This morning, as every other Wednesday morning, the housekeeper is on my mind. The cats needed to be locked in the guest room in advance of her arrival. Breakfast needed to be earlier. Those sorts of things.

Rosalita and I have a unique relationship—although she’s been my housekeeper for 21 years, she speaks almost no English. And for my part, I speak almost no Spanish. Now you’d expect that after more than two decades, both of us might have made more of an effort—or that one of us might have blinked regarding the Language Thing. But no.

I suspect that what began as an unfortunate communications barrier has over the years morphed into a point of principle. I know I think “For god’s sake Rosalita, you’ve lived in the US for more than the 21 years I’ve known you. Really?” And she most likely thinks “I’ve been keeping house for you for 21 years, and still don’t know how to ask in Spanish “Do you need more Windex for next time?” Really?“

I also think that on occasion each of us suspects the other of a fake-out. I know I have. I entertain the fantasy that upon pulling away from my house, Rosalita sounds exactly like Vanessa Redgrave as she makes a phone call; that the last two decades have been some kind of rarified performance art on her part. And perhaps Rosalita imagines me speaking perfect Spanish to my next door neighbor only to suddenly snicker and switch to English as she pulls into my driveway.

But also know this—Rosalita is splendid person; after 21 years, she’s extended family. And I’m pretty certain she feels the same way about me. When one of us inevitably dies, the other will be at the funeral—and no doubt wonder about what the eulogist and mourners are saying.

This is how things stand every other Wednesday morning: My conceptual model for our communications is that she’s another one of my cats—that she hears “Blah-blah-blah-blah, Rosalita. Blah-blah-blah, Windex.” Meanwhile her conceptual communications model regarding me is based on her dog—that I hear “Blah-blah-blah-blah, Kultur. Blah-blah-blah paper towels.”

Over the years, complex communications have come to be handled in two ways.

The first is that we have both become adept at amateur theatricals. If I’ve happened to have boiled water on the stove for tea before she arrives, Rosalita is treated to my Academy Award level performance as the-clueless-person-who-has-touched-a-hot-burner. (“Genius! Heartwrenching!”—The Washington Post.) And on more than one occasion, I’ve witnessed her dramatic depiction of drowning-as-the-Titanic-is-going-down, which means that the water in bathtub is draining slowly again. (“Emotionally affecting! Her best performance to date!”—The New York Times.)

And if the need to communicate is critical, she dials her college-aged, bilingual son, and says “Johnny! Blah-blah-blah-blah Still no Espanol,” and hands the phone to me. So yeah, we have our very own ad-hoc United Nations translation service going on.

I sometimes wonder just how long our standoff will last—but I already know the answer to that. She’s as likely to reach for that box of Rosetta Stone installation discs as I am: “Hey, Rosalita—blah-blah-blah-blah Never.” To which she’ll reply “Blah-blah-blah-blah Yo también.”

And I can respect that—we both realize that in this day and age, it’s good to have principles.