When one’s 6’5” bearded teddy bear of a son—the baby of the family—and his lovely fiancee say, “Can we have our wedding rehearsal dinner at your house?” what is one to respond?
One and one’s husband say, “Of course!” And begin the list of everything needed to get the house and yard ready for 40 guests.

Husband and son handle the groundskeeping, I am supposed to handle the housekeeping.
But a year of Covid and chemo mean the house has not been particularly well kept.
Tidy? Yes. Healthy? Hopefully.
Dust-free?
Nope.

On the recommendation of my daughter-in-law we called in the cavalry.
“The cleaning crew who come in for me are awesome. Their boss is willing to do a one-time-only deep clean. English isn’t her first language so texting works best.”

Texts flew for a couple of days and so did I. One doesn’t invite a cleaning lady into one’s house without cleaning first, correct? (My husband says, “I don’t swat all the mosquitoes outside before I call in mosquito control, do I?” Men don’t comprehend the complexities involved here.)

The big day came and so did the small, sturdy cleaning team leader. I walked her through the house, watching out of the corner of my eye as she frowned at my 1001 knick-knacks, ran a practiced finger around the inside of the tub, and glared—there’s no other word for it—at the plethora of bookcases.

Finally, the reckoning. I waited anxiously, having abandoned hope that she might compliment the results of my panic cleaning.
She poked what seemed to be innumerable keys on her phone calculator.
She poked a few more and punched in one last number with an emphatic finger.

With an expression that hovered between judgmental and pitying, she said,
“Little dusty. Upcharge.”

Image by Katie Phillips from Pixabay