Upper Crust Problems

Last week I learned something about myself that I couldn't have known, but that Tim predicted: I do not like having a cleaning woman.  One of those weaselly little details I left out when I talked about this huge, ridiculous apartment is that--included in the price of the rent--are two days per week of maid service.  On Wednesdays and Fridays for three hours, a very nice woman comes and cleans the entire apartment.

As someone who proudly grew up in a single-wide trailer, I'm going to go ahead and say definitively that this is more of a culture shock than anything else I have experienced in Uruguay.

On one level, what the maid (cleaning lady?) does while she's here is really no big deal. She takes out the trash, vacuums and mops all the floors, she washes all the towels and changes the sheets, she cleans the counter-tops in the kitchen and bathrooms.  But there's another level of cleaning that drives me absolutely batshit insane.

I will acknowledge that being poor, an only child, and a child of divorce has made me neurotically and un-Buddhist-ly particular about my stuff, but I also think our maid may be crossing some sort of line. For instance, the maid not only straightens the items on the bathroom countertop when she cleans it (understandable), she straightens the items in the bathroom drawers (DON'T TOUCH THEM, LADY). She not only makes the bed (ok fine), she reorganizes all of the shit on Tim's and my bedside tables, (again, paws OFF). Same with the kitchen counters and the kitchen cupboards.

If I'm eating lunch when she shows up, she'll pick up my dirty lunch dishes as soon as I'm not looking. I'm not broken! I can pick them up myself! (My mother is probably scoffing at this. However, there is simply a huge difference between the way a stranger picks up your lunch dishes and the way you lovingly leave them laying around until your mom does it so she still feels needed [just kidding, Mother]. This lady is not my mom. And I'm not paying her to be.)

On a far weirder note, on her first visit she moved our handsoap into the shower and locked the closet where the towels are kept, taking the key with her, meaning that we ran out of towels and couldn't get to the clean ones. So I moved the soap back to the sink (thinking that was a subtle way to indicate that that was where we wanted it) and asked her not to lock the towel closet.  On her second visit, she took all but one of the handsoaps in the entire apartment--we have FOUR bathrooms--and she still locked the towel closet. In short, having a maid (at least, having this maid) feels more like having a very invasive old aunt impose her will on you because she knows what's best. It feels, mostly, like you have attempted the experiment of adulthood and failed, and now need someone to pick up everything after you.

The truth is, I have very few responsibilities here. No one really holds me accountable for anything. I have no job, no school, just a few credit card bills.  I mostly just have to bathe myself, take care of the apartment, and try to remain socially acceptable.  In Panama, mopping the floor was actually sort of fun for me because it was the hardest thing I had to do. All play and no work also makes Jack a dull boy. And having a maid has removed my last actual responsibility. Not only that, but the few things I do clean, she re-cleans, and re-arranges. I'm sure she feels that it's her job and she's helping, but mostly I feel like she's repeatedly slapping me with a ruler.

It's a shithead thing to complain about. And there's no WAY we're going to fire her because she needs the work and I need an attitude adjustment, I'm sure. But it's weird how much I dread having her come and clean and how totally uncomfortable she makes me.  It's like how birds will reject their chicks if someone handles them and then puts them back in the nest.  My toothpaste and my cornflakes are my chicks and this lady keeps getting all handsy with them. She can't help it because, well, that's what we're paying her to do. But sweet jesus, it drives me crazy.