If Only Someone Would Clean My House
by Jessica Ciosek

If only someone would clean my house.  

Vacuum the sand from the floors, wipe up the cat vomit, wash out the lunch thermoses, throw a load of towels in the wash. Oh, yeah and organize the drawers. But, really, just clean the house, rinse the congealed cereal from the blue and green plastic bowls, wipe the rancid butter from the toast plate, load the dishwasher, run it and maybe even wipe down the stove.

If only someone would clean my house.

I had a cleaning lady once about a year ago. Fanny Fernandez was her name. A gem she was, sweet, kind, efficient. And, every Thursday when I walked into a clean apartment fresh with the scent of orange wood polish and Bounce fabric softener, I felt taken care of for the week – felt mothered. It was a dream.

Fanny moved to Orlando – her sister came in her place – it never really worked out.  And then the money, it seemed sensible to spend it in other ways.

If only someone would clean my house.

I could do so many other things – be such a grander person if this one task were lifted from my plate. I could write novels with the prolific-ness of Joyce Carol Oates; I could bake birthday cupcakes to rival Martha Stewart; I could sashay around in the bod of Angelina Jolie, if only someone would clean my house.

Or maybe, just maybe, I could breathe.