You Just Can't Find Good Help These Days

I've confessed to being stupid, I've confessed to being lazy. Hey, let's make it a   trifecta--I'm messy too! I know, I know, you're wondering how my Hubby got so lucky. But I'm fairly good-looking, I make a mean garlic shrimp, and I brake for animals.

The one thing I don't do very well is clean. Blame it on the live-in help I grew up with, blame it on genetics, or we can just tie it back to my inherent laziness...which leaves me room to have more faults later (hooray!).

My dad is a total neat freak. He'll be sitting there having a conversation when, out of the corner of his eye, he notices a piece of lint on a chair, a picture just a little out of place. He gets up, removes the lint, straightens the picture, picks up the stray cat hair on the floor, and gets back to what he was saying. It's like he's got the human eye equivalent of dog ears. 

My mom, on the other hand, appreciates the beauty of a blazer strewn over a chair in the bedroom, the unwashed dish, still waiting patiently in the sink for its moment to shine once again. She's not a slob by any stretch of the imagination, but putting her clothes away isn't at the top of her to-do list.

I'm more like my mom. In fact, I feel that every bedroom needs a chair to throw your clothes on because, where else are you going to put them? My Hubby folds his clothes every night and puts them away. You'd think he was in the Marines with how neat and orderly his closets and drawers are. I've tried to fold neatly, I have. But then when I'm digging around for the shirt I really want to wear, it all gets messed up anyway. So really, why bother? 

In fact, many of my clothes, mostly the sweats and gym clothes, are lovingly placed in a pile hidden behind the door, next to my dresser. That way, when I need something, I can just pick up the whole pile, drop it on the bed, and sort through it that way. Then, it goes right back to the pile...where it belongs, thank you very much.

And don't get me started on dishes. Out of sight, out of mind, I say. As in, not sitting right in front of me on the coffee table, so therefore, they don't exist. Besides, who says they have to be cleaned and put away like right then? They've already been through enough, let them relax.

In fairness, I think maybe my aversion to cleaning may stem from some post-modern feminist idealogy--a sense that cleaning is degrading, below me, a 50's throwback, an affront to my "career-girl" sense of self. Feminists don't clean--they make their husbands do it! Golf claps, golf claps. Okay, not my strongest argument.

Alright, fine, let's just say it. I'm a slob. The place gets dusty, I don't always hang up my clothes, dishes sometimes sit in the sink. Plus, some of my shoes need to be re-heeled, my clothes often have small coffee stains, and my favorite jeans are two deep knee-bends away from a rip.

This is why my Hubby and I agreed to get a cleaning lady as soon as we moved in together. That way, we wouldn't be fighting about my hair in the tub or his random piles of crap everywhere. Actually, let me take this minute to sidenote. My jeans over the arm of the chair, offensive. But all the random papers in piles on every available hard surface, totally fine. What's wrong with this picture? 

Anyway, so my Hubby managed to find "Glo" for us, a little Indian woman who tends to say, "O-kay, o-kay" in slow motion. Now, I refer to "Glo" in parenthesis because her name actually isn't Glo. It's Shirley. Now, my Hubby says that Glo was the woman that started with us, and that Shirley is her sister. I think they're the same person. Maybe her name is Shirley Glo, like Mary Jo. Or really, her name is something like Shilpa and she just goes by Shirley. Who knows? We call her Glo.

So, at first, Glo seemed to have a problem keeping things on the shelf from breaking. We'd inevitably come home to a broken picture frame, a small Chinese figurine with its head hanging off. The best was how she managed to short circuit our cable box, twice. That was awesome! Of course, my Hubby had to lay down the law with her, beg her to be more careful. She responded with something like, "I didn't do it, it wasn't me!" which at first we thought was just a lame excuse. Later, we figured out that what she probably meant was, "It wasn't me, it was the real Glo!" but at the time, we thought she was pointing the finger at one of us. Speaking of which, she once basically accused me of stealing her gold bracelet. Are you sure you didn't see it anywhere and maybe keep it? she asked. Uh, excuuuse me?

Anyway, we got through that rough patch, but inevitably, we'd find something else to complain about. Maybe it's that she didn't make the bed nicely, or left soap scum in the bathtub. But really, who are we to complain when we haven't done it ourselves?

Now that I'm working at home though, the little quirks are driving me bananas. We live in a one-bedroom apartment, so there's really nowhere to escape. And no, I'm not one of those people who can sit in Starbucks with my laptop, no way. So, on the days she's here, we have to co-exist. Me, on my computer on the couch. Her puttering around from one room to the next. There must be some system she has, some method to her madness. She'll fill the sink with water, then make the bed, then mop the entryway, then clean the top shelf of the fridge, then go back to the bedroom. I'd do one room at a time, but as we already established, I don't clean.

A couple of times, we've come this close to firing her. And by that, I mean that my Hubby and I would converse about how we were gonna give her a piece of our mind, tell her how it is, let her have it. And then, when I'd see her, it would be more like, "Um, please, I'm sorry, if you can, yes, so sorry, use Tilex in the bathroom, please, thank you?"

But yesterday, my Hubby and I got all fired up for real. She's supposed to come Wednesdays, every two weeks, but she keeps changing it up at the last minute. Then, yesterday, bitch just didn't show up. WTF? I'm IMing my hubby, "That's it, we have to fire her, what do I say?" I'm getting names from my friends of other cleaning ladies. I won't take this s^%t anymore! Although, there was a wee tiny part of me that thought it was possible she had told me she was coming on Thursday. Just maybe?

Anyway, so yesterday, we were livid, figuring out how we were going to fire her, if I might actually be able to vacuum myself until we found someone else. In the back of my head though, I knew she was going to show up today. And she did.

There the poor thing is, standing at the door, and I'm like, "Where the hell were you yesterday, woman?!" Although, it really came out more like, "Um, hi, so um, where were you yesterday, um, sorry?" Bitch said she left a message? Oh yeah?, I say, let me check. I pick up the phone which did NOT have a red light beeping, and to humor her, I call our voicemail. You have 1 new voice message.

Oh shit! All that indignance...she was telling the truth! So, I had to apologize, ask her that from now on, she agrees just to come on Wednesdays, rather than change her days on me every other week. I mean, I could be sitting her naked for all she knows! Dumb argument, but as I've already attested, not the best litigator.

Hopefully, we've come to some sort of agreement. I told her that if she can't come on Wednesdays that week, that she should call a couple of days in advance and then just come the following week instead. Who knows if that will work.

The reality is, her job is a thankless one. Immigrants come to this country with few options, rent to pay, mouths to feed. I'm sure there are other things she'd much rather be doing instead of cleaning our dirty house and babysitting some other lady's bratty kids. 

That's why we're never really going to fire her, why we don't really care if there's still soap scum in the shower, if she breaks my hubby's Great Outdoors collectible. She does a helluva better job than I would ever do, without the privilege of standing on some post-modern feminist excuses...

I Hate the Gym-orexics

While my ample thighs and noticeable jiggle might lead one to believe otherwise, I'm a regular gym-goer. I hit the treadmill, lift weights, do a little yoga. I even hop on that escalator machine, that they call a Stairmaster, but really deserves a more telling title. Maybe one with some kick-your-ass to it like, The Destroyer or The "You Want Some of This?" 

But I digress. My point really is that I go to the gym regularly and I do my fair share of sweating and grunting and panting (oh my!). As soon as I step into one of those classes though, I feel like a "before" contestant on the Biggest Loser. Sure, I get through the warm-up just fine, but fifteen minutes in, I'm thirsty, out-of-breath, doing that little hands-on-hips, walk-in-place, gimme-a-minute kind of move that can only mean one thing, "That bitch is out of shape!" In my mind, I run through a litany of excuses: Well, clearly I just didn't have enough protein at breakfast or I must have a lower sweat threshold or Uh-oh, maybe I'm dying (see previous post for further explanation). 

Of course, you can't interrupt the class to explain why you're so embarrassingly uncoordinated and out-of-breath. So, I'll usually stop to get water since, hello, you have to keep hydrated. Or, my favorite, I'll pretend to be one of those people with an ongoing sports-related injury. You know, I suddenly stop and start bending my knee with a "Now, that's curious," look on my face. To make it more authentic, I keep the accompanying internal monologue going in my head, Is that my knee clicking? Oh WHY does that bum joint of mine have to act up now, of all times, in spin class?"

Despite my minor difficulty in fitness classes, they do work me out like no other, so I  keep going back for more. My new favorite is Resistance Rebounding, the fancy Crunch-word for Trampoline Time! We bounce around with fun music playing and an equally bouncy teacher, who I'm convinced is a former cheerleader. (Although, her outstanding rhythm and possible membership to the tribe makes her a more likely candidate for drill team). She really is a motivating teacher, and doesn't give me that, "Now what the hell is wrong with you?" look that the last rebounding teacher did when I couldn't seem to bounce and kick in unison. In fact, the last couple of times I've taken her class, she's kissing people hello, talking about her new haircut. I'm thinking just a couple more classes and she'll be calling me "hon" too!

So today, before class started, a few of us are waiting outside. These women are all fit and trim and clearly don't have day jobs, so I hate them. But there was one crazy bitch I found particularly offensive. I've seen her before...like seen her in every class I've ever taken there. She's the one who does the "extra challenge" in yoga and says "ohm" like super-loud and longer than anyone. I know, because she was next to me at the last class.

Anyway, she comes down to join the group while we're waiting, clearly all sweaty and worked-out. Oh my God, I think to myself, She's pre-cardio-ed? That's right, she did her cardio before the cardio, as though the 45-minute session that busts my butt and leaves me panting in the corner just isn't enough for her 5% body fat frame. Oh well, excuuuuse me. 

The last class lets out and I notice a couple of the women inside are hanging out to take this one as well. So Chisel followed by Rebounding? These chicks are hard-core! But I won't be intimidated, oh no. I grab my little trampoline, find a discrete spot in the back and I'm ready to bounce like I've never bounced before. Let me tell you, I kicked ASS today! I bounced and kicked at the same time, only stopped for water twice, didn't need to fake an injury. 

But just as I'm starting to feel like Jack Lalaine, I notice that Pre-cardio Bitch is putting her own twist on the routine. While we're all bouncing in place, she's scissoring her arms. We're doing jumping jacks, she's double-timing it. What's she trying to prove? Then I realize, she's not the only one. The double-feature women are also getting way more aggressive than the rest of us--like really keeping those knees high. 

I try to ignore them, instead focusing on the positive, like how the perky teacher looked at ME when she said, "Great job, ladies!" Or on the fact that either that mirror is a skinny mirror, the lighting is excellent, or I've gotten very toned. I'm here for me, not for them. I don't have some void that I fill with copious amounts of exercise (really, more like copious amounts of Brie). And I've got a bright shiny ring on my finger that reminds me again and again that I have someone in my life who loves me just the way I am, jiggle and all. I don't see any shiny thing on Pre-cardio Bitch's finger. 

After ab work and stretching and golf claps all around, I walk out feeling smug, happy, and (I daresay!) thinner. As I'm bidding the teacher a great weekend, I hear from behind me, "Bye Carol, thanks again!" Gasp! Bitch knows her by name...I'm going to have to come more often!

The Price of Stupidity

Growing up, I used to pride myself on my overall good health. Let a few sniffles keep me down? Hell no, I'm going to school! Throw up? I don't know of such things. Cavities? Not in this pristine mouth! But as soon as I got to college, I became a shell of my formerly hearty self, suddenly inflicted with eye ulcers, high blood pressure. I even wound up in the ER after too many Jello shots (and head-hitting-the-pavement kind of falls) left me with a freakish echoing sound in my head. Okay, so that last one, my fault. 

Whereas once I used to skip into the doctor's office and bravely bare my forearm to the needle-wielding nurse, now, I was terrified by the antiseptic white office. Was this the trip where he'd tell me I was dying? I'm sorry to tell you this, but that cystic zit is actually a deadly, flesh-eating fungus. Call your parents, you have 48 hours to say goodbye. Obviously, nothing serious has befallen me yet (knock on wood, please), which is comforting, sure, but hasn't made me any less fearful of tests and scopes and EKG's. Truth: if not for the fact that I need prescriptions filled, I'd probably drop into the doctor's office once every two years, if that. 

So, I was coming up on a much-needed dentist visit, and while I wasn't afraid of oral cancer  (although had I known they'd be checking for oral cancer, you can be damn sure I'd have been fretting over it), I was afraid that I might need root canal or gum surgery or ten of my teeth replaced. No, not because I had any tooth pain or problems, just cause, you know...

But I was feeling a little confident about this visit. I'd been using a Sonicare toothbrush for a couple of years now, occasionally flossed, and had been rinsing with Listerine religiously...for the last three days. Plus, I'd just been to the dentist a year ago (give or take six months). So you can imagine my surprise when the hygienist told me that I had four cavities. Uh, what?

In fairness, a couple weren't really my fault (no, really, even the doctor said), but I had a few fairly big cavities on the chewing surface of my teeth, in those grooves where all the food goes. So the hygienist, maybe after having seen this before, asks, "Do you brush the part of your teeth that you chew with?" Hahaha, oh please, lady, of course, duh! That's actually what I wanted to say, and my brain did kind of have the duh thing running through it. 

  But the reality was, since I'd been using the Sonicare, no! When I first bought the damn thing and was reading the directions, it talked about holding the brush at a 45 degree angle from your gums, gently moving from one tooth to the next, with no mention of the chewing surface. There wasn't even time in the 30 seconds allotted to every quadrant. 

At the time, I'm fairly sure that I expressed my concern to my  husband, who I think may have responded with, "Oh no, the vibrations knock all the food loose." This, of course, might mean that my husband, despite his freakishly healthy teeth, might actually be using his wrong too. (Note to self: watch him next time he brushes.) But, no matter. It's my teeth that have the cavities, it's me who had to face the hygienist and then the dentist, about why I'd choose to ignore the most essential brush-spot in this mouth of mine. It's like Brushing 101. It's like cleaning the toilet seat, but leaving crap in the bowl!

Feeling that the dentist would look upon me more favorably if I was an idiot, rather than a delinquent brusher, I explained my mistake to him, and told him that I'd misunderstood the instructions when I first started using it, and no one had ever told me otherwise. His response, "Did you only read the first page?" 

So, with four cavities and hundreds of dollars worth of dental work in front of me, I wanted to get to the root (haha, love me) of what went wrong. Even my mom, the bearer of my Sonicare gift two years ago, said, "Four cavities? But you've been so good." Again, is it better to admit to my stupidity, or admit that I have a cesspool of bacteria inside my mouth? I went with telling her that I've been "using the Sonicare wrong," and left the other details out.

Back at my computer, I decided to look up those ill-fated directions on this supposedly mouth-saving product of mine. Lo and behold, I'm not totally stupid. After explaining where to place the brush and how to use it, it's only on step #5, after all is said and done, that they suggest maybe brushing at the chewing surfaces, like an added bonus, if you have time. So I'm not totally, entirely stupid... I just maybe follow direction a little too well.