No Method, Just Madness

I’ve never experienced The Rapture before but if I had to wager a guess, I’d bet the transcendence is similar to that which I underwent tonight when I came home from work to find this:

Behold.  Clean floors. 

Usually, all along the footboard, there are tumbleweeds made up primarily of my hair and a combination of dust, pubes and whatever MRSA, diptheria, hepatitis and/or syphillis has attached itself to the bottom of my work shoes (my hospital shoes not my brothel shoes).  The rest of the house is usually in a state of moderate to severe disarray…mostly as a result of neglect due to each of our 80 hour work weeks but also because of The Brit’s insistance on leaving beer bottle caps wherever he pleases and my God given right to leave tea mugs wherever I please. 

When The Brit first suggested we hire a housekeeper to help ward off the hallway tumbleweeds and whatever was growing out of our kitchen sink, nothing seemed more ridiculous.  I come from a long line of Cubans who wholeheartedly believe that no one is above cleaning their own toilet.  The Cuban solution to running out of hands to help with the housework?   It’s simply to have another kid.  My brother and I came out of the womb complete with utility belts stocked with Pine Sol, Ajax and a Brillo pad…we knew our place.

So anyway, it seemed like an insane idea…I’d never before hired anyone to help with housework.  But then, one day, something slimy and amorphous rose in a finger-like flagellum from the depths of our sink drain, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed out to me that it was probably time.  So we got a housekeeper to come in once a month and do some general clean up.  I’m kind of embarrassed to admit that but the concept of coming home to lickable hardwood floors might just be worth it.