Thursday should be the happiest day of the week. It is the day that our five foot tall, Portuguese speaking, spitfire of a housecleaner, Rosie, comes. Rosie has been cleaning our house for many years now, the result of the Great Compromise of 2006. If you hadn’t followed this treaty in the international journals, it came about because our house was a pig sty and Amy was not appreciating my role as stay at home napper. When Malcolm turned one, we put him in day care to socialize him, and teach him how to say “mine” while hitting and biting other kids. This time at day care was supposed to free me up to do things like clean the house. I hate cleaning the house though, so Amy would come home from work, cringe at the shocking level of filth our house deteriorated into, and we would fight. Eventually we compromised to ditch the day care and hire a housecleaner (the thinking being, “wouldn’t it be better to pay someone to do the things you don’t like to do (cleaning) than pay someone to do the things you like to do (hang with the boy?) So, we hired Rosie and we have had pure marital bliss ever since.
So every Thursday, Rosie comes in and cleans everything from our refrigerator shelves to Malcolm’s hurricane riddled closet. For intents and purposes, I should be ecstatic that our house is spotless. So what happens to bring down the party? We happen. Immediately after Rosie leaves, I make lunch and mess up the otherwise pristine kitchen. Malcolm marches back into his closet and takes all 438 books off the shelf. We sit on the couch and mess up the perfectly fluffed pillows. We destroy a perfectly cleaned house, and it takes us less than 30 minutes to do so. So, at the end of the day on Thursday, I don’t see the mostly still clean house anymore, I see all the messes we have made. And it bums me out.
P.S. If any of you need a great housecleaner, let me know. This recession is killing Rosie’s base.
Tags: messiness
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