It's not all that often that I come right out and announce that I'm planning to indulge in a full-on white suburban über-privileged mommyblogger whine-fest. As in that "WANH!! I went to Sephora to buy a tube of $40 tinted moisturizer and they were sold out!" bullshit that makes you want to reach through your laptop, grab her expensively-moisturized neck, and squeeze until her eyes bulge.
So if your eyes roll over obviously well-to-do stay-at-home-mothers wringing their hands over a botched spa treatment, you'd better find something else to read. Because I'm here to complain about my weekly cleaning team.
I'll admit up front that having a bunch of women come to the house to dust, vacuum, and sanitize the bathrooms and kitchen is a wonderful luxury. After I hired them, among other benefits, incidents of food poisoning in the Buxom household fell to a record-breaking low.
And honestly, nobody should have to clean up the living quarters of a herd of pack rats, which is what we all are. I KNOW.
And I can certainly accomodate them. I can be flexible. Like when they started making the beds with the down comforters under the bedspreads--OK, that's not really what you want to do with a bunch of feathers--weigh them down under something else--but it's not hard to undo. And OK, they don't know not to wash iron skillets with soap and water? Fine. I'll hide all the skillets in the oven. And so what if they can't tell recycling from garbage and put everything in the wrong bin and I have to go outside and fix things until I feel like Phil Hartman as the Anal Retentive Chef?
But I was getting ready to type up some minutes last night, only to discover that my notes were missing. I immediately concluded that the cleaning team had found them and put them someplace. A place that made total sense to them, but as far as I was concerned, was magically counterintuitive.
And I was right. Unless you think the proper place for loose papers is in a basket under my bedside table. Under a needlepoint canvas.
And I didn't just find my handwritten notes. I found several pieces of unopened mail from the middle of October, to wit:
1. a bill
2. the stewardship packet from my church
3. my daughter's first trimester grades
4. a very official-looking IEP packet for my son
5. the instructions for how to schedule parent/teacher conferences at my son's school
Which means there are at least five people out there who think I'm an unorganized, ineffectual idiot.
Well, them and the entire internet.