Thanks to the magical deuce that has come to define my October, the rug-cleaning guy returned yesterday. For those keeping score at home, Fredo's indiscretion has now cost me $1370.
I hired this guy because he's the only cleaner I found who uses the right equipment. But like a lot of solitary contractors, he's lonesome, and I hesitated to bring him back just because it's impossible to disengage with him. But I would suffer through it in the name of not smelling poo.
I told him the situation. Instead of finding the humor in it, he saw an opportunity. "Might I make a suggestion?" he said with an import appropriate if he were saying "Buy Apple stock" in 2002.
"Crate the dog?"
"No, no, no." He pointed to the stairs that lead to the room in question. "A gate."
He even made a little swinging gate gesture with his hands so that my feeble mind might grasp the concept.
"Well...yeah. But then he's just trapped with the carpets upstairs."
"It's just a suggestion!" he said, hands up. He certainly hadn't meant to so overtly insult my lowly intelligence, his body language said.
As he took his check, he couldn't resist another attempt at condescension. "So, you know your lesson here? Don't use a Roomba. Roombas and dogs don't mix."
"Right. Or just turn off the automatic cleaning. Which I did."
"Whatever, fine, more work for me." The evidence of my stupidity was overwhelming.
I will never understand this blue-collar impulse to condescend to customers in their own home, but you know who's never once done it to me?
Women.