Problems of the privileged, I know. The cleaners we had growing up were me and my brother and sister, and we worked all Saturday. Clorox in the sinks and tubs, bleach in the toilets, and the looming threat of Mom throwing our shit out if it wasn’t put away. Until I was 15 that was the way things were. Until my Mom was working even more than my Dad was, and making more money. Then she realized she was sick of spending all day Saturday cracking the whip over our heads (and sometimes square on our behinds) and deep cleaning herself on the only day she had off. Because Sunday she was the preacher’s wife all day. Saturday was the only day she had off (not like she stopped ever, Saturday was our sports and Scouts and yard work and special project day for the working housewife whose work was never done.) So we got a cleaner! Happy days are here again, the skies above are clear again, let us sing a song of cheer again, happy days are her….
“What!? We have to clean for the cleaner? What kind of stupid shit is that? Yes I’ll put another dollar in the swear jar, but what the hell Mom? No hell doesn’t really count it’s not really a swear word! Why do we have to clean for the cleaners? Isn’t that their job Ma? No I don’t want to clean the toilets, yes I’ll go pick up my room and the living room. And another dollar in the swear job whatever. This sucks. Sucks is NOT a swear word !!”
Resentment is not even close to strong enough for how that tweaked me. It hardly affected my brother (who just piled everything in his closet and under the bed) and my sister (who was little enough she got a pass as long as she just piled up her mountain of stuffed animals in some recognizable shape.) And even my Dad, who shrugged, rolled his eyes, and exhaled a sarcastic “I don’t get it either, do what she says,” as he executed a more ornate version of my little brother’s cleaning motif, arms full of disassociated crap that he would shove in his own closet and desk drawers.
So I vowed to never never NEVER do this stupid crap, if I was lucky enough to have a maid when I was grown and gone. This bullshit is going to die in this house! My Mom can do it, but I’m not going to. If I have house cleaners they are going to clean my HOUSE and no way in hell am I going to clean for them!
Well that whole thought process and set of vows continues to play in my head as I clean for the cleaners. This shit sandwich is delicious! Once again, I am fortunate enough to no longer have to clean toilets. However, I am eating my words and vows all over again, as is tradition.
It turns out if you don’t pick your crap up before the cleaners come, they don’t pick up all your crap, organize it, and then clean all around and under where you had left everything. At least not my cleaners, and they’re pretty good. They’ll just vacuum around everything, and push your stuff to the side. Hell that’s what I would do! You’re paying me to clean your filth, not organize your life! Put your mail away and pick up your own damn dirty underwear. If you want a good clean from us, pick up. Ask your Mom, she’ll tell you.
So I am apologizing to my Mom in my head as I’m cleaning for the cleaners right now. Right now, while I am vacuuming the stairs the night before they come. Vacuuming the stairs! Even my Mom never would have done this! Holy crap what happened to me!?
St. Patricks Day happened to me. I’m vacuuming up thousands of tiny stars the damned Leprechauns spread all over with our industrial accident vacuum. Enough stars that it would destroy anyone else’s vacuum, and would cause our cleaners to either quit or substantially raise our rate.
Green toilets, stickers everywhere, magic stars an inch thick on the carpet? An entire Leprechaun nest built by your youngest agent of entropy, enticing the little bastards to stay overnight? No, not cleaning any of that. We just doubled our rate and your house will not be clean. And what the hell is a Leprechaun anyway.
I don’t even know who I’m cursing at as I’m vacuuming the stairs. Leprechauns, my damn kids, my Mom for starting this whole travesty and being right about it. Myself. Most of all.
“Daddy you said another bad wowd,” Lilah says as she walks past me down the stairs, arms full of marshmallows and tiny bowls of oatmeal she had laid out for the little green bastards.
Stupid cleaning for the cleaners. At least I don’t have to pay the swear jar anymore.
Maybe the swear jar would pay for the cleaners?
Crying! Why? Because I am laughing so hard at the vision of my amazing husband, their amazing father, wielding the leprechaun vacuum. Whose frickin’ idea was it to start that leprechaun thing anyway? oh yeah, magic Daddy:-)
Jees. I thought the real reason for hiring cleaners was to prompt the residents to clean. Leprechauns are messy little buggers and are stupid to think they will ever find a pot of anything in OUR homes. Thank goodness “magic daddy” isn’t’ a Easter Bunny, reindeer, tooth fairy magnet, Phew! What memories “magic daddy,s” little girls will have.
Well, lookkee here….a recalcitrant son. Hmmm………I love imaging him vacuuming, but you can tell that it was all worth it even with the swearing. Leprechauns take a lot of work.