The Cleaning Lady Knows All Your Secrets

As a cleaning lady, I have to be in every nook and cranny of your house, and by extension, every nook and cranny of your life. That’s why it’s important to find someone who values discretion and confidentiality. But if you don’t want me to find something, put it away. And I’m not talking about under the bed where you hide your poopy pants. I will never regain that hour it took to find out where the smell was coming from.

That being said, I am always amazed at what people leave in plain site for me to find. As I’ve said before here, if you are good enough at your job, no one notices you are there. You are invisible. Obviously, they think I am blind as well. “She won’t notice my herpes cream sitting on the kitchen table,” they will say to themselves while I have to keep a straight face trying not to picture what’s going on…down…there.

You’re welcome

My regular clients are notoriously open, or absentminded about this. Granted, I have worked with some for 15 years and an enormous amount of trust has been built over those years. But there are some things I just don’t want to know about these people.

The men are the worst. For example, I don’t want to know that the bachelor sometimes likes to play dress-up in women’s lingerie and high heals. But a picture doesn’t lie, especially the fifteen pictures of it strewn across his dresser, blocking my ability to polish like some impassable peak. Do I ignore them and forgo my duty to clean every surface or do I stack them up nicely and do my job? As a consummate professional, I chose the latter.

Me doing my job

I had an elderly male client that kept a bottle of Viagra and condoms on his night stand. Overachiever perhaps? Or just for show. I say if the little guys are still swimming at 70 years old, then kudos to you sir.

And Mrs. Grey is getting a boob job. The paperwork was left on the kitchen counter the other day. She is going from a modest B cup to an eye-popping DD. At least now I can keep my game face on when these things greet me at the door.

I’ve known for some time that Midge is a millionaire. She throws all her financial statements haphazardly on the dining room table. I can only hope to be included in her will.

So if you don’t want me to know your secrets, put them away. Or don’t. I won’t tell a soul.

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