Cleaning ladies worth every penny
Paying people to clean my house twice a month is one of my few luxuries. My car is seven years old, I don’t own a good watch or diamond stud earrings, and I buy the cheap version of Ugg boots that crunch when I walk.
But there are times you have to pay the professionals to get the job done right. I wouldn’t dream of cutting my own hair or grooming my dog. And these days, the proper cleaning and upkeep of my house fits into the same category of things I should not attempt on my own.
And that’s silly, of course. The conventional wisdom of our mothers and grandmothers was you keep the house clean by spending three or four hours every day doing so. I grew up in a house that always looked like an “after” picture. My mother would no sooner have brought in house cleaners than hire someone to come by every night to brush her teeth for her.
Of course, she had built-in help, three of us girls, and she taught us how to pitch in. I did a lot of vacuuming and ironing, as I recall. Two things, not coincidentally, that I will do anything to avoid now.
I hired my first cleaning person when was in my late 20s, living alone in an apartment, and making decent money. Marcia would come every other Friday while I was at work; I would arrive home to find the check I’d left on the counter gone, my shoes lined up on my closet floor and the whole place smelling of Lemon Pledge.
It felt decadent. I felt a little guilty about it. It was a small place, and I wasn’t cleaning up after anyone but myself.
Flash forward 10 years or so, and the apartment was replaced by a big house filled with four people, including two children who were married to every toy, book, ball, doll or crumpled piece of paper they acquired. Our square footage began to shrink as junk filled corners. Cleaning the house meant picking up and putting things away. Yes, I’d run the vacuum and clean the kitchen, but actual scrubbing? Really?
I had some really great cleaning people over the years. But then we’d move, or they would, and I’d find myself stranded in my dusty world again.
I hired some new cleaning people this week, a pair of friends who’ve been working for some of my neighbors for years. They are busy and popular, and I was lucky to get them.
I greeted them at the door and then began my ritual of apologizing for the dirt: I’ve been busy. Boy, the kids make a lot of mess. I’m in the process of clearing out the extraneous crap. Blah, blah, blah.
They nodded and smiled and said they understood. I went to my office to work and they had at it.
Six hours later, they were done. And they only did the first two floors, not including the kids’ bedrooms, which would have extended their workday by another six hours.
Sharon finally called up the stairs when they finished.
“It was really dirty, huh?” I said, apologetic.
“That’s OK,” she said.
If they talked bad about me on the drive home, I deserved it.
I walked through my house feeling like Duchess Kate at the palace. The wood floors gleamed, the dust bunny colonies were gone, I could see myself in the countertops for once and also in the mirrors.
It was $90 plus a big, fat tip – the best money I would spend this week. Some things are best left to the experts.
Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.