After living in our two-bedroom Brooklyn apartment for almost eight months, my husband and I finally decided to hire a cleaning lady. I love to clean and have been efficiently up-keeping our pad, but with our usually vibrant trio ravaged by a cold virus and the baby starting to move all over the hardwood, we decided it was high time to do some floor-to-ceiling scrubbing. You know, the kind of cleaning that I just refuse to do. My prince-of-a-husband made the suggestion and I tried to convince him our apartment was fine. But when he mentioned a few hard-hit areas of our home, I knew I had to succumb. We made the call. The cleaning lady would come tomorrow. I got excited.
But that night, I tossed and turned. My nerves were pulsating like the night before a math exam. It hadn’t occurred to me that my house was completely unprepared for someone to tackle its mess. If Clara was going to come work her magic on my house, I had to be ready! If my apartment wasn’t anywhere near clean – how could I hire a cleaning lady?