I never learn my lesson when dealing with Craigslist people. Last week I hired a woman to help me get the house clean enough every other week so I can fall asleep without spending an hour thinking about everything I didn’t have time to clean and how my children’s quality of life is going to suffer because of it.

She showed up an hour late, and right away I knew she was crazy. She had those wild, staring eyes that crazy people get after being crazy for a long time. She didn’t bring any supplies and after she spilled the Italian soda she asked that I make her, she sat staring at the stain forming on the counter, marveling at how quickly it was setting.

“Wow,” she said. “Look at that—look at how the syrup is staining. Isn’t that something?”

So what do I do? Pay her for two weeks in advance, of course.

The next time she’s due to come and clean my house, she calls the night before to let me know that she is retiring and has decided to open a tea shop. A tea shop? How lovely. There’s nothing a person likes better than to have a crazy-eyed lunatic serving them their chamomile. “Here’s your tea, miss. May I offer you a screwdriver in the neck with that?

I assumed she was going to work off the money I had given her and expected to see her Monday morning. Well, Monday morning came and went with no Clean Celine. That is what she calls herself—or, rather, used to, now that she is ostensibly trying to break into the hot beverage business.

I started calling her, insisting, politely and firmly, that she return my money. She sent me a text message claiming that she is broke, has to get a free food box and hopes I understand. Furthermore she will pay me on the third of the month.

By that evening I was convinced I had been swindled, so I changed my tactic. Since she wouldn’t pick up my calls, I started texting her messages: “Where’s the money, Lebowski?” and “I want the money, Lebowski.” She did not respond.

Today I was prepared to up the ante and move on to the bit about what happens when you fuck a stranger in the ass, but to my surprise she called my cell phone. When I picked up she said “Hello, this is Celine. Someone called from this number. Who is this?”

“This is Ami, Celine.”

“Oh, oh, oh. Hi, Ami. I was meaning to call you. I lost my cell phone.”

“Yes?”

“Look, my dad is gonna die if I don’t get him these meds. I’m really broke. I’ll pay you on the third.”

“OK.”

“You see, I’m in AA and MA; you know MA? It’s Marijuana Anonymous. Actually it’s my anniversary! I’m clean two months and three days today.”

“Congratulations.”

“Well, I live on disability so it’s just hard right now, but I’m writing a note to drop off the money with you on the third. I’ll be there then.”

“OK, Celine.”

Marijuana Anonymous? Who the hell goes to those meetings?

The only thing that I can take from this situation and feel good about is this: Judging from her character and failure to mention it, I am certain she has never seen the film to which I made reference in my text messages. She may have made off with my money, but she will die never understanding why I kept calling her Lebowski.

Dear Jake,

So you don’t like my pink trim, huh? Well, guess what? I don’t take decorating tips from someone who likes burlwood clocks. Burlwood clocks are an inmate’s way of saying “I’m sorry for hitting you.”

Get your act together, buddy.

Love,

Ami

Dear Ex-Aunt Stacy,

When I was 11 or maybe 12, I accidentally left a turd in your toilet. I realized just as we passed each other in the doorway of the bathroom, but it was too late to turn around and flush.

Things were never the same between us after that. I am certain that somehow this is your fault.

Love,

Ami

Long before I tricked Ethan into loving me, he was my nemesis. I don’t recall any specific reasons why now, but I could often be found plotting revenge and drafting blueprints for public humiliations. The problem I kept running into was how to humiliate someone who was casual about that time he pooped himself while wearing nylons.

In fact, the only time I’ve ever seen Ethan really get upset by someone’s prank was when he woke up to Arnica hovering over his cowboy boot like a crusty gargoyle while peeing in it. He insisted that it was very difficult for him to find boots in his size, and that everyone knows cowboys have small feet.

One night I had a brilliant idea: I would steal his hat and go graffiti up the downtown area, leaving the hat behind as evidence. I figured anyone would be able to recognize his hat—he always wore it, and it was the kind an old-timey detective would wear while solving crimes. At the time this seemed reasonable, but keep in mind that I was young and usually operating under the influence of a drug-and-alcohol buffet.

Things were going smoothly. After putting the finishing touches on my spray-painted butts and wieners and placing the hat where the cops would be sure to find it, I was crawling over the tall iron fence of a storage unit facility when who should pull up but a police officer. I was literally caught red-handed.

The officer gets out of his car, walks over to me, glances behind me at the freshly painted walls, looks back at me and asks what’s going on.

“Nothing,” I reply.

“You see who did this?” he asks.

“Fat kid in pajamas. He ran that way,” I say, gesturing to the south with my elbow.

The officer leaves.

I have to believe this cop just didn’t feel like dealing with me, and not that he went chasing after the fanciful culprit, though I was ready with more details, should he have asked. 

His pajamas were striped, he walked with an unsteady gait, and his hair was mostly straight, but curled up a bit on the forehead where things got greasier. He was wearing sneakers with two different colored laces, one neon green, one black—I remember because I thought it odd that he’d be wearing sneakers with pajamas. He looked like his name was Aaron, or possibly Matt. His cheeks were red compared to the rest of his pale face. It looked like he didn’t get out much, and his sensitive skin was reacting to the atmosphere.

The fat-kid-in-pajamas explanation has, over the years, become one of my favorites. You can use it with anyone, from roommates and employers to pet shop owners and British royalty. Who ate all the Beefaroni? Fat kid in pajamas. Who spilled coffee on the Mancini file? Fat kid in pajamas. Who mixed the betas? Fat kid in pajamas. How did this horse get in the ballroom? Fat kid in pajamas.

The thing that really tickles me about this memory is the fact that if I had been busted, I’d still be paying the fine—which means that Ethan would be paying, because while I go to school, he’s working. So either way I would have gotten him. That’s almost as funny as the time I swindled him into marrying me and combining our DNA.