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.