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June 11, 2013 · 18:55

If I Only Had A…Maid

♪ I would wile away the hours
Nibbling bonbons and buying flowers
(A significant upgrade)
I’d be chill, I’d be happy
I’d be dressin’ really snappy
If I only had a maid… ♫

I am so fakking sick of housework these days. I love the warm weather, but I’ll say this for the dead of winter: it’s a lot cleaner.

In Spring, nature decides to come indoors to play. Kids walk through the house in pool-wet and lawn-dirty feet and leave smeary footprints from the back door to the front. There are damp towels…everywhere. Dust and other schmeg blows in to settle in corners, and it becomes impossible to have the glass-topped coffee table look remotely clear. Flies get trapped between the sliding doors and die there, their corpses needing extrication (but not before driving me half-mad with their desperate and hopeless pre-mortem buzzing).

The dogs begin to shed more (which is really saying somethin’), leaving blond, brown and black hair all over the leather chairs and couches, where it sticks until I wipe it off because static electricity.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

With additional hours of light comes extended hours I am forced to look at my house As It Is, as opposed to October through April, when it looks ‘romantic’ by 4:30 p.m. because I turn the lights down low and can no longer see the dust.

There is definitely more laundry this time of year. Aforementioned towels, plus bathing suits, shorts and jeans, t-shirts galore because no kid of mine is ever going to get through an entire Jumbo Freezie without slopping the melted bit all down their fronts. Before I had kids, I would look down my nose at parent friends of mine who left overflowing baskets of clean laundry in the living room. “How lazy!” I would think to myself, “How hard can it be to put away?” and “When I am a parent, my family will always have a wellspring of pristine clothes to choose from!” Well, a note to those as yet-childless, judgemental bitches: it is ridiculously hard to keep it up when you’re doing it all the fucking time for a houseful of people who (yes, I’m about to say something über-motherish) HAVE NEVER UNDERSTOOD HOW THE CLEAN CLOTHES GET INTO THEIR ROOMS.

This is not a GIF. This is footage. From my house.

Phew. That was nice. It felt good to get it out. Really, really good.

A natural consequence to perpetual circuit cleaning is that while the other three are well put-out, I myself never get out of the clothes I clean in. I have a closetful of lovely cotton sundresses that have yet to see the light of day this season. But you see, even IF I had somewhere to wear them, even IF I took a shower, even IF I shaved my legs, I’d still have to iron them (the clothes, not the legs) beforehand, I mean, they’ve spent the past almost-year being shoved aside for cooler-weather clothes and are as wrinkly as Donatella Versace’s tuchus (and I wouldn’t be caught wearing that out in public). And that’s just more work. So.

If I had a maid, I would have her (yes, I assume it’s going to be a her, ditch Women’s Studies comments for now) do all sorts of things outside the norm. Windows? Don’t care, leave ’em. Countertops? Nah, I do those myself several times a day. Water the plants? You’re not taking away something I actually like doing. Run the dishwasher? Uh, nope, not paying you to press buttons. Some of the jobs that have occurred to me in the last 24 hours:

Hangers: Go through my entire closet and make sure none of them are overlapping. Ain’t nobody got time for that.
Paperwork: Once a month, gather random papers from wherever you may find them in the house and shred them. This includes bills. I will never notice.
Bath products: Once a month, go under the sinks of all washrooms and toss half of what you find there (exception: TP). I will never notice.
Fridge: Once a month, pull out the crispers and clean whatever nastiness you find behind/under there. Most of it you’ll have to use your fingernail to scrape off. I never want to deal with that shite again.
Rooms: For God’s sake, capture and kill the dust rhinos under the bed. My vacuum won’t do it, by the way, technically speaking, the sucker-part angles too much when you get the wand-part that low to the ground. So you’ll likely have to lie on your stomach on the floor and get some Swiffer-y something-or-other to manage. Or spray yourself with Pledge and git under there, yourself, and roll about, I don’t care.
Stickers: This is a kind of I Spy exercise. My children randomly place stickers around the house (including but not limited to: Superheroes, My Little Pony, dollar-store miscellany, Christmas, Easter, Hallowe’en and Valentine’s Day) with no visible pattern. Grab yourself a bottle of Goo Gone and make ’em disappear. I’ll deal with the tears afterward.

That’s all I got for now, though I’ll be adding as I come up with other stuff.

What would YOU have your maid do? (Those able to answer “Well, I usually have her…” need not apply.)

And for those wondering what I really think, this is the kind of maid I’d want, and I’d never have her do any of the grody things listed above, because I would love her far too much:

Sniff! I love you, Aibileen!

Bully For You!

Cry, cry for me crybaby! Cry!

BULLY (n.)
1530s, originally “sweetheart,” applied to either sex, from Dutch ‘boel,’ “lover; brother,” probably a diminutive of Middle Dutch ‘broeder’ meaning “brother.”

We’ve come a long way, baby. Just not in the right direction.

This weekend, my daughter was the victim of bullying. I’m not talking about your garden-variety meanness here; the kid in question called her a fucking bitch, fuck face, told her she was a ‘ho,‘ proceeded to hit her with a stick and then pushed her into a tree. This all happened at the end of my street.

He’s eight years old. And in her class at school.

I have mixed feelings about the situation. I have a very headstrong daughter, and when he continued to call her names, she continually went back to tell him to stop, though the older girls she was with asked her repeatedly to just come along with them. I spoke to my girl about this, and told her that her friends had been correct; they should have either come straight to me at the onset or found another known adult to help them. As it turns out, another parent who lives closer to the end of the crescent had heard the commotion and went out to investigate. Witnessing the abuse, she approached the group of boys and berated them for their behaviour. Emma’s attacker ran off, but the others stayed. One of the boys, frightened by this unknown adult, called his parents, who arrived within a few minutes.

The three girls ran back to my house to tell me what had happened. I immediately took them back to the park and had them play on the climber while I went over to find out what I could. By the time I arrived, however, three parents from my street were standing in the park facing off with the one child’s parents. I approached the group, and after a few minutes of listening to the adults shout at each other, I interrupted and said to the mother, “Hello. My name is Erin. I’m the mother of the girl who was bullied here today, and I’m hoping we can talk.” At which point I reached out my hand to shake hers.

I got this:

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Not gonna happen.

She was really on a tear, and extraordinarily defensive. I understand that no parent wants to hear that their child might not be the angel they believe them to be, however even after listening to the adult and several kids who had witnessed it, she steadfastly refused to believe her child had been involved. I told her, calmly, that I had three girls who backed up each others’ accounts, to which she responded, “So where is the girl? Where is the girl this happened to? Is she here?” I replied that yes, my daughter was present, however there were a few things I wanted to clarify as adults beforehand, and I had instructed her to play on the climber. I said, “You have to understand that my eight-year-old is distressed right now, and it would upset her if she were to be asked to come and speak to an angry adult she doesn’t know.” To which she responded, “Why do you make it sound like her age is important? My son is eight, too, so what? I keep hearing these stories from everyone else. I want to talk to her, now!”

Ahem. Let me pause, here. My policy when in the midst of an emotional power keg is to transform into a Zen Master. I speak calmly, quietly and unexcitedly. I smile sincerely. I employ body language that allows the other person to understand I’m truly listening to them. However, at this point, when the woman repeatedly referred to my recently-traumatized daughter as ‘she’ and ‘her’ and ‘the girl,’ and for some reason believed I would actually make my kid face off with a raving, batshit-crazy adult, I realized I wasn’t in the least interested in continuing the conversation. Fortuitously, she was distracted by a baited comment from someone else, and I moved away.

https://i0.wp.com/media.tumblr.com/tumblr_likqjslKzm1qdrdd0.gif

Buh-bye!

Over the next few minutes I spoke to the remaining kids and got their side of the story. They admitted there was bad language, though they weren’t in agreement as to whether or not my daughter was hit with a stick. They asserted my daughter continually went back and engaged the boy, until she was called away by her older playmates.

This morning before school began, I had a meeting with the school principal to apprise him of the situation. He agreed that he would speak to the teacher, and ensure that at no time of day would my daughter and the boy be left alone without adult supervision. He will be speaking to one of the girls my daughter was with, who, as a school lunch monitor, has apparently witnessed the boy bullying Em and others in the past. He will get the names of the other boys who were present. He will take the boy to a different classroom for lunchtimes (when no teacher is present). He will be calling the boy’s parents. All these things I agree with, but I have to say I’m still concerned with potential run-ins on the playground and in our neighborhood. What to do other than reiterate to my girl that in the event she cannot avoid this boy and he bullies her again, she needs to either a) walk away, b) run away c) run away and get an adult, pronto?

I have this inkling that 30+ years ago, this would have been handled differently. I’m quite sure the school wouldn’t have become involved, and that I’d be speaking directly to the boy’s parents. Thing is, in this world of BureaucracySpeak, I find myself out of my element, because my common sense reaction is no longer necessarily the most efficacious route to resolution.

What would YOU do?