Ironed panties and other embarrassments

Why do I tidy up my house before the house cleaner comes? Guilt? Embarrassment? I have always thought if I procrastinate about cleaning the cat box or emptying trash cans, why should they face them? Besides, I want them to clean the big stuff, like moving furniture and getting all of the dust bunnies hiding under my bed.

Before I realized it, I was remembering Cairo and Whaby.

Each school had a secret communication system the maids, nannies, drivers and gardeners utilized.  When new staff arrived in August, candidates would magically appear at our doors. After a long day of new staff orientation, I arrived at my apartment and a lady waiting outside the door;  but when I told her I needed full-time she said she couldn’t,  but she would send her husband to meet me. I questioned her about why her husband would clean my house and care for my pets and she replied with a wry smile “I am his second wife and he needs to work!” The next day there was a very elderly man waiting for me and when I asked about his age, he said he was 72.

One day I came home in the middle of day to find him ironing my underwear. I was mortified!  Of course I realized they had been pressed, but to see a geriatric  man wielding an iron on my underwear was a shock. Whaby was a true gentleman who had been a driver for a Shell Oil executive for over twenty years so he read, wrote and spoke perfect English. He lived in my apartment with my pets when I traveled; he shopped for me; cooked if I asked; took my clothes to the laundry and a myriad of other things. I just left him a note and it was done! Little did I realize that first day what a special man he was. Whaby was 76 when I left and another teacher hired him.

But I digress. Thinking about making things presentable before the maid arrives,  actually brought memories of friends revealing things far more embarrassing  than an old man ironing my panties. More than one teacher confided about leaving her vibrator on the bed only to find it clean in the shower. Or condoms under the bed removed. Blue movies discreetly put away and, or course, those who spent too much time with the bottle never had to face the evidence. Thankfully, the maids were usually gone by the time we got home from school and we never had to face them.

Now that I am retired, I only have a maid every few months when  a cleaning service comes in for a deep clean. No more embarrassing scenarios. I don’t know whether to be happy or sad.

Ajijic, 2019