Hello, It’s Nice to Meet You

BY AMBER LEVENTRY

“I know I surprise most of my clients when I show up at their doorstep.  I am not what they imagined at all.  I am younger than most people who clean homes for a living and am openly (and kind of obviously) gay.  I’m also pretty pale.”

In 2002 I took a part-time office job because it allowed me time to write.  As a bonus, the position offered medical benefits and mindless tasks that gave me time to think of the essay or story I was working on.

But over the course of my six years in the heinous world of cubicles, surrounded by people stuck in attitudes and attire from the year they were hired, I advanced my secretarial skills and was given more responsibilities.  My work hours increased and so did my hatred of my officemate.

Instead of thinking of plot or character development, I was thinking of ways to torture my co-worker.  I started to move items on her desk.  I stole her intra-office, pink envelopes.  When I considered spitting on the food she kept in her drawer, I knew it was time to go.

Instead of falling back on my college degree, which, by the way, I never have, I went to one of my strongest skills:  cleaning.  I quit my office job and in January 2008 gave birth to OCD Cleaning Services.

The idea of a cleaning business was perfect.  I would be my own boss, I would be making the world cleaner, and I would create hours that allowed ample writing time.

But as I was ramping up business and finishing my time at the office, I also enrolled in a women’s small business class.  I slept very little, met some amazing women, wrote a business plan, and, besides e-mails to clients and status updates on my Facebook page, did absolutely no writing.  My soul felt a bit constipated.

I was meeting a lot of new people, though.

All of my business was, and still is, generated through word of mouth.  My relationship with clients begins with a phone call or e-mail, and I imagine clients seek me with the same amount of guarded trust and hope that accompanies the reply to a personal ad.  Instead of woman seeking woman for dating, friendship, and lots of cats, women are seeking me for house cleaning, time, and sometimes a little bit of sanity.

I’m sure I overwhelm clients with the amount of details I offer related to the services I provide, rates I charge, and my approach to green cleaning.  But the details are what lock in the next phase of our relationship:  the in-home estimate.

I know I surprise most of my clients when I show up at their doorstep.  I am not what they imagined at all.  I am younger than most people who clean homes for a living and am openly (and kind of obviously) gay.  I’m also pretty pale.

After the ‘hello, it’s nice to meet you,’ the words out of most peoples’ mouths are ‘I’m sorry the place is such mess!’  I let them know I would be disappointed if it wasn’t.

I get a tour of the house and clients’ children show me stuffed animals and Lego creations.  By this time all guards are down and I am listening to spouses complain about the other’s poor cleaning habits.

I give them a few personal details about myself and let them know I am fully insured and pay taxes.  So far, every client has relaxed a bit when I tell them this—it’s as if they respect me a little more.  We both agree that paying taxes feels like a pain most of the time, but if they have to do it, then I should be doing it too.  And though I am not dealing heroin out of their kitchen, they feel better knowing I am not doing something illegal by cheating the government.

Once I have secured a set schedule with clients, I go into their homes and begin developing a cleaning routine.  After a few visits, I am comfortable and my mind starts to wander.  I don’t realize how relaxed my thoughts are until they get stuck on something.

Take microwaves, for example.  Anything that can turn lunch into temperatures mimicking those of the surface of the sun is bound to be witchcraft.  And by witchcraft, I mean a pain in the ass to clean.

On some days the obstacles seem endless:  the uneven surfaces, that 3×5 inch patch of holes for venting, the removable spinning glass plate, crumbs stuck in the corners, and the Abe Lincoln profile made from displaced marinara sauce.

And while I try to maneuver around teenagers and pet hair in a variety of homes, I imagine they are my nemeses.  I am a cleaning super hero and these things are out to get me.  I must conquer them or the whole city will perish.  I feel the same way about tile showers and canister vacuums.

And I play games to keep myself entertained while working.  Where is the Outlet? is one of my favorites.  The key is to find a socket that will let me vacuum the most amount of space without unplugging and relocating the vacuum more than once.  This game can get tricky because some people like to hide outlets behind buffets or window curtains, as if they are ugly and deserve hiding.

Sometimes when I find one that will allow me to vacuum the upstairs, the steps to downstairs and the downstairs foyer, I repeat the real estate mantra:  Location!  Location!  Location!  Occasionally, an outlet is connected to a switch.  Now I have a decision to make.  Will it be quicker to find a new outlet or to find the corresponding switch?

It’s like trying to advance to another stage in Super Mario Bros.  Do I try to get past the fire breathing monster at the end of the level or do I spend time trying to find the secret spot to warp to a new world?   Both have their advantages.

I also enjoy arranging stuffed animals and toys in bedrooms and playrooms.  I have heard feedback from clients that they like that I am not afraid of toys.  Most cleaning services will clean around children’s toys and books.  I take a few minutes to stack and dress up such things.

For example, in one house, I placed an Elmo doll on a much larger stuffed horse.  Elmo was riding sidesaddle.  The horse was wearing a policeman’s hat.

After 18 months of working with, mostly, wonderful clients—the non-wonderful clients make for great stories—I am happy.  My mind is free again to think creatively.  I have edited stories during lunch while sitting at someone else’s dinner table.  I have even been inspired by clients and wrote down notes on pieces of paper I find in their junk drawers.

I do good work and I know my clients appreciate me.  And though it’s a ‘non-issue,’ I like knowing that they also trust and respect me, among many things, a lesbian.

It took almost a year to get a solid hold on my business and have time to be productive in my writing.  But sometimes I procrastinate.  Most people procrastinate doing things they don’t like.  My partner, for reasons I am not confident in, will avoid the pre-bedtime ritual of washing her face and brushing her teeth at all costs.  She’ll fall asleep mid-conversation with me to delay the trip to the bathroom.

I tend to procrastinate doing things I enjoy.  I don’t relax well and frankly I often don’t feel worthy of making time for myself.  And then to further get in my own way, I begin to make excuses.

The gardens need to be weeded.  My house needs to be cleaned.  My e-mail inbox is too full!  Sometimes I convince myself that the most overwhelming hindrance is the time.

For many years, I wrote in the morning, with the beginning of my second cup of coffee.  With my PJs still on and my contacts not in yet, my dog and I would find a quiet place in the sun to read, edit, and review.

Now our routine is done in the afternoon, after work, after my shower, and probably past the time I should be drinking caffeinated beverages.

At first I thought the idea of having a beer or cocktail while I wrote was appealing.  But I talked myself out of that by saying, “Easy, Hemmingway!  That is a slippery slope!”  And then I got over myself.

I grab an iced coffee, sit in the afternoon shade, and enjoy the life I have created.