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The only person who spends more time than I do dealing with Winifred and her neuroses, is Dr. Doormat. Granted he willingly entered a legal contract vowing to deal with her til death to they part, while I, thank god, am free to skidaddle whenever I get too fed up. Over the past two plus years that I have been under their employ, we have developed a unique sort of bond. (No, not like that, freaks.) We share a solidarity that is unique to those who simultaneously must live under dictatorial rule. Except for Princess’ mother, Winona, who shared an apartment with Winifred many years ago, there really aren’t any other people who can truly comprehend our daily plight. And so, we have forged a distinct relationship based on the fact that we alone must endure life with under Winifred. We help one another, lending a hand when we can, pitching in, so that neither has to deal with Winifred’s wrath.

Dr. Doormat casually informed me that Winifred would be home within an hour ready to clean the house as he rushed out the door on Tuesday, off-handedly adding that a friend was arriving from the airport later in the day. The arrival of houseguests ranks on Winifred’s top five list of serious stressers. One which instigates a cleaning frenzy worthy of a Clorox commercial. Dr. D then shouted an altogether far too cheerful “good luck!” as he left me with an as of yet, un-napped and clueless Buddha.

“She did quite a number on this place.” He nodded, surveying the now spotless house, upon his return.
“No kidding.” I replied.
“How fortuitous that I had plans.” He grinned.
“Yeah, way to abandon me.” I sulked, displeased.
“Hey, that’s why we pay you the big bucks.” He joked.
“No way. You completely set me up!”
“Oh, totally.”

So much for having my back.

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