I paid myself 50 big ones today to clean my house, and what do you think? Not a lick of work out of me yet. Barely adequate help is hard to find. I should have checked my references more closely -- they’re suspect, to say the least. And though not one for idle gossip, I’m also pretty sure I caught you-know-who with her hand in the cookie jar.
Pity. I had hoped that if this panned out, it might start a precedent and improve the quality and quantity of work around here -- such as washing my car, paying my bills, eating my vegetables. But apparently, financial reward is not the only kick in the dustpan I need. Thus far I’m extremely disappointed in the lack of results, and if I don’t see some serious action in the next couple of hours, we’ll have to call this a failed experiment.
Honest effort, that’s all I’m asking; honest work for honest pay. If and when the cleaning does commence, it had better come with elbow grease. O, I know all the tricks. Pushing dustballs behind the couch. Air freshener. Slipcovers. Paint.
It’s hard to do something that doesn’t promise at least a particle of fun. Even the cadaver dogs, who paw their way through some pretty bleak terrain, believe somewhere in there lies a squeaky toy. They’re trained that way. I wasn’t trained that way. I know, hard as I scrub that toilet bowl, no toy, squeaky or otherwise, waits for me. Just time and Tide.
So now I can do nothing but drop some pretty obvious hints. Sigh deeply and write “wash me” on the living room window. I’ll know better next time; next time I hire a housecleaner, it won't be for a sweet smile and ingratiating manner. Experience, that’s what’s needed, someone with experience and an appreciation of unemployment rates and precarious times.
No wonder no one hires English majors these days.