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Every Friday, my wife has a cleaning lady come into our house and make sense of the mess I usually create in seven day's time. For the past three years, my wife has paid fifty-six year old Roberta to come to our house every Thursday or Friday to clean, organize, sort, and do whatever it is part-time maids are supposed to do. While I wasn't too focused on Roberta's actual duties, I was aware that the money Roberta was paid wasn't a paltry sum, either. I guess that for the most part, Roberta did an adequate job cleaning our home, although there seemed to be something each week she either forgot to clean, or return to the shelf the way she found it, and so on. I discussed these shortcomings with my wife, who then explained to Roberta what she had missed or not done. Usually, however Roberta either continued to miss the same spot or failed to rearrange things to their original place. This caused a mid-level aggravation in me, but to keep the peace, I decided to let the matter go. I had other, more important matters in my life that were, to be honest, more pressing.

So, I didn't shed any tears when Roberta arrived one Friday morning and announced that the next two Fridays would be her last with us. She and her husband, it seemed, were moving farther out into the country, and the drive into town wasn't worth the cost of gasoline, wear and tear on the car, and so on. As I'm sure you can imagine, the news that Roberta was leaving did not hurt my feelings in the least bit. Once again, and true to form, when Roberta left our house that morning, there were still spots she had missed, and shelves she had not restored to her ...

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