boss lady

Every week there is some new disaster in my cleaning lady's life. The granddaughter who's mouthing off at school. The son whose policewoman wife was beating him. The contractor who's suing her after fucking up her kitchen. The fainting spell that took her to the doctor. The bag of gifts she left in the subway by accident. The doctor again. The contractor again. The legal fees. The doctor.
Is every cleaning lady's life like this? And do all of them share the information with their employers? How did I get the position of confidante and problem solver for a woman I see for a couple of hours a week? I have never met her family nor been to her house.
But of course she knows all about me. Who my family and friends are. What newspapers I read and how often I move the furniture (often). Where I keep my spare change. What my closets look like. And my underwear. And my sheets after visitors.
She knows where I live. And everybody likes feedback from an employer. Never mind that I'm just a person, too, a person who has consistantly refused positions that require managing employees. I know the rules. And so I listen.
She doesn't approve of my smoking, although she's never said so. I think I'll have one now, before she gets here with her litany of misfortunes.
Today's reason: I'm the boss.