I know that there are medicated women out there with the ability to clean and conquer thousands of square footage a week. Their cleaning supplies are neatly bucketed and stored, the vacuum never sits, unused, in the middle of the living room floor for four days in a row, and you will never find the color yellow in their bathrooms unless they intentionally put it there.
There is no soy sauce bacteria growing on the bottom shelf of their fridge (bet you didn’t know that stuff could multiply), dirty diapers hidden behind the couch (talk about multiplication), or enough toothpaste residue sprayed on the bathroom mirrors to support the “marbled glass” theory you give the plumber.
My house is huge. Let me tell you, it’s a dirty old monkey and my back is getting downright tired. I’ve got four helpless little rats running around this place and it’s time someone hired a hand.
Last night Old Tightwad and I sat down for our monthly, oh fine annual, budget meeting. Due to the fact that I hate discussing money with him unless it’s a gift card he doesn’t have need of, I’ve managed to put him off for nearly a year.
“I need to see your list of expenses,” he said. Now, I can assure you that while there is a list, I’m sad to report that it’s being recorded in Heaven and I only have access to it in faith-relying moments of serious customer service difficulties.
And so it began. I have repeatedly informed him that living over on this side of the pond has upped the ante in just about every spending situation. Prepared-ish though I was, it was a battle. $70 a hair apointment–but wait, that’s in Euro’s. How often? Every eight weeks? Times that by 26 and divide it by 12, pour a little soy sauce on it…by the time we got to toilet tissue I was ready to cry constipation just to earn a hall pass.
“Well,” he said, “Looks like we’ve covered everything.”
“Uh, sorry but we’ve got one more category to add,” I said, leaning over and manhandling his spreadsheet. I quickly typed in Housekeeping.
We stared at each other.
See, the bacon man works with a number of gentlemen who have brought wives and small children to this far off land of tile floors and monstrous bathrooms. And you know what they all end up doing? They hire a housekeeper. And let me tell you, these boys look pretty darn good on date night.
He gulped down some ice water, sniffed, and did his shoulder hunch “look at the floor and contemplate” routine while rubbing his hands together, all in an effort to scrounge up a way to trick me out of my much needed extra help.
“Yeah, I can see that,” he said. “Okay, if you have to,” he paused and shrugged. “I mean, unless…”
“Oh, I have to.”
“Well, how many hours will you need a week?” he said with That Gleam–the one that means he’s about to engage in a bout of bartering.
I thought fast. “Six.”
“Three.”
“Five!” I yelled.
“Four, and that’s all you get.”
“Done!”
I think I was so happy I actually glowed like Mr. Clean himself sitting there on that couch. But, being the fight-to-the-end fellow that he is, Mr. Last Word looked over and said, in his most innocent way, “Boy, I wonder what families who make less money do in these cases? I mean, how do they get by?”
“Golly, Sweetie, that’s a good question. Let’s be sure to thank Heavenly Father for our many blessings tonight,” I said brightly, then jumped up and ran from the room.
My new housekeeper comes on Thursday. These floors are going to look so good after someone else mops them.