I Married My Undocumented Housekeeper…is that Woke Enough for You, Fuckface?
We’ve all heard the old saying, “good help is hard to find.” No one knows that better than me. I’d gone through a dozen housekeepers before I found my current domestic servant — let’s call her “Pilar” (Why? Because it happens to be her name, dumb ass). Past housekeepers have stolen from me — $200 bottles of Dom Pérignon, 600 thread-count sheets from Crate & Barrel right off my bed, and even oxycodone from my medicine cabinet (Don’t jump to any conclusions, numb nuts; I have a prescription; all on the up-and-up, I assure you). So, when Pilar answered the ad that me and the ex-missus placed on Craigslist (under the subject line: “Buscando ama de llaves: ¿Hablas un poco de inglés?”) we were pleasantly surprised. Here was a young woman who took her responsibilities as housekeeper to my Instagram model wife and our private, Christian academy-schooled three boys very seriously —
Look. Before you start talking your “woke” bullshit to me, accusing me of exploiting undocumented workers, know this, fuckface: I married Pilar to keep her in the country. Is that woke enough for you? What’s that? I can’t hear you? Did the Twitter Police get your tongue? That’s right. I divorced my Instagram model wife, Brandi033742, and broke a vow that was consecrated by God, to make Pilar an honest, law-abiding citizen of this great nation. What have you done, you self-professed “social justice warrior?” Did you marry your undocumented housekeeper, Ynez? How about your undocumented gardener, Antonio? No? I’ll bet you’re still cruising the Home Depot parking lots on a Saturday morning and picking up your undocumented help, that old-fashioned way. Now who’s the progressive thinker, huh, douche bag?
Not to brag here (#humblebrag), but I’m a tax attorney at a Big Four accounting firm with two homes (formerly three; Brandi033742 got the Aspen house as part of the divorce settlement); I don’t have time to clean my own “homes” (that’s plural, bitch) like you ne’er-do-wells. Unlike you protesters, most of my days are tied up on USGA-rated golf courses and in Michelin-starred, gourmet restaurants, meeting with clients named [redacted], brainstorming tax schemes and deciding the best tax shelters to establish an offshore trust for my country club cronies. I need someone like Pilar, in her crop tops and cut-off jeans, who isn’t afraid to get down on the floor with the Dyson attachments to reach under the sofa and vacuum up the dog hair from my two Rottweilers, Odin and Freya. These dogs shed fur like my fraternity buddies and me rain down dollars at Fleshbulbs Gentleman’s Club on a Friday night.
Pilar is quite a motivated woman, too; don’t dismiss her as just “Trey’s sexy Mexican maid.” Why, just the other day, I witnessed her skimming the pool without even being asked. Contrast that with Brandi033742, who’d just lay there all day, sunning her tits. Pool skimmer? If it’s not a selfie stick, she wouldn’t know what to do with it! Sure, once in a while, I have to ask (and rarely sternly), “Turn off the telenovela, Pilar, and get dinner started,” or “Hey, can you take that crying into another room? I can’t hear the football game.” Sure, there’s a language barrier; Pilar speaks hardly any English and…well, this is America…so, obviously, I’m not going to learn her gibberish. Besides, I see it as a benefit since, unlike real, authentic American women, I don’t have to waste time listening to her “feelings.” That’s not to say she doesn’t talk. In fact, she talks incessantly, but since it sounds like she’s reciting the Taco Bell drive-thru menu, it’s pretty easy to ignore.
You may have noticed Pilar seems to be getting a little thick in the middle lately (and it’s not from stuffing her face with churros — though I’ve talked to her about that). She is with “niño.” Truth is, I got a little foolish with Pilar one night, not long after she started working for me. A half-a-bottle of mezcal, a fistful of Xanax, and a tryst in the pool house later, and Pilar’s “tía Flo” was late. She wasted no time lawyering up with a Yellow Pages attorney (“Nosotros hablamos español! ¡Llama ahora!”). As a God-fearing man with a robust investment portfolio and no less than six offshore bank accounts, I did the right thing (after a detailed cost-benefit analysis): I dumped the silicone-enhanced dead weight holding down the chaise lounge and traded up for that Speedy Gonzalez with a feather duster. She agreed, via interpreter, to drop her sexual harassment suit in lieu of a marriage offer.
Sure, it isn’t perfect. The house constantly stinks of cilantro and she still cowers under the bed whenever I ask her for more “ice.” It ain’t easy being woke (or white or male — but that’s a whole other thing). Nevertheless, I’ve done my part — intentions be damned. What’ve you done for woke culture, fuckface?
