Diary of a SubUrban Housewife

Another Nail...

There is an ongoing dispute in my house. I say that you need to pick up before the cleaning lady arrives, Chuck thinks it's the job of the cleaning lady to pickup and put stuff away.

The problem with Chuck's theory is that the cleaning lady then spends her time putting your stuff away, instead of what she's supposed to be doing: cleaning toilets and stuff like that. To further support my argument, when someone else puts your stuff away, unless you have superior mind-reading skills, you're not going to have a fucking clue where it is.

OK, so you see my point. You'd think Chuck would, considering after every time the cleaning people have been here, he slams around looking for his shit and complaining because he can't find it (because they put it away).

In Chuck's defense, they are pretty stupid about putting stuff away. I have often found shoes that are clearly mine on his side of the closet. In my kitchen I have a pot rack, and when I look for a pot that I know they've cleaned, I have to look in the cupboard--they place they think the pots should go, rather than the rack--the place I think they should go.

All that said, we've reached a level of semi-understanding around here. Chuck has gotten better about putting his stuff away. The fact that's he's gone most of the time probably helps that.

And I was getting less unhappy with the cleaning lady. Until yesterday that is.

I had done a load of laundry the other night. When I left for work on Thursday morning (cleaning day) it was in the dryer.

While the cleaning people (cuz it's a husband and wife actually) are here, they wash the sheets that they change. If there is something in the dryer, I usually find it either in the laundry basket, or neatly folded on the couch in my bedroom. I say usually.

That would be until this week.

I know that in the dryer were a pair of khaki cropped pants that I was planning to wear to the party I was going to yesterday.

So I shower. I start to get dressed. I look for the pants. I look in the laundry basket in my room that's filled with neatly folded clothes. No pants. I look in the pile of neatly folded items on the couch. Still no pants. I look in the dryer. You can guess that I found no pants.

Where the fuck are the pants??????

I figure some creative "putting away" took place. So I look in Chuck's dresser. Nope. My closet shelves and drawers. Again, no. Last resort: Zoe's room. Dresser, closet, and everywhere in general. No. No. And again, no. Family room (don't ask). No. Dryer three more times (perhaps they're hiding). No.

You might guess that by now I'm flipping out. I'm running late for leaving and can't find the pants and of course there is no other outfit that will possibly be OK, because I had my heart set on wearing those pants and had orchestrated the rest of the ensemble around them.

I emptied hampers. I looked under the bed. I pretty much looked everywhere in the whole house.

Then, for some reason I'm still not sure of, I decided to look in the washing machine. Perhaps because I'd already checked the refrigerator and they weren't in there. I don't know why I did, but sure enough, a whole load of freshly washed clothes were jammed into my washing machine.

You can be sure I'll be chatting with them about this. How do you say, "Don't ever fucking do that again!" in Spanish?

Posted by beth at July 27, 2003 06:45 PM