At what point in life can I rationalise a maid?

by Camille Posted on February 22, 2012

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Something Poor Kyle and I have been discussing a lot lately is when can we hire a maid.

Seriously, though. WHEN CAN WE HIRE A MAID?

I guess the all-caps make it look like our situation is dire here, like we’re suffocating under giant piles of filth and excrement or something.

Don’t worry; we’re not.

But it’s just that our house is never really clean. Never spotless. Never floorboards dusted or windows washed or blinds wiped down. It’s generally livable and tidy-ish and sort of presentable but it hasn’t been cleaned–really, deeply cleaned–in so many months that I’m too embarrassed to speak the number.

No I’m not: 10. 10 months.

I stay on top of washing the dishes and wiping down the counter every day (so Christal when I bring you your dinner you can rest assured my kitchen was clean when I made it), but I really don’t remember the last time I mopped the floors.

I stay on top of the laundry but only every 2 weeks. (Thankfully I have enough underwear to last me that long, barely.)

I stay on top of emptying the garbage but it’s one of my bigger challenges in life.

So truthfully, before you start thinking I’m some kind of hoarder-level slob, just know that it’s not that bad.

But it’s not that good, either, is what I’m saying.

You can eat dinner with us but you can’t put away the leftovers in our haphazard fridge.

You can use our bathroom but you can’t see yourself in the mirror.

You can come over and visit me in my fairly straightened up living room but if you are allergic to dust you will die.

The other day Poor Kyle said to me: “Imagine if our house was perfectly spotless all the time,” and after squelching my immediate defensiveness long enough to imagine it like he asked, there was no going back. I was completely mad for the idea: a maid!

I had never before entertained the literal notion of having a maid (though I pretty much daily dream about it in the maid/butler/personal hairstylist sense [and who doesn’t, am I right?]). But actually paying for someone to spend an hour or two every other week dusting and vacuuming and scrubbing my toilets? I honestly never even considered it a possibility.

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I guess the reason I never thought about this is because…well, why? Why do I deserve a maid? I’m not wealthy. I’m not important or famous or the president of any nation, developing or otherwise. I don’t get special treatment anywhere–I barely convinced Fry’s to give me a VIP card. I don’t have a ______ person on speed dial (think “hair person,” “pool guy,” “nail lady,” “hit man,” etc.). (Although I do have a snow man which if you could please not judge me for, thanks.) There’s really no reason for me NOT to do my own housework, except for the fact that now I work full time plus part time and I really don’t want to do chores in the few spare hours I do have.

Which up until now has worked for me. Not doing chores I mean. I am one of those people who gets along just fine in a constant state of semi-clean.

But then Poor Kyle mentioned how nice it would be to come home to a clean–REALLY clean–house every day after work and I chose not to feel personally attacked by that statement and instead took it for what he meant: that both of us work really hard and neither of us feel like working even harder on housework.

And why shouldn’t I have a maid? I mean, aside from the mounds of socioeconomic guilt that would surely haunt me for it? But guilt is so easily ignored it hardly seems a real argument against anything anymore.

After awhile I did what I always do with quandaries of adulthood and called my mom for advice: Mom, at what point in my life can I rationalise hiring a maid?

Her answer: When you both work full time and you earn more money than you will pay the maid.

Check and check. (Though Poor Kyle and I have added being debt-less to that list because we are getting SO close and we can’t rationalise paying for housecleaning when we still have car payments.)

That was all it took for me to become a full-fledged convert of the idea.

The more I thought about my maid the more I grew to love her.

“What do you think she’ll look like, our maid?” I asked dreamily. “Do you think she’ll wipe out the fridge? Do you think she’ll scrub the grout in the shower? Do you think we can get one who uses eco-friendly cleaning solution? Would it be rude to ask her to do our laundry? How much should we give her for a Christmas bonus? Should we send her kid a graduation present?”

I looked down at the dinner table to see that I’d used the tines of my salad fork to carve a giant heart with the initials CPSF + M inside it.

“That’s okay,” I sighed, drawing my pinky finger lazily through the wood shavings, “the maid will deal with it when she gets here.”

You probably think I’m joking but I’m not: I’m getting a maid and I’m getting one soon.

And now to address the question I’m sure has been eating at you:

If you’re so busy that you can’t sweep or mop then how did you have time to write this post?

My answer?

Shove off.

Posted in awesome., change, Cutting Back, failures, I hate change, It's All Good, kitchen failures, Married Life, mediocrity, what I'm about | Tagged | 12 Comments

Surreality

by Camille Posted on February 6, 2012

One day a week since September I’ve been driving back to the university campus where I spent the last two years of my Bachelor’s degree.

To the university campus where, 10 months ago, I could’ve sworn I’d be stuck for the rest of my life.

I have been graduated over six months now but if I think about it long enough that old despair comes back to me like a cold you just can’t shake. That despair, my old dear friend. I can remember it all. The smell of looseleaf at 4 a.m. while sitting on my couch sketching an outline for the paper not due until a month from now but it’s stressing me out so much that I can’t sleep so I’m up at 4 a.m. sketching an outline for it. The acidic burney taste of my 7th DDP in as many hours. The roughish texture of library books that haven’t been opened since the last time some poor sap had to research this same subject. The physical pain I felt while writing out multi-thousand dollar tuition cheques every October and February. The physical pain I wished upon the most horrid professors every time they doled out those demeaning looks. The pungence of sweaty palms and erasers during final exams with the clock ticking and the prof at the front of the lecture hall crunching on almonds. The frantic clack of keyboards in the library. The very real anxiety from thoughts like “What if I can’t do this?” “What if I never finish?” The endless lines in the bookstore during the first and last week of every semester. The rage. The hopelessness.

A nightmare.

But then there were times, brief glimmers of time but very real moments nonetheless, when it wasn’t bad at all. The surge of joy from somewhere deep in my gut—yes, gut-joy—when I submitted a 20-pager after babying it along for weeks and months. The even greater surge of joy when I got it back marked A+. The thrill of knowing that every week brought a four-day weekend (Tuesday/Thursday classes? Yes, please). The exhilaration, the exuberance, the jubilation of winning $200 and third place in a university-sponsored writing competition. The peace that came from knowing all that was expected of me was to sit through class and regurgitate information. That all I had to do was learn, and that would be enough.

One day a week since September I’ve been driving back to the university campus that, 12 months ago, I really thought would be the death of me some days.

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But it wasn’t.

Every week I walk through those quiet halls on my way to piano lessons (not for credit, just for fun), and when I do, this is what I feel: I feel the ghost of my past life following behind me, a shadow racing to catch up with my current self to take her place, to be where I am now because it looks so much happier than where I was then—it looks so much calmer, so much less stressful—and because all I want is to be out of that place. I feel the shadow of myself lurking around corners, hoping to latch on to future me and hitch a ride past all the unpleasant parts in between.

I don’t ever let her catch me though. She can’t skip the unpleasantness. The unpleasantness is necessary.

To anyone in the middle of something hard, especially if that something hard entails documents of more than 15 pages, I bring you this message from all of us on the other side: it exists. The other side exists. It really does, and you’ll make it here yourself before you know it, and you’ll be better and you’ll be stronger for it in the end.

I promise.

Posted in my edjumacation and me | Tagged | 7 Comments

These self defeating lies you’ve been repeating

by Camille Posted on January 30, 2012

I was thinking of writing a book in February but I can’t decide if I should write it as myself (creative nonfiction sort of artsy type thing) or if I should try to contrive some sort of fantastic story, complete with narrator, characters, pathetic fallacy and everything.

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What do you think?

I am, as a rule, not much of a fiction writer because in all honesty my imagination is basically crap. I don’t imagine much at all any more, haven’t for years really, and when I do it’s mostly about how soft my bed will feel when I get back into it 8 hours from now.

Anne of Green Gables would be so disappointed. My childhood self is disgusted.

But I can’t help it. When was the last time YOU imagined anything decent enough to write down? I bet it’s been a while. Between work, second work, housekeeping (if you could call it that), and church involvement (or sundry other demands on your time and mine), I am dedicating all the best parts of my brain power to the mere task of existing in this world. Imagination? Who has the time?

Steve Jobs is turning over in his fresh-dug grave.

So fiction is basically out. Which leaves creative nonfiction–stories about my life but with a little poetic license. Or in other words, a recipe for freaking disaster. Can you imagine the people I could potentially offend and estrange by writing something like that? I’ve already been written out of my parents’ will, so the only thing left for them to do is literally disown me, which I wouldn’t really put it past them to do. My marriage would be in shambles. My neighbors would egg my house. Nightly. My grandmothers would be crushed. I can’t write about my life, not the way I want to anyway, not the way that would sell books.

It’s a Catch 22: I have flies in my eyes but I can’t see them because I have flies in my eyes.

Of course, given my recent history of failure with this blog there is absolutely no chance I could accomplish such a feat as writing a book during the month of February, so whatever genre I pick really doesn’t matter.

And that kind of self defeating talk is exactly why I’m stuck here today, 25.5 years old with not a published page to speak of.

Posted in failures, how-to, in all seriousness, introspection, thisandthat, what I'm about, woe is me | Tagged , | 7 Comments

Rambles

by Camille Posted on January 23, 2012

I left my laptop in Arizona.

Wait, back up: I went to Arizona. For Christmas. It was a delightful trip.

See?

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But then I got back to Mayberry after two glorious weeks in Arizona and I unpacked my bags and I sat down to write a blog post and I was like, “Hey Poor Kyle, can you please hand me my laptop from over–oh crap.”

From where? From under the bed in my parents’ spare room. In Arizona. 1,000+ miles away.

And I do have an iPad, so being laptopless really is no excuse for being postless (blog postless, as it were), but Poor Kyle has sort of commandeered the iPad lately to read books on, and so intensely do I love to see that man read that I really can’t bear to take his reading medium away from him. Even if it is technically my iPad. I’m like, what? You’re reading? Here, take my iPad. Take my money. Whatever you want, it’s yours. I’ll even put out. If you can drag yourself away from your book long enough to notice.

I digress.

So life is good, work is really good, even the weather is unseasonably good these days. January is usually kind of a bummer but, true to 2012’s nature, this one has been pretty perfect.

But then that’s the joy of an even year, I’ve always said.

How’s yours shaping up?

Posted in awesome., Canada, It's All Good, Married Life, mondays suck | Tagged | 4 Comments

How to Use a Neti Pot

by Camille Posted on January 19, 2012

What is a Neti pot? How do I use a Neti pot? Why should I use a Neti pot?

Sadly, I can’t answer any of these arguably valid questions, but I can show you what happened when I tried to.

If nothing else it might make you smile.

Now if only smiling could cure that runny nose of yours.

Posted in ask me anything, do what I say, health and vitality, how-to, It's All Good, short films | Tagged | 11 Comments

Two homes divided

by Camille Posted on January 8, 2012

I’ve been to Mesa and back and I’m pleased to announce that it’s still a wonderful place to be. My teenage self is dying right now; I used to hate Mesa with a very particular passion reserved for teenage girls and hometowns. I hated the heat, the dust, the desert landscape, the cacti. I wanted very much to move to England and never call Mesa home again.

Funny, that.

Now, whenever I plan a trip down south it’s going Home, and the anticipation of going is exhilarating. By the time one trip is over I am already planning my next one. After 4+ years of living in Canada I still call Mesa Home.

It’s interesting, though: Home is now a bit divided in my heart. In the past year I have made a few friends in Mayberry. I’ve graduated from University and gotten a job and become more settled here. I have a regular hairstylist (well, I did until a few months ago when she up and quit on me), a family doctor, a massage lady, a butcher. (I don’t really have a butcher. But wouldn’t it be fun if I did?) I’ve relaxed on the whole crazy-clingy wife routine; I’ve finally figured out how to let Poor Kyle do his thing while I do mine. I’ve gotten to where the reverse layout of the local Costco is more familiar than the layout of my old Costco in Mesa (actually Gilbert). I’m more comfortable in the Alberta temple than the Mesa temple (despite getting married in Mesa), because my temple-going years have all been here. (Both temples, incidentally, are two of my least favourite architecturally. I suppose it’s just my fate to bond with homely temples. There are a lot prettier ones, I promise.)

Both images from here.

Just as my teenage self never expected she’d one day miss Mesa, my 21 year-old self couldn’t fathom a time that I’d say what I’m about to say: that Mayberry is kind of starting to feel like home too.

I am aware that this makes me a traitor.

I’m just not aware of what to do about it.

Posted in Canada, change, failures, family, Married Life, on the road again, sad things, the great state of AZ | Tagged | 10 Comments

You are it.

by Camille Posted on January 1, 2012

Dear 2012,

Welcome.

I ring you in with very little fanfare. I ring you in with pimples and 15 extra pounds or so. I ring you in pale-faced and out of shape; tired and a little stressed. Squishy. With bushy eyebrows, again. As usual. I ring you in spent.

But I ring you in with very high hopes.


This is it. You are it, 2012. You are the year I make it happen. You are the year I write my book. The year I grow up. The year I do the things I used to think I’d do when I was grown up but haven’t done at all…yet. Things like wake up and jump out of bed. Things like plant a garden and weed it and make a salad with its bounty. Things like get in the car and drive just to see what I can see. The year I finally finish decorating my house. The year I buy an office chair (a white one). The year I rip out the awful bushes in the front yard and replace them with window flower boxes. Once and for all. The year Poor Kyle gets his teeth.

I’m getting off the pot and getting serious about my life.

Ready…

…go.

Posted in awesome., change, family, It's All Good, what I'm about | Tagged , | 5 Comments