There’s something magical about coming home to a clean house.
I am thankful that I didn’t cancel the cleaning lady because I didn’t have time to pre-clean. You know that clean up you do before the cleaning lady comes because you don’t want the person who cleans your house to think you’re messy or anything? (It’s the same mania that comes on before a trip, even a weekend jaunt. The thoughts run like this: what if something happens to me and someone comes in…sees my messy house…and my dirty secret gets out? She…never…filed…her…bank…receipts?) Where does this weird mania to pre-clean come from? I know I’m not alone in doing this.
Or, if I have done the pre-clean — a frantic but productive whirlwind of caloric activity that finds me completing projects that have lain dormant for weeks — then I wonder, when I’m finished, if she really needs to come at all because, really, the house is already clean and she’ll have nothing to do but sit around and eat bon bons and that is certainly a waste. I wonder if I should just cancel her altogether. But then, it’s the night before or the morning of and it’s too late; I don’t feel comfortable cancelling her at the last minute.
And then I come home and the house is clean and shiny and it smells clean and I feel happy and it is all worth it. If I thought it was clean before, it is even cleaner now. I can never get it that clean. I don’t know how she does it. It’s like she licks the place clean. I’m always curious to know what her place looks like.
So tonight, in my spotless, clean smelling home, I’m going to plank out on the couch and only move to click between Tivo’d shows. Tomorrow, I’ll leave clothes out, my hair will be all over the floor and the sink, I’ll be too lazy to wash the dishes, I’ll forget to take my shoes off when I come in the door, the laundry will start piling up again, but tonight? Nirvana. Pure and simple. And clean.