Maria #4

Friday, I cleaned my house for the first time in 10 years. Wait, make that ever. The house has been cleaned, but never by my own hands. Before you go thinking I'm a prima donna, hear me out. I drive an old car, get $14 hair cuts, and have never held a job that didn't require a uniform. A cleaning lady is my luxury. My only luxury. I grew up with a working mother who had a cleaning lady once a week. Her home was her workplace, and her time free time was valuable. More than a splurge, it was a necessity. Now that I'm an adult, I subscribe to that same theory.

When Scot and I got married, we moved into a 600 square foot apartment. After three months of having Scot tell me that "fisting" the toilet bowl barehanded was the only way to clean it, I sought marriage therapy. It came in the form of Maria #1. Maria cleaned our tiny hovel, and did the laundry while we were at work. All for $50. You can't put a price on that kind of bliss. Marital harmony and free time returned to our lives. Upon moving to Arizona, I latched onto Maria #2. I did the requisite buying of cleaning materials, and the occasional cleanup, but I left the hard stuff for my bi-monthly scrubbing professional. I'm not sure where I rubbed Maria wrong, but she abandoned me after 3 years. However, we were left in the very capable hands of her cousin, Maria #3. Maria has since followed us to our new house, and we've gone through life's ups and downs, together. In the last year, Maria's husband Sergio was laid off from his job and began to help Maria with her business. Sergio did the heavy lifting and much of the mopping and high dusting.

It was with great sadness and agony that I let Maria go this week. Crazy how the trickle- down of a poor economy affects so many lives. I told her 14-year old daughter (the only English speaker) that my husband had lost his job and we couldn't afford to pay them anymore. Scot thought I was giving the teenager a bit too much information , but I didn't want Maria thinking I had been dissatisfied with her work. It was quite the contrary; I felt terrible for cutting into a family's income. I knew how crappy that felt. The next day, I began to grapple with the realization that Friday, my day of blogging, wasting time, and wandering discount stores ,was going to be spent cleaning. I had instantly become the new Maria. I started dreading the day. Not because I was going to have to work, but because I felt so ill-prepared to tackle the methodical task of cleaning. Was it counters first, or floors? Did I have a cleaning caddy big enough to hold all my supplies as I went from room to room? Was my half-assed attempt at cleaning toilets going to be my undoing? Scot told me I would not be alone in my venture. Since he's home now, he would be available to mop and vacuum. And reach the high places.

It all started well enough. I called my mother to shoot the shit, but found that one arm isn't quite enough to reach into the tub. Scot let me know that he never saw Maria engaging in personal phone calls. I hung up and found entertainment in cable TV music. I started Windexing, Pledging, and Orangegloing. It all smelled pretty clean. A nasty spot on the table wouldn't rub out, so I applied a little spit shine. The indiscretion was caught by Scot, who rolled his eyes. I moved along into the kitchen and put serious elbow grease into my work. By the time I reached my bedroom, I was feeling pretty wiped. I threw the pillows on the bed in a big heap. It didn't look quite as cute as Maria always fixed it. The last room to clean was the master bathroom. Showers are weird things. They are always wet, with soap hitting the walls, so is it really necessary to scrub them down? As I asked myself this inane question I remembered that gizmo on TV that shoots a fine mist of mildew cleaner on all the walls. Spraying bleach seemed like the good happy medium. I drenched the walls with Clorox, choked on fumes, and hosed the whole thing down.

The whole shebang took about 3 hours. Scot was my wingman with the vacuum and mop. I regularly called him "Serg" and he suggested that I patch up his jeans (Sergio has cute Levi's with patches on the butt). There were no criticisms thrown about toilet techniques. I only caught hell for my music choice. By the end of the afternoon, I started to figure out the order in which to clean surfaces, and what items required more or less effort. Doing the job myself, twice a month, will save us $190. What would rock my world is if I could hijack a school custodial cart. If I could get all my supplies in one portable place, with a big center trashcan, my time spent cleaning could be cut in half. The true test will be mid-week. If Scot's side of the sheets haven't popped up at 3 a.m., I will consider it a job well done.