Kimra Traynor Herb

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Streets
by
Kimra Traynor Herb
IPS Features

Not a fan of housekeeping

I've probably mentioned- at time or one thousand- that I am not a big fan of the housekeeping biz. Not only because it is a thankless job, but also because it immediately needs to be done again- it is, as I see it, an endless cycle of pain. Growing up as I did with a grandmother who kept her house beyond pristine and a mother who was not far behind, I quickly realized that the bar was set WAY too high for me to even hope to see the bar, let alone aspire to even realizing any level of cleanliness my matriarchs had set.

However, I also realized that try as I may; I cannot let the level of filth around my home get beyond a certain point before I will capitulate and clean. I am simply not genetically inclined to allow myself to live in utter squalor; much as that would ease my nerves. Because when I put on the old clothes and set to cleaning--boy howdy, everyone better steer clear- I am an uptight, angry shrew of a woman before, during, and after the process begins. It's ugly, I tell ya.

Yesterday was one such a day. A friend had invited me to go bowling, and as much as I would have liked to pack the boys in the car and meet her at the bowling alley, it was CLEANING DAY, darnit, and we were in it for the long haul.

My husband, who was safely at work while this happy day embarked, commented that if I wanted the job to go quicker, I would enlist the help of the two boys who were at home. I'll call them "Frick and Frack."

Now "Frick" who is fifteen, is perfectly capable of doing almost any cleaning task. He actually, of my three boys, is the most naturally tidy and fairly well versed in the art of cleaning a toilet. Which is what makes yesterday's actions all the more infuriating and upsetting. It began when I came downstairs from a grueling vacuuming the stairs session to smell the odor of burning rubber. I recognized that smell, and furthermore, it was coming from the basement. My son had burned up the belt on the upright vacuum.

"FRICK!" I screamed, so loud that it hurt my throat, "DIDN'T YOU SMELL THE VACUUM BURNING TO SHARDS??!!!!"

"But Mom," He said, "It smelled like that when you gave it to me!"
"It didn't smell like that," I replied, "Until you vacuumed up a couple of coat hangers, pipe cleaners and whatever else it was that you didn't pick up off the floor!"

Frick then when on to clean the bathroom mirrors with what I can only guess was Lemon Pledge; they were so smeary that all my elbow grease and window cleaner could not subsequently remove the film. Just halfway through the day and I had already spent over an hour re-cleaning and repairing after Frick's "help". I could feel the anger simmering inside of me, and it was then that inopportune moment that Frack returned the canister vacuum.

Surprise! It too was "broke"- every piece and portion of the hose was completely and utterly filled with candy wrappers, Kleenex, paper towels, toy soldiers- anything remotely small enough to be crammed into a two inch hose was sucked into the hose and left there (for guess who?) to pull it out with a coat hanger.

That process took almost forty-five minutes and by the time I had finished I had passed "raging witch" mode and was way on down the lane to "screaming meemieville". Once again, the king of inopportune timing, Frack decided to spring the one million dollar question upon me:

"How much are we going to get paid for our work?" He said, blinking.
"What?!" I screeched; incredulous. I surely didn't hear him correctly.
"Well...." he kicked the ground, "Frick and I were just wondering how much we are going to get paid for helping you clean."

"You are going to get paid....." I breathed to control my temper, "NOTHING! NOTHING!!!!!!"

"But..... I don't understand." He said. "Why are we doing it then?"
"Because," I inhaled to steady my voice which by now had the hysterical edge of a woman poised in the brink of insanity (which I was), "I AM NOT YOUR MAID!!!!!!!"

"Oh." He blinked again. "Okay."

Frick decided it was time to bring out the big guns. "I love you mom." He said, in a sing-song voice.

"Oh." I felt deflated. "I love you guys too; but....." I bit back all the words of criticism which were simmering on the end of my tongue.

"Can we go now?" Frack asked, an edge of panic in his voice. I guess he was (rightly so) worried that at any moment I would snap back into the mad cleaning lady mode and kill them all.

I let them go and wondered how my grandma and mother had managed for all those years to keep their homes sparkling without ending up in the mental institution.