Before she was a BAWSE on 227, Marla Gibbs played Florence Johnston, George and Wezzie’s snarky housekeeper on The Jefferson’s. I knew George was a bit of a douche and not a nice guy over all, but as a child watching the show, I never quite understood what Florence’s deal was. Why was she so indignant all the time? And why did she have that look on her face? You know – like she was stepping in a perpetual pile of George poo.

Well, thanks to my new job, I get it.

Yes folks, that’s right. You’re looking at Roswell’s newest housekeeper. I have joined a maid/housecleaning service.

For those who know me and went to school with me, this line of work makes absolutely no sense. I am not one known for her uber-cleanliness. I can’t abide clutter, but cobwebs in the corner or dust on the mantle don’t bother me in the least. In fact and historically, I was so nonchalant about the finer details of cleaning that term after term, I singlehandedly caused my dormitory to kpe inspection because I had refused to dust a ledge in my closet, or the rim of my bunk bed, or fold my sheets in a perfect tidy square. Our house mistress, Mrs. Martei, would gleefully deduct marks every time she came into my room.

Ooooh…ah! Malaka Gyekye! You too why!

Oh gellout! Why are we making beds anyway? We just have to sleep in them and spoil them again tonight. Mstew.

Meanwhile, my very tidy sister and her dorm mates would cheer with joy when they were proclaimed to be the winners of the clean-up competition or whatever it was called. Did they win anything? No. They just got bragging rights over absolutely nothing, and I got the satisfaction of not having to overexert myself for no good cause, dusty desk and all.

And now, nearly 20 years later, I’m a housekeeper? And I LIKE it. Oh the irony.

Now before your head explodes with the question of why I have taken on such menial work, I have another confession for you:

Despite all my years and numerous destinations, I have never flown first class. No, not once. I don’t count that time I tricked the stewardess on Ghana Airways by feigning sickness midway through the trip, because I wasn’t treated to a complimentary glass of wine (because I was supposed to be sick) and she set me in the very back of first class so that she could monitor me (because I was supposed to be sick). My BFFFL is celebrating her 35th birthday in a 3-day bash by the beach and I plan to be there with bells, whistles and weave on.  I’ve taken on this job to help fund that effort.

That, plus working at DSW and caring for my four kids as we enter into the swing of summer has sadly left me with little time to write. I literally work 7 days a week. But Lord have His sweet mercy, do I have so much to write about!

First let me tell you about the company. I can’t tell you the name of the owner, nor can I tell you the name of the company, because I am about to divulge some things about her clients that I am sure they would rather not be known to the e-universe. This of course would jeopardize her business, and we can’t have that.

*Harriet is a single mom who started this business about six months ago. She is tall, statuesque, in her late 20’s and can sell ice to a mute walrus. When I asked her why she started a cleaning company of all things, particularly given that she has a degree, she told me that she “likes to start businesses for things that she knows she could use herself.” That, and the start-up cost was very low. Her operation is small, but super efficient. It’s staffed with a group of mature women and sister-friends, so there is no nonsense…only work. I love it. We clean, we speak when we need to, we roll out.

The first house that I went to belonged to a young family. The woman was about 33 and she had just had her first child, 8 months ago. I remember what it was like to be a first time mom, and cleaning was one of the furthest things from my mind. I could forgive our client, but one of the other women couldn’t. She carried on and on about how nasty the house was, and how she couldn’t understand why the woman didn’t just wipe up when the baby was asleep.

This is one of my biggest pet peeves about people who don’t have kids, or have had kids so long ago that they’ve forgotten what those early days are like. The last thing you feel like doing when the baby is asleep is “wipe up”. You either want to take a nap yourself, or watch TV, or take a shower. First time moms rarely shower. That’s just a fact.

As I cleaned gobs of White people hair from the shower floor and scrubbed off lime scale, I felt good. I felt like I had done my good deed for the day and helped a fellow mom. It didn’t hurt that I was fiscally compensated for my deeds AND given a tip. How kind of her!

It turns out that would be the first and only tip I would receive.

Americans, or Georgians at least, are very tight-fisted when it comes to tipping in the sanitation industry. Harriet explained the types of people you can expect NOT to receive tips from:

“Foreigners never tip. They think you should be happy to clean their houses,” she said. “And old people won’t tip, but they’ll offer you some water or something else to drink. Middle-aged white guys don’t tip either. Sometimes younger women will tip, but usually they won’t.”

Well good golly gosh! Who does that leave then?

Armed with insight into our customers’ profiles, I have modified my expectations and now no longer expect a tip. Instead, I look for other ways to satiate my dearth of intellectual stimulation. What better way than to observe and process the details of my environment so that I can share them with the M.O.M Squad?

First and foremost, I see that although they differ on the outside, most American households are the same. They all have that 20-30% coupon that comes from Bed, Bath & Beyond laying somewhere on the kitchen counter, no doubt destined for the trash before being used and mounds of dog hair embedded in fabrics in every room in the house. In the bathroom there are splatter marks on the mirror and drips of water on the floor. Your typical American bedroom will also boast a bottle of KY Jelly on the side table or wardrobe, empty except for the last dribbles that have gone unused because you’re either too lazy to go out to get some more, or you just can’t bear to part with those last drops. You haven’t needed to use them recently, but what if you do in the weeks ahead. What then? Nothing hurts like dry hoo-hah, I know.

Anyway.

Some households are wonderfully unique. Take this one house I went to clean in the country. It smelled of stale cigarettes and ham. But I could overlook all that because the family had constructed a water garden in the back. The sound of rushing water calmed me as I scrubbed and swept. Working backward from the bedrooms, my team mate and I ended up in the family’s game and show room. Every surface was covered with dust, including the lamps. The lamps made with deer hoof bases.

Yes, you are seeing correctly. Just above this ‘eclectic’ item sat the head of a buck that I assume once roamed the nearby forests with these very severed feet. I dusted, vacuumed and sprayed the room, suddenly eager to escape the aura of mammal death.

Overall, the job hasn’t been bad. Most of the houses haven’t been filthy, just unkempt. My worst job to date has been an empty house that was being rented out.

 Have a gander at this refrigerator. I nearly gagged when I opened it. It looked like the woman cleaned it every Tuesday at never o’clock. And had the nerve to ask how long it would take to finish the house.
Heifer, have you looked at your fridge? I wanted to ask. How long do you think it would take you?

The answer is 40 minutes, in case you were wondering. The oven and microwave were no better.

But the best, and we always save this for last, is this one house out in Cumming. That house right there sent me into a spirit of worship!

It was about 4,500 square feet of awesomeness and belonged to the ‘perfect’ family. The mom came out and greeted us with a big smile on her face and her hand extended to shake ours. She was just in an incredibly good mood. And I would be too, if I woke up to the view she had every morning. Her master bedroom faced a small like surrounded by lush rolling hills. I mean, actual, literal ROLLING hills. Mallard ducks nibbled serenely on algae and aquatic life and a small black terrier bounded in the grass. There was a cross in some form in every room, and motivational sayings on the walls of her kids’ rooms.

Wish it…
Think it…
Do…

read the one in her son’s room. His book cases were stuffed with trivia books, motivational texts,  Mensa queries and John Grisham novels. His sister’s room was devoid of clutter. Only her hand scrawled periodic table taped to her mirror looked out of place amid the perfection…and even THAT carried an element of excellence.

Like I said, the mom was in the most excellent mood – even when her teenaged son scratched her late model Honda Pilot as he backed out of the garage.

“A coat of paint and it will be just fine!” she laughed. She sounded like a fairy, or some other friendly creature of yore.

I had to agree with her. Who disagrees with fairies?

“It sounded worse than it actually was,” I said congenially.

As we cleaned the home – all THREE levels of it – my last task was to do her bathroom. She had already made the bed (a double California King monstrosity) so I dusted and walked into her bathroom. And I walked and I walked until I realized that that marble and tile room that I suddenly found myself  in was NOT another living room. It was her freaking bathroom!

I have no words. She literally takes a dump in an environment of excellence; every day.

So I am determined now. First on my agenda is to earn my way to a first class plane ticket, and next it is to earn myself a first class home. I doubt it will be one toilet at a time, however. But who knows? Maybe I’ll clean the right toilet and end up on someone’s creative writing team.

Happy Monday one and all. I worked a 13 hour day yesterday, so I’ve put the kids in daycare, and am kicking back by plucking my chin hairs and lancing my whiteheads. “Ewww”, you say? You haven’t even heard the worst yet. Let’s open up our cerebral cortexes and fire up those neurons. We’re going deep into M.O.M mode. It’s been a while, and you’ve missed it. I know you have.

******

For a Sunday, Jimmy Carter Blvd was very busy. It had rained the night before and the air was damp and heavy with the scent of exhaust and fumes. I parked my car and surveyed my surroundings nervously. You never knew who might approach you in this neck of the woods. Small gangs of Hispanic and Black kids trolled the parking lot of the gas station I was sitting in. Across the busy street the gaily painted abandoned Taco Shack held my attention while I waited for Douche Bag to show up. He had picked up Nadjah for the weekend, and this Shell was our new rendezvous point. It was 5 pm, and I hoped he wouldn’t be late, as was his habit. I did not like the looks of the burly Mexican man glaring at me from the driver’s side of his taxi. It was hot, and there was only one shady spot under the concrete awning. We both wanted it, and in the end he inched his car forward just enough to let me share the shade. I parked 2 feet behind him, where I could keep him in my direct line of vision.

We were both waiting for someone. My assumption was that he was picking up one of the numerous Hispanic mothers who often mill about that area with a portion of their brood in tow. Unsmiling and pushing their double strollers, they would seem a perfect companion for the frowning brown skinned hulk in a trucker’s hat and tan plaid shirt.

Douche Bag pulled up a few moments later, this time only 3 minutes late. He approached my car and reached into my window and pressed my shoulder blades.  I resisted the urge to flinch at the contact.

“My offer to go for a walk still stands,” he said.

“And I still refuse it, thank you,” I retorted.

(He asked me to join him on an amiable walk about two weeks ago to discuss child support, and probably to take a stroll down memory lane. Unfortunately, the scenery in his memory is vastly different from the reality I recall and I will never be in the mood to debate those details with him.)

As Nadjah buckled herself in the car, the taxi driver’s fare walked out of the gas station and approached his trunk. He got out to open it. Douche Bag was still carrying on out how we would be friends one day, but I was only halfway listening. My attention was drawn to the woman approaching the vehicle. I could not take my eyes off her.

She stood at a confident 5’3”, and had to weight about 250 lbs. It was difficult to tell exactly how old she was based on the way she was dressed. With her wig askew – styled in a coal black asymmetric bob -she sauntered up to the waiting vehicle, dragging her feet lazily with every step. Unemployed and underemployed women in their early twenties all seem to have this trait in common, so she may have been about 26. She was wearing a tight polyester t-shirt, and her massive breasts and belly strained against the bronze and gold fabric revealing every blubbery bump and ripple that cascaded her compact body. The sound of her sandals making a sucking sound against the concrete drew my attention to her feet, which were beefy and not pedicured. One of the rules of summer in the South is that if you going to wear sandals, you must have a pedicure. It’s just common courtesy. I noticed she was wearing a black skirt, which might have been the most appropriate item of clothing in her ensemble. It was pleated with an elastic band and came to just above her knee. It put me in the mind of a ballerina’s tutu.

I wracked my brains in an effort to recall a ballet about the moon. It would serve as a pleasant distraction from the hot mess I was looking at; but I before I could conjure up a title, the Rotund Lady presented me with hers.

Yes, that’s right. She mooned me.

Carrying two small bags, she bent over into the trunk of the taxi and laid them down. As she did so, the bottoms of her butt cheeks dropped from beneath the hem of her too-short black skirt, like sweaty brown low hanging fruit. Horror washed over my face. It looked like a cruel demi-god had thrown gobs of mashed sweet potatoes at her backside and asked it to serve as an a**.

Douche Bag had said his goodbyes to Nadjah at this point, and was retreating towards his vehicle. His eyes followed my affrighted gaze to the dimpled glistening mass that was this unknown woman’s booty. Catching his glance, she bent over slightly more seductively and gave him a suggestive look.

You want some of this, her eyes said, it’s hot and fonky just for you…

I drove off before I could throw up.

******

See? This is why I hate summer in the South. Why Lawd…why?!?

My sister is a person whom one might define as socially awkward. While neither of us possess the gift of tact, I have become slightly more adept a maneuvering unfamiliar social situations, whereas she avoids them wherever and whenever possible. We both have the same handicap: that being that we don’t possess a filter. Whereas most people know that it constitutes poor manners to point out a hanger from a perfect stranger’s nose, we feel it is our civic duty to not only bring attention to the offensive item, but to introduce it to any other would-be spectator and random passersby.

Fortunately in my old age I have learned to bridle my tongue – at least somewhat – and curb my impulse to point out the defects in others, be they friends or strangers. A-Dub has not mastered this skill yet, so she has opted for silence. While my adroitness at this new skill has afforded me with a growing list of new congenial acquaintances, her failure to do so has resulted in an inverse problem. I have to decide how many people I can afford to let into my circle, while she has to decide how many people she can afford to let out. She calls this number an “optimal number of friends.”

While extroverts gather friends in every city and country they travel to, introverts tend to keep the same friends they have known the majority of their life time. Extroverts shop for friends like trinkets, while introverts collect them like treasure. My sister fits in this latter group. That’s why the conversation she had with a friend a few weeks ago put her in somewhat of a quagmire. It was contrary to everything that was part of her nature.

Her friend (we’ll just call her ‘Shequan’) is very fashionable. I’ve seen pictures of Shequan, and she fits nicely into a certain prototype. Being a large, or curvy, Black woman in a major urban area, she has adopted the persona of a ‘diva’ complete with hair extensions and full glam make-up. She is also a regular shopper on an online retailer that makes replicas of celebrity outfits that translate into mainstream life. The sell for this site is that all the garments are true to size, i.e. no matter your bust, waist or hip measurements, if you wear a size 6, you should be able to fit into any size 6 garment on their racks.

Shequan –who is now 7 months pregnant – had purchased a jumpsuit that was replicated after something that Beyonce wore last season. After getting it in the mail and trying it on, Shequan was completely miffed.

“I’m so angry!” she complained to my sister. “I spent a lot of money on that outfit, and it doesn’t fit right.”

My sister was very sympathetic. Being a spend thrift AS WELL as an introvert (I have resisted the urge to call her a hermit and a miser, you should be proud to note), nothing pains her more than seeing money wasted on an item one cannot use. And what is more useless than a dress that you can’t wear?

“I’d send it back,” she said emphatically. “I don’t care how good it looked when you got it out the box.”

Her friend nodded in agreement, disappointment clouding her continence.

“I just feel like I was lied to,” she continued. “This was clearly false advertising. There is NO WAY that this is anybody’s size 12.”

A-Dub bit her lip and choked down the words she so desperately wanted to say next. They tasted like bile as they slid back down her throat.

No, sweetie, they are somebody’s size 12…just not yours.

You see, Shequan is a solid size 20, and incidentally two sizes bigger than yours truly. Yours truly knows better than to kid herself into thinking she has any business sniffing around a size 12 anything – unless it’s 12 scoops of ice-cream. And it’s not that Shequan is some questionable hood rat character – quite the contrary. She is an accomplished Black woman with a degree… she just makes questionable fashion choices.

After Shequan returned the offensive item, she invited my sister to go shopping with her in order to remedy the wrong that had been done to her. She made a beeline for the juniors section, calling for A-Dub to join her over there.

“Naw…I’m just going to go to the misses section,” she said in a way that would encourage Shequan to join her. “They make allowances for women with hips….”

She let her voice trail off. Shequan did not take the bait.

“Girl, aint no way nothing over there would fit me,” she sniffed. “I’m a junior 15 at the most.”

A-Dub just nodded her head and continued her window shopping. What was the point in arguing with this high school student trapped in Grandma’s ample bosomed body? After all, she had an optimal number of friends to keep, and losing Shequan’s camaraderie by telling her she was too fat to be shopping in Juniors’ would upset that delicate balance.

 I think she’s being a worse friend my letting this grown woman walk around in too tight booty shorts and low cut tops, but that’s just me. Can you tell your friends the truth? Can you even afford to?? Are you a better friend if you let them wallow in happy ignorance, or pull them out by the crack of their junior sized denim shorts? I’m at Barnes & Noble with my coffee. I can’t wait to hear this!