Good Times

What I am about to type is lame and really embarrassing.  As a little girl I vividly recall watching an episode of "Good Times" wherein J.J. and the gang were headed for financial ruin . . . . they needed money for something very badly.  The landlord was awarding money (just the amount they needed, of course) for the cleanest apartment in their building.  Inspectors came by with white gloves and all.  Not surprisingly, Florida won.  She had the cleanest apartment in the entire building. She saved the day.  Good times, indeed.

I remember watching that episode and thinking, "She got paid for keeping her apartment clean?  But, cleaning is fun".  Yes, my disorder started early in life.  Anyone who has seen me clean can tell you, I am a woman on a mission with laser-sharp focus.  It occurred to me a few months ago that I recall that episode every time I clean.  As if someone is going to stop by with white gloves and give me a ribbon and some cash.  I told you it was lame. 

Mix my clear recollection of '80's sitcoms with a loathing of germs and a touch (okay, maybe more than a touch) of OCD and thereyouhaveit:  an extremist housekeeper.  That's at least the surface of my issues.  There are deeper layers, but those are for me and a therapist to hash out. 

A couple of posts ago, I wrote about my hope that the cleaning service I hired would actually meet my fanatical housekeeping needs.  I had been getting their fliers in the mail for months; they were genius.  They said "Life is too short to clean your own home".  Damn right. 

Don sent his superhero-like team of two in this morning.  At least to me they were like superheroes.  He said they would be here "around 8:20".  At exactly 8:20, my doorbell rang.  They were friendly and uniformed and they immediately got to work. 

I am ashamed to admit, they did things I probably would have overlooked had I been cleaning a house for the first time.  They folded the end of my toilet paper in to a triangle.  They left hand towels neatly folded and hung in the bathrooms.  Lord knows my teenager's room hasn't been this clean since I cleaned it a few months ago, which is something I normally refuse to do.  They even cleaned the little grate-thingy that sits in the bottom of the in-door ice dispenser on my fridge.  Oh, these two were good.  Very good.  They wiped, scrubbed, vacuumed and mopped their way out the front door with precise efficiency. 

As promised, Don stopped by to inspect and make sure I was happy.  Oh boy, was I happy . . . . I heard angels singing, the heavens opened up, mountains crumbled, trumpets blared, the seas roared . . . . okay, so maybenot.  But it did seem nothing short of divine.  I am convinced the sun was shining a little brighter on our house when they left.  Every room in my house was clean at the same time.  And I didn't have to work like a dog to get it that way. 

I was left a gift (they gave me a gift?  Seeing as how I could have kissed them both, I was taken aback by this), as well as a list of what got done today and what will be done next time.  Thaaaaat's right.  There will be a next time. 

DYN-O-MITE!

I have issues . . . .

I was recently lamenting over my decision to let my hair grow out.  About eighteen months ago, I had a pixie haircut.  Cute, cool, and super-easy.  So I did what I normally do when mourning, posted something on Facebook about it, what else?  After reading my status, my husband comes sprinting back from the bedroom and makes me a deal:  if I continue to let my hair grow out, he'll hire someone to clean the house. 

I immediately replied "DEAL!", before I could help myself. 

In the back of my mind, I'm thinking I could never allow someone else to clean my house.  To say I am a picky housekeeper is an understatement.  For a period of time in my life I cleaned houses.  Even when I was working full-time and considered hiring someone to clean I always quickly dismissed it as a big waste of time:  my potential housekeeper's and mine.  Been there, done that.  There's no way I'd be satisfied.  We won't even go in to the whole nurse/germaphobe thing.  And then there's the fact that I am not currently employed and would feel really guilty about spending the money on having someone clean my house.  There's no way I could live with myself . . . . could I?  Surely my darling husband knows this about me . . . .

Nowwaitadamnminute.  Did he just make me a deal on something he knew he wouldn't have to follow through on?  He doesn't think I'll do this!  He honestly doesn't think I can.  Ha!  Well hide and watch, mister!  I'm calling that cleaning service ASAP, by God. 

So, I did it.  I called a cleaning service I have been eyeing for a while.  At this point I still wasn't sure I was going to pull the trigger.  Really I was doing it for the joy of watching John squirm.  I was gonna let him sweat this one out . . . . .

I tell Morgan that I will need her help with the baby briefly because there's someone coming over to give me an estimate on cleaning the house.  Dead silence.  She looks at me as if I have three heads and says, "Someone's coming over to give you an estimate on cleaning this house?".  I could almost hear her thinking, "Po' thang.  I feel sorry for whoever that is.".
   
Don came over yesterday to give me an estimate.  I must say, I was impressed.  Very impressed.  He came in, introduced himself and asked if I would give him a quick tour of the house.  Which I did.  He wanted to "take a look at some things".  Which he did.  He looked in my microwave . . . HE LOOKED IN MY MICROWAVE!  That gave me a warm and fuzzy feeling.  There was a glimmer of hope that maybe whoever he sent in would actually clean the microwave.   He looked in corners and thoroughly inspected shower doors and whatnot.  He then sat me down and went over everything that would be done on every visit; and the extra stuff that would get done on a rotating basis.  There it was.  One thing I cherish very deeply:  a plan ::insert "Hallelujah" chorus here::.  Blinds, baseboards, light fixtures, things that would be toothbrushed (that's right, TOOTHBRUSHED!) . . . . he left no stone unturned. 

And then, I inform him that I am a nurse, (apparently we're THE worst clients to have) and I formerly cleaned houses for a living.  He didn't bat an eye.  He didn't shake my hand and tell me to have a nice day (which has happened before), he didn't pitch me some cheesy sales line.  He jotted down some notes in his notebook and calmly said, "Try it my way for one month.  I assure you, you won't be disappointed".   He then told me that he goes behind every team he sends out and inspects their work.  And then he addressed all the issues and hesitations I had in calling anyone in the first place.  All without me saying a word.  And that's when I realized I was sort of crushin' on Don.  Not in a romantic way, but in a knight-in-shining-armor kinda way.  I think you could actually SEE hearts floating out of my eyes when I looked at him.  After all, he was speakin' my language.

Now, yes, I am overly-excited and they haven't even come in to clean yet.  But I am actually hopeful.  And yes, I am fully aware of how sad it is that I am this effin' psyched about it at all.  This is the most exciting thing that's happened to me in at least the last month . . . . . I can't believe I just typed that.  That is rather pitiful. 

Does new Tupperware count?  Honestly, if I had written a post about how ecstatic I am about my new Tupperware my husband would probably have me institutionalized.  (Even though it's the kind with the lids that snap on the bottom of the container when they're not in use.  So I don't have to cuss when I am knocked over by the mountain of plastic that comes spewing out when I open that damn cabinet.  I mean, how cool is that?  That's completely and totally normal, right?)

::Sigh::  I used to have a life, I swear.  Maybe with someone else helping out with the housework, I can work on that . . .   ;)