So now that we have this big house, my wife Barbara thought we should get some occasional help cleaning it. She thought this because she knows she won’t be getting much help from me.
Don’t get me wrong; I am a very neat person. I’m just not a very clean person. To translate: I like everything to be in its place, but I don’t particularly mind if there’s a two-inch layer of dust on it. Barbara is the opposite: she likes things to be clean; she just doesn’t know where they are.
I should also point out that we had cleaning help in our old, smaller condo in Westchester. Maria and her staff would come in once a week for a couple of hours and move our stuff around so we couldn’t find it, and make subtle changes to the settings on our electronics, like turning the volume on the alarm clock down to zero. Although such actions could easily be explained as the result of an accidental movement of a dial while dusting, I always had it in my paranoid little head that it was their way of getting back at “the man,” a role that I’m frankly not used to.
I also assumed that we would never be able to run for office because of some violation of payroll and/or immigration laws, although, to be fair, it would probably be ill-advised for me to embark on a political career anyway, considering that I once lost in a bid to be elected to the Board of Directors of the condo. This after a memo went out begging owners to run because they were short of candidates.
Anyway, Barb got a recommendation from a neighbor for a cleaning person, and a woman showed up one evening, and Barb gave her a tour of the house, and the woman said she’d get back to us with a price.
And we never heard from her again.
A reminder here that the economy is not in great shape. The unemployment rate is still pretty high. And while I’m sure this woman is a competent cleaning person, she did not possess the sort of obvious qualities that might create an extraordinarily high demand for her services, such as ownership of industrial-strength vacuum cleaners or the willingness to wear French maid outfits. And besides, if she was so busy that she couldn’t take on any more clients, why bother to show up in the first place?
So let me ask you: can we take her disappearance as anything other than a whole new level of rejection? Does this not mean that my home and my family are not up to the Connecticut standards of filth to which this cleaning lady has become accustomed? Do we not have enough knick-knacks to dust? Is our decor too gauche to touch with her cloths? Did she see indications that we just wouldn’t be able to afford a cleaning lady of her quality?
Or do we somehow give off Addams Family vibes?
This is, indeed, quite disturbing.
And I guess it means we have no chance of getting into a local country club.
See you soon.