Emerging from the autumnal fog like a phoenix from the ashes, the painters set up their scaffolding without a word. For 1 ½ days they covered our windows with opaque plastic, leaving us with the feeling of being trapped in a Christo wrap (Christo is the Bulgarian artist who wrapped the old German parliament building, Reichstag, about a decade ago and most recently hung orange curtains along Central Park).
Our house looks new, from the outside at least. But the inside looks just as sparkling. No, I didn’t suddenly discover the love of scrubbing. Surreptitious inhalation. After years of inner negotiation, I have finally hired a cleaning lady.
Wipe that smirk off your face. I work hard for my money, and a little pampering makes for a motivated worker.
Here’s how my mom recently rationalized it for me in our weekly phone call:
“Congratulations, Christine! The definition of economy is being paid for what you do best. You get paid for writing, and your cleaning lady gets paid for cleaning your house. It’s what she does best. An even exchange!”
God, I love my mother.
