She's wearing the kind of outfit that makes housework look like a very bad idea — a snug little Mrs. Claus costume riding high on her thighs, duster in hand, waiting with practiced patience.

Her petite frame barely fills the uniform, which is exactly the point. Every bend and reach is deliberate, a quiet dare aimed directly at you, the mess-maker she's been sent to deal with.

You've got something that needs attention. She already knows it. The question isn't whether she'll get to work — it's how long you can stand there watching before you hand yourself over.