by Fay Jacobs
Our first peek at the condo after rental season wasnt too traumatic. The walls and furniture were there and police tape didnt mark off a crime scene. Thats really all you can hope for. Perhaps a little Charmin, but Im getting ahead of myself. The place was clean enough; there was only one bright orange Grotto hieroglyphic under the table, and the carpet was fine, save a large carpet spot that was difficult to assess since our dog Max found it first and felt compelled to add his flowing signature to the site. I screamed at him to no apparent result, as hes gone completely deaf in his dotage. Either that, or hes ignoring us, which is a distinct possibility.
But as I ran for paper towels, I remembered the first rule of Rental Unit Dust and Fluff etiquette. Any paper, soap or disposable item remotely related to cleaning or hygiene left in the condo after a weekly rental immediately becomes the sole property of the cleaning crew.
There wasnt a scrap of paper in the place. Luckily, I discovered this before I was called to add my own signature anywhere. As I blotted the carpet with checkbook deposit slips (no pun intended), I pictured the cleaning service manual instructing workers to confiscate any leftover Scot 2-ply, Bounty, or bubble bath.
Actually the service cleaning my rental unit is pretty good. Its the sadists who clean my Maryland digs that drive me nuts. I know, I know. I should be thankful I can afford a cleaning service in the first placeand believe me, I am. But with two of us working long hours and fleeing to the beach every Friday, its not a luxury; its to keep the board of health out.
Not that we actually use our house anymore. The Smithsonian should host an archeological dig to document how Marylanders used living rooms in the early 90s before they discovered Delaware. We actually sat in the dining room last week but if the cleaning crew hadnt gotten there first we would have had to use flame throwers to get through the dust bunnies. So we have this love-hate relationship with the women who blitzkrieg our house every other Monday.
Usually we try to straighten up (verb, to make or become straight, as in belongings, not persons) the house up before their visit, clearing the clutter so they can reach the actual dirt. I know a lot of people who do this.
I also know a handful who, upon hearing of this ritual, scoff in a haughty Tallulah Bankhead drawl "You cl-e-e-e-an up for the maids???"
Who are they kidding? The only people who have a cleaning service and dont do advance prep are the pathologically neatyou know who you arewho pay a service to pretend to clean an already surgically scrubbed house. Then there are the judgmental others who gleefully spend $65 a month on cable, but tsk-tsk me for spending my money on cleaning my cableless house (sorry, its a sore point for me, apparently).
Other than that, everybody does what we doshifts piles of laundry, bills, photos not in albums, and old magazines out of the way, so the cleaners can get to the carpets and countertops, not to mention into the rooms.
Since we got home from the beach Monday morning, I hadnt done a thing this week. I not only forgot to move the piles of schmutz around, I forgot we were being blitzkrieged at all.
I came home from work very late and went right to sleep. At 6 a.m. Tuesday I was blasted out of bed by screaming heavy-metal music so loud even the dog heard it. I pictured the cleaning crew dancing around with feather dusters like the maid in Birdcage. What do they do, play air vacuum?
Its gotta be from their instruction book"Switch clients clock radio from soft rock to..." I fumbled to turn the thing off and knocked the radio onto the floor, where it flipped to some repugnant shock jock.
Heading for the shower, I saw more light than usual. I turned to see the mini-blind hitched wide open and the man next door, in his three-piece suit, sipping coffee on his deck, watching me in my birthday suit.
Drop and roll! I ducked and looked to see if I could reach the draw string on the blinds but it was tangled in the slats, high above the counter. So I grabbed a towel, crawled to the sink, hoisted myself up flat against the wall, like an NYPD Blue shootout, and, with the towel held in my teeth, pawed for the string to drop the blinds. Bonnie, awakened by the commotion, sees me standing straddling the sink, eating a bath towel andheres the dynamic in my housethinks nothing is unusual and goes right back to sleep.
I managed to plunge the room back into darkness and head for the shower. With one foot in the tub I slipped on whatever gear lubricant they recommend for cleaner at the Marquis de Sade School of Domestic Science and wound up in a heap in the tubhaving taken most of the shower curtain in with me.
"You okay?" Bonnie called, having heard the thud.
"They greased the runway." I sputtered, shower water running onto the bathroom floor by way of the curtain liner still in my fist. After hearing similar stories from friends, Im sure these tactics must be published in a universal cleaning service handbook. Chapter One. Dusting. Under penalty of death, do not put any objet dart back where you found it.
Youd think that seeing the same stuff in the same place week after week would give them a clue. But no, this group better not be invited to clean Stonehenge. Call me weird, but I dont like framed photos facing the wall.
And why, after cleaning day, do my boat paintings look like the Titanic going down? People claim theyre lopsided so we know theyve been dusted. Hell, ladies, we know youve been there by the chair leg sitting adjacent to the three-inch carpet crater which, for the previous eight years, held that damn chair leg. The carpet is a furniture template for heavens sakes, how can they miss it????
And I swear they use grout scrubber for Windex.
But what really confounds me is how they can leave cobwebs big as macrame but always take time to play with the clothes on my refrigerator magnet Venus de Milo leaving her buck naked when Bonnies mother is on the way over.
It usually takes me all day to calm down and re-assemble my house. By supper time Venus has her clothes back on and my blood pressure has come down. Im glad my house is clean. Im happy that the three Goldilocks have broken in and cleaned it aaaalll uuuuppp. I go to bed happy.
And wake up to a bellowing Howard Stern because I plugged the radio back in but forgot to return it to my rightful station. Another morning from hell. Get me back to the beach!!!!
So we arrive on Friday night and I cant remember whether I told the cleaning service we were back in the condo. If they thought we were still renting by the week, its possible wed be bereft of ahem, facial quality 2-ply.
I was still schlepping stuff in from the car when I heard Bonnie bellow from the ahem, powder room. "Somebody pinched the Charmin!" "Read a magazine," I hollered, and headed for 7-11.
I really have to remember to give Poltergeist Cleaners a call.
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10/17/97 Issue. Copyright 1997 by CAMP Rehoboth, Inc. All rights reserved.