If you don’t want to take the vacuum cleaner out of the chamber every week, find a household helper. And it doesn’t even have to be very good. After all, you will always be cleaning anyway.
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I should have understood that something was wrong already on the eve of the day when dear Karin, as my friend called her, was supposed to restore order in our apartment. I spent two hours cleaning so that our new housekeeper wouldn’t think I was a cunt. I preferred to even match the spools of thread according to color and trim Matilda’s claws, so that it would be clear how exemplary I run my household. At 7:30, Karin burst into the run-down apartment, blew a huge bubble from her chewing gum, let it pop on her nose, and said: “Oh my god, this is what it looks like. It’s going to be a chore to get it right. Hey, two hundred for an hour, the keys to the apartment and where’s your fridge?” Blushing with shame that I’m a jerk, because I didn’t really think to iron the iceberg lettuce, I stutter something about the fact that I cleaned out the fridge a week ago.
“Relax honey, she’s going to blow another bubble on me. I just need to save a snack,” he pats me on the shoulder and pulls a bottle of wine out of his bag. I glance at the brand, Pinot Grigio, the girl knows. Perhaps in addition to the wine, also in the cleaning, I hope, when we say goodbye. At noon, a message arrives: “The apartment is in a mess.” If you will too, see you in a week, ok? But it was a chore!’
When I entered the apartment, it seemed to me that nothing had changed in it. But that’s hard to assess when you let the cleaning lady clean the apartment. In a week, the situation was repeated. The only difference is that I compared the eggs in the fridge according to size. Which was quite a chore, because I had to get a shovel for it. Karin’s Here-it-looks-like expression, however, didn’t change anything. The following week, I’ll wash the stuffed animals’ ears, trim the candle wicks, and match the holes on the pants’ straps. So that sweetie Karin doesn’t think I’m a cunt. However, she blew bubbles at shorter and shorter intervals, which I took to be an expression of dissatisfaction.
When I began to seriously consider the idea of whether the blinds could be starched, I realized that something was wrong here. Darling Karin was a good cheerleader when it came to motivation to pick up the vacuum, but she should have been the cleaning lady, not me. It took me a few more weeks to find the courage to tell her this simple truth. “Cake,” she shrugged. I have so many errands that I’ll be happy if I don’t have to go to your place. This is where it always gave me the most work.’
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Lucie Šilhová
Czech journalist and writer, she is sure that life does not end at fifty, on the contrary!
Every week he will convince you of this in the form of feuilletons entitled Fifty Shades of Fifty.
2024-01-21 18:00:00
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