Seriously, you can eat off my floors. Usually I would never recommend this, as you might end up with hair and/or ants in your mouth. But today, my floors are squeaky clean. No thanks to me.
After 13 years of marriage, I’ve done something I’ve never done before. At Fiddledaddy’s urging, I hired a cleaning service to clean my house.
First of all, in my own defense, it’s because I have been unable to clean my own house since I got sick back in January. I keep up with laundry, dishes, and well, that’s pretty much it. I can’t get down on the floor to clean, and I’ve just barely kept the bathrooms a smidge less than disgusting.
My family has done a great job stepping up to the plate, but their idea of clean is not quite my idea of clean. And I have given birth to a gaggle of stashers. If I ask them to clean up their floors, mysteriously the wadded up clothes end up stashed in drawers and closet corners. And only the wafting smell of dirty clothes alert me to this fact. Weeks later.
Enter the cleaning service. Fiddledaddy found them on Angie’s List, and they came with excellent references. But they are so popular, I had to wait a few weeks before they had a THREE HOUR opening to clean my house. THREE HOURS. To clean my house. I would have thought more like THREE DAYS.
(Lowers voice to a whisper) They are here right now. And, (barely able to control my inner 7 year old girl giggle) they’re cleaning the top of my fridge. I have NO IDEA what is even UP THERE.
The plan is to have them come and clean every two weeks, until I get back on my feet. My joy knows no bounds.
We only had a cleaning service when I was growing up when my mother was pregnant with my little brother. She was a black lady named Dorothea, and I adored her. I believe she helped my mom from the time I was 2 until about 3, yet, I still remember her.
But one incident I failed to remember, so my mother delighted in reminding me when I became a young adult.
Let me set the stage for you. The time was the early 60’s. Both of my parents smoked, and ash trays were scattered throughout the house. I had an issue with eating stuff that my mother didn’t actually intend to feed me. Like June Bugs and cigarette ashes.
My mother thought she had outsmarted me when one day she told me that I was going to turn black if I continued to eat ashes.
Well. One day I came bounding to the front door to greet Dorothea. And I looked up into her sweet face, and it occurred to me, “DOROTHEA, DO YOU EAT ASHES TOO?”
My mother clasped her hand over my mouth and muttered something incoherent, while dragging me away.
In the meantime, I’m sitting in my office chair enjoying the soothing sounds of an industrial vacuum cleaner. And if I could get down on the floor, I would totally eat my lunch down there. A lunch that does not include ashes or June bugs, by the way.