clean our house back when I had one big paycheck instead of the handful of small ones I now receive. She was available. And she’s great—with baseboards, stainless, and my fingerprint-laden glass-topped desk. I justified the luxury by telling myself that now the kids and I will have time to work on the deep detail cleaning and organizing. We’ll thwart the landfill-o-crap that threatens to overtake their bedrooms. Mmm-hmmm. That’s exactly what we’ll do with the time. We won’t sit around eating Sour Patch Kids and Raisinettes and watching American Idol. No way.
Step 3: Commence with the cleaning.
Naturally, I had to clean up the house before the housekeeper’s first visit. I won’t be judged for hair-clogged drains and fuzzy ceiling fans. More important, I don’t want her thinking we’re trouble like those slobs across the street. I can’t afford a rate hike, and I do detest those pesky negotiations.
Her first day back I withheld a giggle as she lemonpolished her way around the room. I let out a hearty “YES” when I saw the neat pile of rags next to the washer after she’d gone. I floated through the house on a lavender and Pledge-scented cloud. Goodbye, tiny hairs and pet dander. Hello, shiny wood floor.
Am I spoiled? Sure. Am I addicted to the housekeeper? I can quit any time. Ultimately it comes down to happiness. And nothing makes me happy like crumb-free floors and shiny granite.
Glamorous Task
I
START WITH A HOT CUP OF COFFEE AND TWO PIECES OF FUDGE . The drawer before me is a mess of tubs, tubes, and compacts, hair bands and hair—a chaos from which no beauty could emerge—unlike the pretty makeup on the counter, which is proudly displayed in leaded crystal and condescendingly mocks the dirty stepchildren shoved in the drawer.
As I dig into the mess I find I have enough black eyeliner—in different shades and degrees of sparkle—to survive the apocalypse. (You’re not really asking if there are different shades of black, are you?)
I find five different colors of red lipstick, one of which I know to be at least ten years old. You can’t just toss a red; you never know when you’ll need one or another to mix just the right tint. Red matters. I spent years wearing a tangerine poppy shade after reading that while women prefer blue-toned reds, men are drawn to orange-based hues. Now, to brighten my task, I smear some scarlet on my lips. With the rest of my face bare, I am transformed into a forties movie star/harlot. Just as I’m thinking this look works better in black and white, my husband walks by and utters “Damn!” in a way that tells me the look is definitely more harlot than starlet. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Despite his—and most men’s—declarations that they prefer a natural look, my husband has never complained about my made-up face, including the occasional overuse of apocalyptic eyeliner.
“Should I get the door?” he asks.
The thought of my children banging on our closed bedroom door is about as sexy as last spring’s experiment with green eye shadow. Besides, while an organized makeup drawer may not rise to the level of “better than sex,” if done right, it lasts longer. I politely decline.
My coffee has lost its steam so I indulge in the fudge as I pick through old foundation and a pot of glitter-something. I find a tube of Revlon Beyond Natural Primer. Beyond natural, way beyond—because it’s actually plastic.
I don’t understand the allure of primer, but beauty editors swear by the stuff so, since I’ve recovered it from the drawer of disorder, I vow to once again use the miracle elixir to spackle my pores. They’re not so bad, as pores go, but also not so good that they couldn’t use some silicone assistance. I smooth on the polymer, carefully avoiding my simmering red lips. Returning to the cosmetic confusion, I wonder why there are two of Step Two of my Mary Kay home micro-dermabrasion kit but only one of Step One.
Clearly
Step 3: Commence with the cleaning.
Naturally, I had to clean up the house before the housekeeper’s first visit. I won’t be judged for hair-clogged drains and fuzzy ceiling fans. More important, I don’t want her thinking we’re trouble like those slobs across the street. I can’t afford a rate hike, and I do detest those pesky negotiations.
Her first day back I withheld a giggle as she lemonpolished her way around the room. I let out a hearty “YES” when I saw the neat pile of rags next to the washer after she’d gone. I floated through the house on a lavender and Pledge-scented cloud. Goodbye, tiny hairs and pet dander. Hello, shiny wood floor.
Am I spoiled? Sure. Am I addicted to the housekeeper? I can quit any time. Ultimately it comes down to happiness. And nothing makes me happy like crumb-free floors and shiny granite.
Glamorous Task
I
START WITH A HOT CUP OF COFFEE AND TWO PIECES OF FUDGE . The drawer before me is a mess of tubs, tubes, and compacts, hair bands and hair—a chaos from which no beauty could emerge—unlike the pretty makeup on the counter, which is proudly displayed in leaded crystal and condescendingly mocks the dirty stepchildren shoved in the drawer.
As I dig into the mess I find I have enough black eyeliner—in different shades and degrees of sparkle—to survive the apocalypse. (You’re not really asking if there are different shades of black, are you?)
I find five different colors of red lipstick, one of which I know to be at least ten years old. You can’t just toss a red; you never know when you’ll need one or another to mix just the right tint. Red matters. I spent years wearing a tangerine poppy shade after reading that while women prefer blue-toned reds, men are drawn to orange-based hues. Now, to brighten my task, I smear some scarlet on my lips. With the rest of my face bare, I am transformed into a forties movie star/harlot. Just as I’m thinking this look works better in black and white, my husband walks by and utters “Damn!” in a way that tells me the look is definitely more harlot than starlet. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Despite his—and most men’s—declarations that they prefer a natural look, my husband has never complained about my made-up face, including the occasional overuse of apocalyptic eyeliner.
“Should I get the door?” he asks.
The thought of my children banging on our closed bedroom door is about as sexy as last spring’s experiment with green eye shadow. Besides, while an organized makeup drawer may not rise to the level of “better than sex,” if done right, it lasts longer. I politely decline.
My coffee has lost its steam so I indulge in the fudge as I pick through old foundation and a pot of glitter-something. I find a tube of Revlon Beyond Natural Primer. Beyond natural, way beyond—because it’s actually plastic.
I don’t understand the allure of primer, but beauty editors swear by the stuff so, since I’ve recovered it from the drawer of disorder, I vow to once again use the miracle elixir to spackle my pores. They’re not so bad, as pores go, but also not so good that they couldn’t use some silicone assistance. I smooth on the polymer, carefully avoiding my simmering red lips. Returning to the cosmetic confusion, I wonder why there are two of Step Two of my Mary Kay home micro-dermabrasion kit but only one of Step One.
Clearly
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