Today someone jokingly called me "Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt." It was mildly amusing to me...would have been more so had it not been on the money. I blame it on the Baltimore Cathechism and all those photos of dirty laundry and dirty floors and milk bottles (if you had a bottle of chocolate milk - you were pretty much damned for all eternity).
This is why - no matter how much or how little money I’ve had at any given time – for as long as I can remember – I have had a cleaning lady. It makes me feel "pure" somehow. I’m willing to forego almost anything – shoes – Pellegrino – dining out – facials – pedicures – shopping – food – massages – vacations – (the list goes on for quite awhile – I’m from Long Island) - but not having someone clean my house. My theory is “celebrate the moments” (which is probably from a commercial for some type of instant coffee). But there’s something so deeply satisfying about knowing that I’m not living in squalor, and I simply don’t have the time (or the attention span) to dig in and do deep cleaning on a daily basis. Of course, I Windex compulsively (who doesn’t?) and do the basics – but the thought of spending an entire day scrubbing the tiles in my bathroom doesn’t appeal to me in the least.
For years I had the same cleaning woman - Ana. She was beautiful and friendly – but didn’t actually clean. At first I thought it was my imagination that there were dust bunnies everywhere on the days she visited, but then my friend Robin hired her and said “That woman doesn’t clean! The same clump of dirt has been on my floor for weeks – I tested her.”
“Well,” I said, “she’s very trustworthy…she has keys to my house.”
“Yeah,” she said, “she doesn’t steal anything – not even dirt.”
I tried to let her go many times, but I’m simply not confrontational and didn’t want to hurt her feelings or put her in a bad economic position if I could help it…and on some level I felt guilty even having a cleaning woman.
“There are poor people in underprivileged nations who don’t have homes to clean,” I thought, “I’m so fortunate…I can’t say anything.”
However – I finally reached my breaking point when she pulled up in her BMW one day and let me know that she was going away for a month. This was just after I moved from a 3 bedroom 2 story home to a 2 bedroom apartment, and asked her if she would lower her rates (since at that point she was making more than I was) – and she confessed that she was just about to ask me for a raise.
For a brief moment, I considered going it alone – or getting used to having the house sparkle a little less – but with four pets and an influx of teenaged boys – it could easily deteriorate almost instantly – so when I heard that Amalia – a woman who worked at the same firm I did years before – was looking for a part-time job and was willing to clean my house since she only lives a few blocks away – I jumped on it. Especially since she charges less than the ignorer of dust – and does twice the work.
Nothing, of course, is ever perfect. She’s great at cleaning my house – but makes me feel like I’m in a constant state of “sin” – which brings back ghosts of Catholic schoolgirl past. She doesn’t mean to make me feel guilty – I’m sure; she just means well and somehow has mastered it. She's as close to a saint as anyone I've heard of. "I clean/I go to church/I clean more." Where is the canonization crew when one needs one?
“How is your husband?” she’ll ask.
“Fine,” I said, “He lives in another state – we’re separated.”
“I pray,” she says Soto Voce, with emotion, “I go church – and pray.” She makes the sign of the cross.
“That’s nice,” I say, trying to escape. I turn to leave the room - she takes my arm.
“You should pray,” she tells me, forcing me to make eye contact with her.
“I do pray all the time,” I tell her “Why me Lord?”
“You come to church – I’ll pick you up – I go at 5:30.”
“That’s ok,” I tell her, “I’m not Catholic anymore.”
She looks at me like I shot her dog.
I back peddle, “I go sometimes,” I lie (then I worry that I’ll have to go to confession – quick – is that a mortal sin or a venial sin? A sin of omission or commission? Worse that eating meat on Friday but not as bad as not “leaving room for the holy spirit” when I kiss a boy???)
(She doesn’t get the joke). So finally, I brace myself and talk in my “big girl” voice:
“Amalia,” I tell her, “we’re not getting back together. It’s fine.”
“OK,” she says, “that’s OK…your shirt – you want me to iron it?”
“NO,”I say, “I don’t believe in ironing.”
“Take it off,” she’ll say, “I’ll bring it home.”
Then I start feeling guilty about having wrinkled clothing…
"That is," I say, "I'm going to do my own cleaning."
But the thought of getting on my hands and knees to scrub the floor and having to inhale all of that amonia makes me dizzy.
"Well," I think, "if I have to kneel - maybe I should go to church with Amalia?"
Mea maxima culpa.
