It's like Rambo, but with an M

Some guy called the office today, and I guess he misheard my name because he kept addressing me as "Mambo". Usually I tell people if they get my name wrong (I frequently hear Flora, Nora, Leah and other fugly names). But Mambo? It's so ridiculous and sassy, I didn't have the heart to correct him. Also, one of my (female) coworkers was repeatedly called Sir by one of her customers, so now I don't feel so bad.

Now onto domestic matters. The lady I rent a room from is the biggest freaking slob and it's starting to drive me a leetle bit up the wall. I was a messy person up until a couple of years ago so I think I have a fairly high threshold for untidiness. Quite frankly though, this shit is bananas. I shall not be surprised if the authorities will eventually have to drag this woman from her fetid apartment, yogurt running down her chin, a la Goldie Hawn in Death Becomes Her.

Mind you, Candy is not all to blame - I should accept some of the responsibility here for ignoring the initial warning signs. On the first day I moved in, I spent about an hour hauling bags filled with trash (food and otherwise) from my new bedroom so I could get the furniture in. Gross. The kitchen is also disgusting. The woman is too lazy to put stuff in the dishwasher so she lets her plates pile up in the sink, still covered in food and crap. It'll sit there for days until she decides to throw them into the dishwasher or buy new dishes. In the meantime, she'll use the faucet so the sink turns into this muddy swamp with dishes and food bits floating everywhere. Her son just moved back home and of course he never learned basic cleaning habits, so the disgusting factor has been doubled!

Now that I have completely trashed (heh heh) Candy and the way she lives, I'll throw in a couple of good points. Candy is a sweet lady and has been very kind to me. The rent is a great deal, particularly for the neighborhood. Also, I think the exposure to godknowshowmanygerms is building me up a killer immune system. Nevertheless. My current issue is: all the spoons have disappeared from the kitchen drawer. I suspect most of them have migrated to Candy's bedroom, sitting in the weeks old bowls of sour milk that surround her bed and computer desk. I did spot one spoon, but it was in the depths of the sink swamp, and there's no way I'm putting my hand in there. Tonight I ate my ice-cream with a fork.

Poor Mambo.