For much of my adult life, I’ve had a cleaning person. My theory has always been: (a) leave it to the professionals (b) it eliminates a source of argument between couples. Even when I lived on my own in Brooklyn, I had a lovely person coming to make off with my dirt. Because it wasn’t just my dirt – I had two kids and a demanding job, and I needed help.
My job is still demanding. But my kids no longer live with me. And I have a massive dust allergy.
Bernardo has a cleaning person as well. When I moved out, the room where I spent most of my time was…largely made of dust, apparently. Once all my things were moved, there were several enormous mounds of dust behind and under things. She is great, but obviously I need to take matters into my own hands.
So I resolved to clean every week, and tonight was when it started. I Swiffer-dusted every horizontal surface from doorjambs to venetian blinds; vacuumed windowsills, upholstery, and my mattress in addition to the floors; wiped down everything wipe-able in the kitchen and bathroom; Swiffer-mopped the wood and tile floors; Windexed all glass surfaces that I could reach (outside panes of windows not so much). I showed this space no mercy. And it took approximately 90 minutes. I learned from the best: this guy. He cleans deep and he cleans fast. (No, I don’t wear the apron. And, as an asthmatic, I swear by Swiffer rather than cloth rags. But thanks to following him for five years back when my big girl was tiny and my little girl was not even a notion, I know my way around an apartment as far as cleaning goes.)
And I love my Dyson. It’s a stick vacuum, with about 20 minutes worth of vacuuming life per charge, but with this tiny place, I only need about 15 minutes for it to do everything I need it to do. It gets EVERYTHING off the ground, the furniture, the windowsills.
As of this evening, I institute a No Shoes Allowed rule. I’m probably the only one coming here except for Bernardo and the UPS guy. But that’s okay. My home, my lungs, my rules.