I was on a date a few months ago, and I made mention of having a housekeeper. The gent asked why. I would have thought it was obvious, at that point I was working more than full time, going to school full time, and while I hadn’t mentioned it, I manage a chronic disease. He seemed genuinely confused that a single woman would have a housekeeper. He kept asking why I couldn’t clean on my own.
Pinterest is obsessed with giving me cleaning tips. How to get my baseboards clean. Parts of the toilet I need to scrub. How to bleach my grout. How to dust fake flowers. How to clean the inside of my dishwasher. I do not care.
I turned on my new vacuum cleaner for the first time last week, when my housekeeper had to call in sick. I was a bit embarrassed to tell you that I have not used it up until now.
I have a housekeeper for a lot of reasons. She does a far better job than me, mostly because she cares about a lot of this more than I do. As it happens, she really likes vacuuming. My time is limited, even without school. Time spent doing housework is time not spent doing other things. Jamie makes my life easier. I come home on a Thursday or Friday, open the door and the house smells like Pine-Sol. Things are clean. It’s the most fantastic thing in the world.
It astonishes me that I would be embarrassed to tell you I haven’t turned on my vacuum cleaner. I don’t live in squalor – if I need to sweep in between cleanings (and with 3 cats and a dog, I often do) I will. I know how to vacuum. But there’s that age-old thing. What the gent on the date and what Pinterest insist on. I’m a woman. I must care about housework.
And I do. I care that it’s done. I care that I don’t have to do it. I shouldn’t be embarrassed about that.
So here and now.
I hate housework. It’s a lousy use of my time and I like living in a clean house.
That’s why I have a housekeeper.