Housekeeping

I have to admit that I have a love-hate relationship with our housekeeper. I LOVE that she mops my floors and scrubs my toilets, purging my domicile’s sins every week, but I HATE that she has to be here to do it. That’s right, I actually want someone to clean my house without having to create a presence. Too bad telecommuting’s not an option. I know what you’re thinking –“Bitch has a housekeeper and complains about it? She’s been living in paradise too long.” I know how it sounds. I could really just do it all myself if I’m that bothered by it (or if I had four arms and a few extra days in the week), but I prefer and can afford to pay someone else to do it. So there. I pay for my right to complain. Housekeepers here average $1 an hour; while we pay ours almost double that (20 bucks a day), it’s still not an extravagant expense. At those prices, most people have help around the house every day. But I could never do that – as I said at the beginning, I don’t like having someone in my house – listening to my conversations (at least she can’t understand them), knowing when I go to the bathroom, watching my sometimes less-than dignified parenting moments. Whine, grunt, grown.
Besides, she only comes one day a week; I’m only getting one day off, but then, not even that really, because I suffer from that control-freak's affliction where you clean before and after your housekeeper comes. So the one day out of the week designed to give me a respite from my household duties can actually be a source of mild anxiety.

So, honestly, once a week is enough for me. I could never have live-in staff. How do people live their lives with constant witnesses around? It’s not really like I have a lot to hide (or do I?). It’s just that I like to sit on my bum and do nothing if I want to without feeling guilty that while I kick my feet up, someone’s sweeping underneath them. Having a housekeeper is simply an uncomfortable hierarchy for me. I just don’t know how to do it. (White lady guilt or what?) My best solution is to make myself scarce when she comes – go to town and run some errands, take a drive, visit friends. Though if we do this, we best return home before she’s done for the day because if we ask her to lock up the house she might accidentally lock our only house key inside the house (this recently happened and Chris had to break down the door. Macho!).

My control-freakiness and pet-peevishness aside, our housekeeper is a wonderful woman – she's our gardener’s sister, my age (though he kids are all finishing their teen years), friendly, and trustworthy (except that sometimes she doesn’t show up -- but I secretly love those days and actually count them in her favor). Personally, I enjoy her company; she’s funny and joyful and irreverent in her own pious way. We have girl chats (me in my ever-improving Spanish) and what actually translates across the linguistic and cultural barriers is sometimes hilarious. Like the happy, matter-of-fact, good-riddance kind of way she recounted her recent separation from her “compañero” of 20 years, the father of her three kids: “No mas problemas! Adios!” Now she can move to the land she bought for herself and build her own house near her parents and the rest of her family. I’m so happy for her.

But professionally, it’s still a love-hate relationship. I LOVE that she empties my cupboards and washes off the shelves; I HATE that she piles my food stuffs back in the pantry in unorganized, lumpy piles. I LOVE that she scrubs the stones in the shower; I HATE that she neglects to wash the sink and counter tops. I LOVE that she does my dishes; I HATE how she puts them away (I will elaborate upon this in a subsequent entry entitled “Tico Logic"). I LOVE that she cleans the coffee maker; I HATE that she puts a wet spoon in the sugar bowl. I LOVE that she’ll clean whatever I ask her to; I HATE that she’ll clean only what I ask her to. As for Chris, he might say he LOVES when she comes when she’s scheduled to; but HATES when she leaves pools of wood oil on the computer desk or arrives early and catches him outside in his underwear having a morning pee in the garden. How does the latter happen, you ask? Well, it is customary in the campo to holler “Opé!” as you approach someone’s house in order to herald your arrival. Some observe this courtesy and others do not. Our local friend Philip and I would agree that you would never want to walk up to a home unannounced, lord knows what you might stumble upon -- like your boss peeing in the yard. Alas, we’re back to the privacy issue.

But I know what you’re thinking – why not just have a little chat with her and make sure she knows what you want done and how? That sounds logical. Easy. Amicable. Worry-free. Did I mention that Chris and I have both kindly made requests, suggestions, and demonstrations over the past two years which have consistently been either misunderstood or ignored, and I have gone so far as to create and hang on the fridge a room-by-room list of what needs to be done weekly, bi-weekly, monthly . . . And when we ask if she has any questions, she says, “No," and then all around the room there are smiles, nodding heads, happy faces. We understand each other. OK. Excellent! … Nope. Not a thing changes.

The only choices I have are either to fire her or deal with it. Yeah, right, like I could really fire a friend, or a poor, single mom who happily walks two hours to get to my house to scrub my toilet. I’ll deal with it. And bitch gratefully.