What the..?

How the hell did she get my password?

I'm amazed that Consuela can sorta write; but also furious. Where the hell is she? She has crossed a serious line and I need to let her know.

I start walking down the hallways. She's no where to be found. I take the elevator up to the third floor wing and as soon as the doors open...

"Myyyy POH-kah-face!"

Jesus, Joseph, and Mary! Who the hell introduced Consuela to Lady Gaga? I start to head towards this bastardized version of The Gaga, which can be heard off-key over the sound of the vacuum.

Well, at least she's working I say to myself.

There she is. Her fat ass shaking back and forth while she vacuums one of the upstairs bedrooms. She dances around and sings along with The Gaga at the top of her lungs. Her iPod is sparing her from the torture that I unfortunately have to endure.

"Muh Muh Muh Muh Muh Muh Muy My Pokar face!"

"Consuela!" I scream over the sound of the vacuum (and quite possibly) the worst Karaoke rendition in the universe. She doesn't hear me, so I start to walk towards her.

"Consuela!"

Still no luck. I have to step in front of her and rip out one of her ear buds.

"Consuela!"

She stops the vacuum.

"Wha-a-at, Mia?" she whines. I guess it takes a lot for her to build up a rhythm and actually get any work done around here -- but this is important.

"Consuela, we need to talk. Sit down," I say and point to the unmade bed. How hard is it to make a friggen bed?

"Mia," she snaps. "I'm busy."

Oh, really? I can see that Consuela has mistaken my lax approach over the last few weeks as an indication that she now has more power in this household; which she does not. The beast has been birthed and I need to slay it.

"Sit down!" I seethe through my teeth. She is one obstinate comment away from me throwing her on the next plane to Columbia.

"Fine. Fine!" she snaps back at me.

I take a deep breath and sit across from her.

"Consuela," I start, "you can NOT write in my blog". I say. There. It's out. Crystal Clear. No Ifs, Ands, or Buts. There is no negotiation on this one.

"But Mia..." she starts, so I let her continue. "Mia...you were in da bed all day -- and I want to tell de people dat you can not rite yesterday, ya know?"

"Consuela, this is MY blog. You are NOT EVER to write in it again, do you understand? I am very VERY angry with you for doing that. It is not cool. I am not happy with you."

She begins to sulk. I feel like I'm disciplining a child.

"But Mia," she persists "da people, dey would worry, no?".

It's hard to stay mad at Consuela. She did, after all, have good intentions. But boundaries are boundaries.

"Consuela, it's not cool that you did that", I continue; hoping something sinks into her fat little head. "It's very inappropriate that you did that. Do you understand the word inappropriate? It means WRONG. And, you can't do that again. This is MY blog. It's personal. Private. It's not for you to write in, ok?"

She pauses, then looks up.

"OK" she says. I stare at her intensely for a moment. I'm not sure if I believe her.

I stand to walk away, because I have no choice but to trust that (for now) she won't do it again.

"OK", I say. That wasn't so difficult. I ask her to make sure she makes the bed before she leaves the room. As I head out, it occurrs to me that I forgot to ask her the most important of questions. So I turn back around.

"Consuela, how did you get into my blog anyhow? How do you know my password?" I was a bit stumped by this one.

"It's automatic" she responds. "Da computer let me sign in automatic. Da little dots come up in de box for your password - so I sink it's ok to rite!"

She's such a liar. She knows it's not ok to write in it.

I investigate a little further. I'm having a hard time believing that Consuela would understand an automatic prompt.

"How did you know the little dots would allow you into my blog?" I ask. I have my arms crossed like a tv lawyer cross-examining a hostile witness.

She looks at me matter-of-fact and replies, "It's da same as your bank account, Mia. When I go to send da money to my couzin Juan in da prison, like he tell me, da little dots dey come up in yer bank account too!"

My jaw drops. I have to re-set all my passwords and start locking my computer!

"You tell Juan," I start -- trying not to lose my cool, "that I will NEVER go on a date with him!"

"Mia!" she gasps and grabs her heart with her chubby little hand. I knew that would hit her where it hurts the most.

"You also tell Juan, that this little thievery from prison just ruined any chances of parole this year. I have his warden's phone number on speed dial from last year when he convinced you to pawn some of my jewellery; remember that? Remember how I almost took all the money out of little Juanita's college fund because of that stunt you pulled? What did I say about giving Juan ANY money? I said that Juanita, and Raul, and Pablo, and little Claudio will NOT go to college if you give Juan any money. Didn't I say that? So now, I will have to take the money out of their college fund and put it back into the bank account. Understand? If you keep giving Juan money, it COMES OUT OF YOUR CHILDREN'S COLLEGE FUND! Comprende?!? NO stealing MONEY from my bank account!!!" I'm starting to scream at her.

"But Mia, dere was da problem wis da little children in da prison, and Juan needs da money for dem" she cries to me. I know enough to know that Juan has taken advantage of my invalid housekeeper; but she needs to know that my computer is now completely off limits. No more emailing to her telenovela fan clubs. She can go to the Internet cafe down the street for that.

She's heartbroken. She doesn't want all the children in prison to suffer; but I explain to her that if she steals from me again she is not allowed to come here anymore; and her Juanita, Raul, Pablo and little Claudio will have to live in a box on the street. I think she gets it.

I walk away; more confused than angry at this point. I hear the vacuum start and Lady Gaga dying a slow death from down the hall. I plug my ears with my fingers as I wait for the elevator and head back to my computer to get some work done.