremely nordic as fuck (oink oink) will be buying her book out the ass. Okay, that was just tacky and meanie spirited. But again, get a load of this shit:
Anyone can easily google Amy Schumer's latest excerpts from her book. I'm just going to summarize based on what I read from some sites. In her book, Amy mentions how she met a "Britishy" sailor on a flight right before having a one night stand with him. She also mentions how she looked ragged and described in great detail of this. Later in the same chapter, she discusses her being in adorbs with some gay guy who made her feel special and oh so hot to fuck and shit. Guess, what? So did I in Maid Not For You.
Chapter in Maid Not For You that includes an excerpt about my one night stand with a South African who, would you believe, was also in the marine/yachting industry as mentioned in similar fashion in Amy Schumer's book:
Anyway, what’s a little sexual harassment and sodomy by some captain or engineer every now and then? It’s not like it happened all the time. The perks of not being born hot and blonde (and twiggy) may actually have saved what little dignity and sanity I’d had left after all. Then again, I wouldn’t be writing any of this shit anyway. Personally, I’d rather be a hot glorified maid with a fair amount of unwanted sexual harassment intertwined with preferred sexual harassment by good-looking deckhands who I’d be into stalking and sexually harassing.
Yes, those were the days in Fort Lauderdale: (cue thick Dutch South African accent). “I’m surry. But please … yur are not my speed, Jean-ie. No more drinking! Hure, have some matches. Try to just smoke. Keep well, okay?” Brent would say right before I’d put another drink on his tab at some artsy bar in downtown Fort Lauderdale while drunkenly whispering and slurring (before Charlie Sheen ever did), “I’m winning!” More embarrassingly, I’d be wearing everything Old Navy along with a pair of Crocs while drunkenly hobnobbing with these more sophisticated trendsetting English internationals before asking Brent to take me home in order to have mad, passionate, wild safari sexy time with him. “Okay, I’ll drive you home, but give me a few minutes with my friends … hure, just stand over thure for a bit, I’ll be back in a few.” Score! And after about forty-five minutes of standing around, that’s how you coax and score a tall, handsome South African lead deckhand who’s almost as handsome as Gerard Butler. Because I know I wasn’t the only Saffer (filthy slang for South African) stalker in Fort Lauderdale (—ahem, Carla!).
Another chapter about the hot gay guy who inadvertently made me feel hot like none other than Amy Schumer--oink oink. STOP IT. Right, so un-feminist of me, but she deserves it at this point. (Also, my gay would be 'lover' is dubbed as "Top" in these two excerpts.)
While still waiting for Nora’s habitually late ass to show up, Andrea and I began unpacking most of the Crate and Barrel dishware that many upper-class people seem to enjoy buying. Apparently, the color white has been a more popular choice for rich people’s ubiquitous dishware, which is probably analogous to what many gay men prefer among young, vanilla, athletic-pool boys, because as I looked up toward the hallway, I spied one of them who could be a Calvin Klein model—or say, the next Matt Bomer! Piercing hazel-green eyes, naturally tan skin, and chiseled features, Kevin’s roommate was definitely no bear! He was purely athletic with a near-perfect BMI! He couldn’t have been even 25 at the time. And not that I’d ever be the cougar type (even if I had the chance), but I couldn’t help but appreciate Kevin’s great taste in roommates—with a neat urban fashion sense, no less! He definitely had to be a model. (I bet he was a top).
As I was still laying eyes on the freshly showered Top (whenever he wasn’t looking), he walked up to greet the lovely Andrea. “Hey, what’s up? I’m Seth. How are you? Thanks for your help,” he said in a low baritone. You’d think this guy was more of a man’s man instead of a man’s man candy.
“Hey mon, what’s up? Seth.” as he extended his hand to me with a firm homie-handshake.
“T’sup? Jean,” since I apparently was as butch as him. (Porn Star! Whore!)
Later in the same chapter (I think this is the part Paul Feig might have enjoyed before writing about Chris Helmsworth's character bragging about his sexy photos in that shitty Ghostbusters reboot ... but oh, purely parallel, you guys! Isn't he original? Obviously not that much either.)
A few moments after Top left with Sadie, I happened to notice Top’s modeling portfolio on the dining room table that was sort of conveniently sprawled open. After about three full minutes, my curiosity got the better of me, and so I proceeded to thumb through each page of Top’s entire ne’ked portfolio like the dirty old woman I’ll probably end up being anyway (and definitely looking more like Nurse Jackie). Needless to say, the guy really looked pretty darn athletic.
Now, while I’d never assume that a guy like that would attempt to impress a cleaning butch like me, I couldn’t help but wonder if Top might possibly have deliberately left his folio there for me to see after all! Really now, seriously? Could it be possible? It certainly wasn’t like he’d ever left his portfolio out in the open before. (Usually, it was left on his nightstand, from what I remember.)
Twenty minutes later, Top and Sadie arrived back at the apartment before we began chatting again, this time about fashion and Top’s favorite flavored muscle milk.
“So, whaddya do for fun, Jean-ie?” as Top was rolling another blunt. “Wanna smoke?”
“Thanks, man. I stopped smoking years ago. Weed doesn’t mix well with me … makes me pretty sleepy.” (And maybe a little more willing.)
“Naw, it’s good. This is the good stuff. Kevin got it from the Upper West Side. Come on, I won’t tell on you! So, where do you like to hang out at?”
Amazing! Could Top have been so straight after all to harbor a fetish crush on an older voluptuous woman in hospitality?! Could it be possible?! But then, as if a bunch of gays and bisexuals aren’t Edie Falco fans anyway—duh. (Or is that for lesbians only?)
“Ah, c’mon, dude … Nora was cool about it.”
I declined again, and this time with a hint of an attitude. Fucking stereotyping pool boy. And Nora? Drug addict. Probably another reason she was late all the time.
“Oh hey, you check out my portfolio? You think the photos look crappy and overdone? I look pudgy, don’t I? Nora was probably saying nice things just to be nice. C’mon, you can be honest!”
After all, there was Top’s gaggle of male model friends who also happened to hang out every now and then—in Top’s room, but of course. Right, let’s move along, shall we.
Eventually, with all the partying and bisexual-ling that Top could muster whenever the cat was away (along with his apparent usage of the cat’s credit card), Top ended up being dutifully kicked out. Maybe the cat got jealous. But then, Kevin should have known better that he was bunking with a (ding ding ding!) much hotter, younger sugar baby in the first place. As well, it was probably a good thing to cut Top loose in order for him to do things of his own without having to whore himself to sugar mamas like Kevin Abrams before whoring himself to the gay side of the porn modeling industry.
End of Excerpts
Okay, if you're confused about ALL this right now, I don't blame you one bit. If you don't believe what I'm trying to get at, I understand. As far as the plagiarism accusations I've been making (HARD), I understand that it's not word for word or beat by beat necessarily. Thing is, there's a bit of history about how my book and MYSELF became known to a few folks in Hollywood and social media. Although you may not know the half of it and may not need to know any of this, it has a lot do with Twitter and a marketing ploy that went kind of bad. I will just leave the rest of that at that. As I'm mentioned earlier on this maze of a page, not only have my sentiments and my hard work from my first book been hacked by hacks as I believe, but so have my privacy and my entire identity. And not just from the googling either. As I mentioned earlier, I live in NYC. I've met some folks in the biz. I've met at least one person in media who mentioned my book before I started bragging about it. One of my former coworkers apparently knows Jon Hamm and Jason Su-dickus, and we almost instantly never got along. He was the same guy who'd never give me any eye contact or say hello as we'd walk by each other. It would be the same guy who would actually steal a client of mine in the field of ... um, property management ... before finally admitting to it and coughing up my percentage of the deal. Mind you, after ALL of this, I've sold less than 30 copies of this forsaken book. Okay, so my book must suck ... that and more folks just don't read much anymore ... especially ebooks from self published authors. By the way, if this entire page was merely for a marketing ploy, I'd be an idiot. But what the hell, right? Point is: I believe what happened to me happens all the time as you may already understand. Just google Angelina Jolie + plagiarism.
So, yup. I guess that's what happens when you have a book and a gnarly marketing ploy that also expresses decent over shitty media and some of the folks who are employed in it. You certainly can piss some people off to retaliate ... or sponge ideas off your ass.
Anyway about the book ...
"WHOA! WAIT A SEC! These are just a few parallel thoughts from your book! They're mere coincidences, crazie cleaning lady!" Fine. Once a upon a time, about two years ago, when I was marketing my book on @JonHammsSlimJim ... while posting pics of big, juicy booty women, I tweeted @AmySchumer about how lame her #AskAmySchumer was for a #marketingploy LOL! I was merely joking around. Shortly after, during her Season 3 promo for Inside Amy Schumer, Amy would joke about big, juicy booties being a marketing ploy--LMAO! I thought it was cute, before calling her ass out as a hack. I was just kidding, Amy! You're not a hack. Wait, lemme google that. Apparently, she'd already been there done that ... starting with other female comedians like Sarah Silverman and Wendy Something ... bla bla bla. I more or less ignored it, because, you guys, it's Amy Schumer ... and surely, she's funnier than Silverman anyway. (To this day, I still think Amy is funnier than Sarah Silverman. So easy!)
Fast forward to 2015 at the Apollo, Amy Schumer would be barreling out jokes about dirty HAND HORS, being mistaken for a guy, putting tracks in a lesbian's hair, finding South African guys sexy ... all the while loving sexual harassment out of desperation and the need for attention. Admittedly, I kinda wanted to beat her face in ... just to see if she'd look extremely nordic XL. What, a little too sociopathic? My bad. I'm sure Amy has as many security guards as Jon Hamm and Lena Dunham have put together by now. And that's okay, because my book is helping to foot her bills. Glad I helped create another image of you, Amy. Thanks for the commission. Question: which actual class clown and shoplifter inspired you to pretend to be one who stole 100k worth merchandise from the same department store before never getting caught? Just asking. I guess Josie Grossies, who are picked on in HS, twenty years before having their very own one night stand, tend to be popular class clowns and kleptomaniacs. Gotcha.
I mean, sure, these aren't terribly specific sentiments and satire that I'm pointing out. And while there's a few more sentiments and tweets that she'd apparently hack from me, myself, and I ... and using Jon Hamm to help promote Trainwreck shortly after I made a tweet about her and Jon Hamm having mad passionate oral sex, I guess I could be utterly WRONG. Anyway, can someone please tell this derp supa-stah to stop abusing "Rock on, girl ... rock on!" I guess if she hated and rolled her eyes at my book, she must have paralleled some of these sentiments through involuntary osmosis while drinking some Jamison. Totally.
Whenever I give a shit enough to rant more about this, I'll be gabbing about Nancy Meyers' aging, namby pamby, uncreative ass and a chapter in Maid Not For You ... retrogressively known as The Intern. But then, much of my beef is already covered on @MaidNotForYou and #MaidNotForYou on Twitter. We even share a 'masseuse', a load of intern clutter, how traditional genders pronouns are still wrongly being expressed, and someone forgetting what they majored in college in the story! Parallel thinking, you guys! Totally.
Update August 27, 2016 ... for the love of God, this can't be about Amy Schumer again?? Lady, you really need therapy!
Ok, party people ... (or random person reading this site out of curiosity and boredom while still assuming this book is about porn ... or some crazy, murderous middle aged woman on crack) here's the deal: I'm not really going to bitch about anything in this update. I'm not going whine or moan about Amy Schumer having some mental disease called Plagiarissistic Self Unawarable Narcissistic Dumb Shit Personality Disorder or anything like that. I'm not going to murder anyone after buying a gun at Walmart ... since there are no Walmart stores anywhere near Brooklyn, NY --but of course. No... I'm just going to calmly copy and paste more Maid Not For You and Amy Schumer's book The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo comparisons in this update. To be fair, I have not read Amy Schumer's book at all other than random online excerpts of Amy Schumer's book. It is kind of peculiar how her book's excerpts that are online so far are similar to excerpts in my book. Things that make you go, hmm--are writers of these articles trying to say something?? Oh, wait, it's >>Amy Schumer<< ... almost everything she says, does, writes, jokes, farts, shits is from someone else. Duh!
But before I do this, I want to make it perfectly clear that I plan on stealing/hawking/looting The Plagiarizing Book with the Stupid Ass Title somewhere, somehow without paying for it and begin reading it whenever I need to move a big fat turd from my ass. Besides, I'd like to think this would at least help save paper for the environment. Gross and stupid, I know, but so is Amy Schumer and her pathetic conscience. Oh well, I tried, you guys :(
The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo
Excerpt about a messy, dirty apartment:
I said, “Let’s go to your place.” “OK,” he said, “but it’s kind of a mess.” I let him know I wasn’t the type of girl who would ever care.
That night, he opened his door – and there it was. What had probably once been a beautiful studio apartment had become an overstuffed locker. The kitchen and bathroom were black with mould, all porcelain surfaces coated in hair and grime, and there were unwashed dishes and towels covering every inch of the counters. It’s not that uncommon for a guy to have a disgusting apartment, especially if he’s single. I actually think it’s endearing. But Neal’s apartment went far beyond endearingly dirty. It was like Jumanji. Filled to the brim with unnatural things that didn’t belong in an apartment. Piles of books and clothes and sneakers and furniture sitting on top of other furniture. There were magazines and papers stacked in tall symmetrical towers. Big haphazard pyramids of exercise contraptions and unopened packages. Protein powders, healthfood products, junk mail and paperwork, CDs, rolled-up posters, jump ropes, empty grocery bags, knee pads… It was a filthy, stacked-to-the ceiling nightmare. You had to walk sideways through the narrow pathways he’d cleared. This boy was a hoarder.
I instantly sobered up.
“I told you it was messy,” he said. “Is it bad?”
“No!” I shrieked too loud and fast. “It’s a really nice apartment.”
I shut myself in the bathroom and noticed a bra hanging on the door. I’d previously been suspicious he had a girlfriend – some little model walking in Paris at fashion week, even though I don’t know when fashion week is. I don’t think this bra could have belonged to a recent girlfriend. Based on the expired time stamp of everything else in that apartment, that bra could have been hanging there for years. It could have been Amelia Earhart’s bra. I stalled in the bathroom, marvelling for a moment at the fact that a man so perfectly waxed and so expertly coiffed could emerge from this bottom-of-an-orangutan-cage bathroom every morning.
After I pulled myself away from the bathroom, he continued leading me through the pathways he’d cleared. It was like being led through a maze. It smelled dusty and like his dog, a sweet pitbull who followed us single file. He offered me a drink and I said no. That’s how bad it was. He led me to the only clear area – the love seat in front of the TV – and we watched TV. Rather, I pretended to watch TV, unsure of how to leave.
So what did I do? Well, Amy, you obviously left. No, that is what a normal person would do. What I did was let him lead me to his mattress that had no sheets on it. It was an out-of-body experience. I was looking around the room at the stacks of things he had accumulated over the years. The dog and I made eye contact. I felt like we were sending each other the same message: “HELP!” I got dressed. I remember making myself pause to feel what it felt like to be in my 30s and having a sexual encounter like this. Never again, I thought. I said good night and walked back out to the city street full of steaming trash where things were nice.
I went home and showered for eight years. I don’t know what caused his condition. My only guess is that maybe he grew up without a lot – and maybe material things and just having stuff makes him feel successful. This analysis is based on watching three episodes of Hoarders and asking no one.
Maid Not For You
Entire Chapter of Mr. Icky Poo:
After months of saving a couple of hundred bucks, I was able to score my first pair of Hunter boots at Bloomies. Finally, I could fit in with the Manhattan décor of a bunch of middle-and-upper-class yuppies, which provided a fair amount of worthiness in my own sad little world. It just so happened to be on the same day I’d have to service a studio apartment inhabited by one Mr. Icky Poo in my neighborhood of Roosevelt Island. Point being: The day that I’d purchased my rubbery boots from Bloomingdales was a day I had made the shallow mistake of blowing a hundred and fifty bucks on a pair of overpriced, Chinese-made crap that barely fit over my calves anyway (obviously I forgot about the “Huntress” ones). Instead, I should have saved that money for my “Take this Job and Shove it Up Bob’s Ass Fund” by the time I began this next horrible appointment.
After leaving the money-sucking Bloomingdales, I trekked my way back to Roosevelt Island where the new client was waiting for me to arrive and clean his apartment. Before seeing the place, I’d pondered what “two hours” really meant to Madge since, as she had attested to me earlier, “it should only take a couple of hours.” Two hours in Madge’s world basically emphasized the traditional approach to superficial cleaning between 1.5 and 2 hours before running to the next apartment, cha-ching.
By the time I entered the client’s apartment building, I had already smelled the familiar scent that many of us will experience by the time we’ve grown old and more or less poor—the smell of the elderly in hospice. I headed up to the sixth floor where the client resided. No sooner had I walked up to the door, than I could smell an additional combo odor of nursing home and stale, greasy food. I knocked on the client’s cold, Ford Pinto blue door while waiting impatiently to get whatever shit over with before nightfall and before my hoard from Bloomingdales would be stolen—since I really was living in the ghetto section of swanky Roosevelt Island.
And so, naturally, when the client’s door opened, it was like life flashing before my eyes. What greeted me was an elderly, overweight man in a dirty T-shirt and a pair of old sweatpants, obviously living in a borderline hoarder’s would-be-/should-be-condemned studio apartment. As the old saying goes: fuck me. I’d say about 80 percent of me wanted to just turn around and run—not walk—away from this old fart and the hell he was living in, which included a prepubescent cockroach already hightailing it out of the front door for dear life. Obviously, the little cockroach must have been as disgusted as I was and couldn’t wait to get out of there. But I did what any loser-working-for-a-wage-below-the-poverty-line did and walked right in. After all, someone had to pay for this useless, overpriced garb from Bloomingdales.
After entering the apartment, I greeted the slightly older Artie Lange as rosy and chipper as I could feign. I scanned 360 degrees of pure, absolute filth: dirty clothes on the floor; piles of furniture pieces atop each other; trash strewn every which way; decayed food all over the stove and kitchen countertops. I couldn’t even make out the color of what his kitchen floor and carpet used to be. I did my best to camouflage my inane contempt over how this sloth had obviously been living for years, even at his old age. Then again, there was my mother. I’d compare his place to my mother’s kitchen and garage, just to keep an open mind. Of course, my mother’s place wasn’t that bad; at least the large water bugs in my mom’s kitchen seemed quite cozy, even in the mornings. I looked to my left again in an attempt to hang my coat and purse somewhere safe. My eyes were then immediately drawn toward the ol’ man’s bathroom and his heavily pee-stained toilet, which matched the adjacent pee-stained floor. I’d actually give Gramps a pass on that, because what else is new among all men anyway?
Artie, who was around the age of seventy, flatly greeted me in a sort of smug, apathetic manner—“Hi, howyadoin’?”—right before he wobblingly tossed himself down on his couch to zone in on whatever was on his flat screen that had escaped him in the time he’d had to open the door to let me in. I took another swift look at the bathroom, all without covering my nose and mouth since, apparently, my immune system must have since kicked in. All I could see in the bathroom was brown and yellow, rust, hair, and of course mold.
Upon further review, I knew I had to devise a plan of action to get the hell out of dodge before ever putting my hands on this dirty old bastard’s digs. I headed back to the living room to inform the client that I probably wouldn’t be able to finish in time and would have to reschedule.
“Wha—? You can’t clean this in a couple of ow-waz? It’s just a stood’eoh! She (Madge) tole me you can to stay longer if you needed to!” the client flailed.
“Sure no problem, I just need to, erm, confirm something about a timing issue with Ms. Madge. I think I need to be somewhere in a few hours” (As in a shower with a bottle of bleach.) “Let me just call my boss; but no worries, we’ll get it done for you, sir,” I declared as I headed back to the bathroom with my cell phone clenched in my hand. It would be the first time I’d ever precariously attribute Madge as being my boss—whose ass I wanted to kick in from there on out.
Me: hey, so this is going to take longer …
Me: The guy’s place in Roosevelt Island, there’s blood stains on his bed. Do I have to touch them? The floor and vacuuming will take at least 45 minutes. The place is a huge mess. It’s going to take more than two hours.
Me: I’m just gonna try to do three hours and leave … I have to be somewhere at 6.
Needless to say, after sulking, brooding, and feeling sorry for all the life and career-making decisions I had made since turning thirty, including feeling sorry for the old man altogether (which is sort of similar to the five stages of cancer, aging, and ugliness), I eased up and managed to clean up most of the place. I even ended up changing the old man’s bloodstained linens while using plastic bags for gloves as he snoozed on the couch.
By the time I was ready to scurry out of there, I ended up bargaining with the client by offering an additional clean in the near future, which of course would to be done by someone else since I’d be “swamped for next week.” As if I’d even attempt to handle the old man’s old filthy mop in order to clean up gobs of stuck-on old food and—oh, sure—a dead baby rat melded onto the kitchen floor. I could have just up and quit Auxfud Maids altogether that day before rubbing Madge’s newly dyed head into this man’s grease-stained floor for all I cared!
The next day, which was Saturday,
Madge: Hey, I need you to go back and clean that guy’s floors in Roosevelt. Why didn’t you bother mopping the man’s floors??
And so, I did what any other upstanding and respectable cleaning lady would do in a situation like this: I decided to go back and finish the job that I’d started and was hired to do. After purchasing about fifty dollars’ worth of Swiffer products, (including a Swiffer mop) and a box of gloves at the most expensive pharmacy in all of NYC, Duane Reade—all on Bob’s company credit card, I managed to clean Mr. Icky Poo’s floors in under an hour. I also charged the agency double the time as an “up yours” to the idiot employer of mine who had the temerity to hire Madge’s ass in the first place; because I know Anna would have never done this to me—not even to Denise!
End of Excerpts
Update, December 11, 2016:
Of course--how could I miss that?? Hey Amy, did Bill Hader like his character, Aaron--from MY BOOK too? You know, that too good to be true guy named "John" from the chapter Apt 4F, Mr. Clean-- you lazy, bloated, writer's block pos! I understand that Judd Apatow facilitated this Trainwreck muse from my own book and private life -- initially anyway ... but you ate it up more than anyone else, Amy Schumer. I don't wish ill will on your family, but I hope that when your dad dies, he dies in his own shit on your overpriced couch and on top of those ugly quilts too---before you find him!
What's next, Pig Skull? Write a screenplay about the time I took my mom to Mexico and the crazy, wacky times we had ... before being hassled by some shady cab drivers?? Oh right, you kinda already did. Good luck on that.
Maid Not For You
Jean Bergman has a big chip on her shoulders, which goes beyond scrubbing toilets and working in retail. After all, it’s not like most clients and customers are all that hard to please (and coerce into applying for store credit cards after Jean's constantly pressured to do so). Ditto for her shady bosses. Because as long as Jean Bergman can manage to keep her head down and gulp down anything between $8.00 and $12.00 per hour for years and years, she’s golden. Moving on up while working full time? Not so much. For Jean Bergman, being golden in the world of low wage work is about being 'tolerable' in order to keep a full time job for the sake of being independent and profitable ... for her employer anyway.
From liberal-esque media icons and politicians to one-note celebrities, Bergman takes aim at them too in terms of how the never ending poverty loop has helped shaped their super rich lives, overrated careers, and banal talking points.