Call a Professional…
…or A man’s got to know his limitations. *
When the air conditioner loses its magic smoke and only goes uhr-uhr-uRh but gives out no cold or the chimney has become a Victorian fire hazard or the cat / child / uncle has urped / trodden / spilt one too many hairballs / muddy boots / boat drinks on the carpet (and yes, those would all be interchangeable), one calls a professional to deal with it: repair guy, chimney sweep, hellooo Stanley Steamer. There is no shame to pay someone to take care of something for which one is ill-equipped.
The man says it’s stubbornness. It feels more like pride, but I’d like to think it’s integrity. Heaven knows I’m not over-scheduled; time I have. It’s one of my few real responsibilities. So why does it feel like utter abdication to have someone clean my house? I am a terrible housekeeper; I loathe scrubbing, vacuuming, mopping, dusting. But my mother never had a maid and her home was spotless. Right. Her linen closet was a geometrical work of art as well. We’ve been through this.
For four hours yesterday a lovely woman, recommended by a friend, scrubbed & vacuumed & mopped & dusted this house. I paid her a reasonable sum to do it ~with more than the man’s full approval~ and it feels as though a leaden x-ray apron has been lifted from my chest. And the place looks great! I’ve never managed the sweeping, mopping, dusting, bathrooms and mirrors all in one day and she cleaned the windows (which I never get to).
She’ll do it again next month, too! And until then, the overwhelming state of disaster to which I had allowed it to descend has been beaten well back. I can maintain this to a reasonable degree… for a month at least.
*That’s Dirty Harry, perfect.