Wait, Weight, Don’t Tell Me


2013-01-31 20.36.07

Doc B had a rough and consistent Saturday morning routine growing up in an Army household.  The three siblings would iron clothes and do other assigned chores before they could even think of turning on the cartoons.  I on the other hand had such a long list of demerits that the chores were daily.  If I wasn’t pretending to study or faking participation in some after school sport, I was doing dishes, vacuuming, putting bondo on the rusted car bumpers, remodeling the kitchen, scraping wallpaper off the bedroom ceiling, painting the exterior second story of the house in the winter or picking cherries from sun up to sun down in the heat of July at the family farm.  I’m exaggerating, slightly, but the point I’m trying to make is that Doc B and I did not grow up with housekeepers.   Our families were the housekeepers.

So after close to 50 years of cleaning, each, we decided to splurge and hire someone to do the basics.  You know, give the bathrooms a wipe down, the rugs a shakedown, the dust a drawdown and save us from a melt or breakdown.  We also figured this would give us more time to do yoga, meditate, garden, relax and just be.  So we got a referral from our yoga teacher and now have a lovely cleaning lady.

For the most part we’ve gotten what we wanted.  Except that now I also want someone to wash the dirty yoga clothes, do the dishes, scoop the cat box, prepare my lunches for work (preferably before scooping the box) bring me mimosas while I sit in the hot tub (that we don’t yet own) and give me daily massages.   I might be thinking of a cabana boy, but whatever.

Seriously though, our housekeeper does a great job and I always look forward to coming home after she’s been at the house.  I only have two complaints:

  1. I’m convinced that our old neighbor guy has paid her twice what we do in exchange for “accidentally” leaving our curtains askew when she dusts the window sills.  I’m on to you neighbor guy – I won’t be walking in front of the window in my birthday suit any time soon before adjusting the drapes.  AND…
  2. I freak out when I step on the bathroom scale after Ms. Housekeeper has been here.  For all of my weight issues, you’d think we’d have splurged by now on a digital scale.  But no, we have one of the old fashion styles where you have to use the metal dial on the side (pictured above) to set it to zero.  I swear it’s always set to well above zero after she’s been here.  And I don’t notice it until after the heart attack when I think I’ve gained ten pounds in 24 hours.  She’s trying to gaslight me and that ain’t no 5th grade bathroom humor.

Anyway, we do have more time for the things we enjoy and we are grateful that we can swing this luxury even for a little while.  Time to start saving up for that cabana boy though…


2 thoughts on “Wait, Weight, Don’t Tell Me

  1. Scale gaslighting made me laugh out loud! You didn’t mention your teenage penance of pulling nails from lath! I think we did some of that during our house renovation too!

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