Clean Sweep

By TAD BARTIMUS

My cleaning lady has fired me.

I came home from a business trip to find her note: "I need time to play. Life is too short to just work, work, work. I know you'll understand." There were lots of XOXOXOXO's and a big heart drawn after her name. Was that to soften the blow, assure me it wasn't really me she was quitting, it was what? the cat hair? The Laundry Pyramid? The ring around the toilet?

I've done everything from sign over frequent flyer miles to promise to baby-sit a German shepherd in order to lure a new prospect to my soot-encrusted oven.

Finally, she penned a p.s., that did double duty as the coup d' grace: "Sorry I had to let you go."

I was crushed. Of course, this isn't the first time I've suffered cleaning lady separation anxiety. It's a common affliction to millions of women working outside their own homes who wish they could find a Hazel like the one in the old TV show, a kind and sassy employee-cum-friend who would polish their furniture, sort out the kids' shoes and whip up a pie in her spare time for $5 an hour.

Except for losing a trusted babysitter, there's nothing more disruptive than having to replace the person who gets paid to make order out of dust bunny chaos.

I've had dozens of cleaning ladies and one cleaning gentleman. Alas, all of them eventually left. As anyone who's ever done it knows, housework can be mind-numbing. Why scrub and sweep when it's only going to get dirty again? There's a high burnout rate because cleaning persons tend to feel that no matter what they charge, they are underpaid, undervalued and overworked. Unless they are highly self-motivated or absolutely love the smell of ammonia in the morning, they often find employment in another field.

I've gotten pretty good at spotting a cleaning lady's discontent in time to troll for a replacement. But all cleaners are not equal; the best ones are the hardest to woo. I've done everything from sign over frequent flyer miles to promise to baby-sit a German shepherd in order to lure a new prospect to my soot-encrusted oven. Unfortunately, Ms. XOXOXOXO dumped me before I could help her get her book proposal, "Household Help for Dummies," sold. I should have paid more attention to her when she said she wasn't fulfilled.

It's not that I live with penicillin in the refrigerator or week-old pizza under the couch. It's worse than that. I'm a neat freak who obsesses about a cobweb in the rafters and soap scum on the shower door. I don't exactly do white glove inspections, but I HAVE been known to point out a thumbprint on a windowsill at 50 paces. Wrong move.

Every time I get divorced by my cleaning lady I throw myself into the dust mop and dirty wax buildup routine. But then I think of all the writing I'm neglecting at the computer and compulsively start calling around again on my endless quest for my very own Hazel. It's not that I'm lazy or that housekeeping is beneath me.

To be honest, I want someone unemotionally involved with my clutter to deal with it. The cleaning lady sees magazines spilling off a coffee table and throws them out; I see magazines spilling off a coffee table and begin building the Great Wall of China in the living room because I think I ought to clip and file everything that's in them.

Perhaps it's good that my cleaning lady fired me. That big penned heart and all those XOXOXOXO's just prove she's too much of a softy for my messes.

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