Help

I enjoy a rare privilege--at least, rare to someone of my background and heritage. I have a cleaning lady. I was raised in a world where one did one's own housework, or outsourced it to unwilling, but easily-dominated children. For twenty years of my life, my job description was short and to the point. I went to school and did whatever that entailed. I dried the dishes after dinner every day. I swept and scrubbed the kitchen floor every day. I cleaned and scrubbed the bathroom once a week. And I kept the room I shared with my sister in order--beds made, floor vacuumed, furniture dusted. I was never overly fond of any of those duties.

When I married, the dishwasher took over the dishes. I was a little casual about the rest, but it did get done--most of the time. Finally, when the girls took over all our spare time, we opted to hire someone to come in every couple weeks to spiff things up, and keep things from deteriorating too badly. For the past ten years or so, that someone has been Sandra.

Sandra is a little lady with tolerable English skills that do not extend to the written word. She arrives every other Friday morning, with a small army of smiling, non-English-speaking young women who very efficiently take over the house and leave it much better than they found it. We get along, for the most part. What we have found, however, is that the ladies have....a quirky sense of humor, perhaps? a desire to show us who's boss, maybe? In any case, they assert themselves in odd ways. It is a rare Friday that I return and do not find some evidence of their tricks. A bed is short-sheeted--not enough to look deliberate, but enough that it needs to be remade. Something will be missing, that won't be truly missed immediately.

Take the soap. One Saturday morning, I stepped into the shower to find that the soap was missing. A new bar, only recently placed in the dish. I looked around, but couldn't see it. Wet and irritated, I dripped my way to the cabinet, unwrapped a new bar, and continued...fuming..back to the shower. After getting dressed, I started looking, to no avail. Not on the counter, not in the trash, not in the cupboard, not in the drawer. Not even in the powder room. Who would steal a bar of Dial soap? Apparently, the ladies. It wasn't until the next week, when I dumped the contents of the laundry hamper into the washer--and heard a 'thunk!'--that I found it. Who would put a bar of soap into the laundry hamper? Yet there it was.

Paper towels! I am firmly of the opinion that Sandra runs a paper towel business out of her car. Each visit, every paper towel in the house would disappear, whether I had a single roll or six available. Poof. I will agree that paper towels are essential in cleaning mirrors, windows, maybe a final swipe for sinks and stoves--but the quantity in which they vanished boggled the mind. I am embarrassed to say that I have taken to storing paper towels in my car, leaving a maximum of two rolls available in the house. Explaining to passengers why I carry 8 rolls of Bounty paper towels is preferable to losing them to the cleaning lady mafia that has apparently cornered the market thereon.

And then, there is placement. I have things arranged in my house--on tables, on mantels, on counters. Not a LOT of things, but some. And I have them arranged in a way that I like: not lined up like soldiers, not arranged by twos in a parade line. Generally centered, generally symmetrical. Until the ladies come. Everything is then arranged in exactly the opposite manner. If something was squared, it's placed on the diagonal; if centered, it's moved to the right or left. If the line was staggered, it's straightened. Furniture, blinds, windowshades, rugs--all just slightly off-kilter. I spend the next few days simply adjusting things.

I have taken to unplugging my computer and printer because the connections were always jiggled to the point of disconnection. My printer never worked, nor my cable TV, nor my router when the ladies had been here. My toaster and coffeemaker were unplugged (usually discovered after an impatient few minutes spent wondering why they were operating so slowly.) My recycling bin held trash, and my trashcan held recycling. The parallel universe in which Sandra and her minions operate obviously has rules that are in conflict with mine. I have tried to explain my issues to her, but Sandra simply smiles and nods and says "Yes, Miss Mary." and no doubt goes home and laughs at how strange I am to quibble about horizontally vs. vertically placed throw rugs. Maybe I am. Maybe in Central America, candles are lined up like soldiers, and sofas are placed off-center, and soap is stored in laundry hampers. Maybe Bounty paper towels are their new currency. Maybe I should change ladies...but who knows what new quirks are out there waiting for me?