Freaking out Fiona

My hands are swollen, red, raw and developing blisters. Wearing gloves make it worse. The water and chemicals seep through and have a waterlogging effect. I start to think that with all the cigarettes I smoke, plus Clorox and Ajax I am inhaling, I will spontaneously combust soon. This is an exciting thought for me as it has always been the way I want to go. Imagine walking past 5th Avenue toward Prospect Park, bursting in to flames while Park Slope inhabitants with their little puppies and baby carriages gasp.

Cleaning today is not easy, plus it’s shit outside, swampy and muggy. Fiona does not put on air conditioning in her apartment which has me beet red and dripping sweat. It is embarrassing, plus Fiona and her mom are control freaks and I fear that if they see a drop of sweat fall in their precious children’s toy bin they will flip. They follow me around, watching my technique, comment at every move, and dictate contradicting commands: “You don’t need to clean that. You missed a spot there. Can you sweep again here? Start in the bathroom. Don’t start in the bathroom. Clean under the sink now. First, carry this box of toys downstairs.” Her bossy nature is contradicted by her smooth and soft Indian accent. I think she must be hypnotizing her husband to stay with her with that mellifluous voice which shoots poisonous words. I am a corporate lackey once again, a $10 an hour lackey answering to an entitled empowered business-running freedom-nabbing control-freak mommy. It is almost the last straw when she asks me to clean under her sink and a rat runs past my extended arm. She tells me I'm brave and asks if I'm going to finish. "No, I'm not that brave," I respond. I am not an exterminator, or a mover, or any of the other things Fiona is trying to use me for.

Fiona runs a daycare, “Not really a daycare,” she says, “more like a language immersion program.” ‘A daycare for rich kids,’ I think. It is Park Slope after all. Her apartment/daycare is 50 feet from where Mitfan Habril, the Israeli molester lives. I went to do a cleaning job for him, but found that he was more interested in me than my cleaning. His wife and him wanted someone who could do the job with a smile on their face, he said. I’m lucky I didn’t end up with more than that on my face. The day began with him answering the door baring only a pair of saggy grey underwear. It proceeded to get weirder from there. He was a little too close when he changed a light bulb right behind me while I was doing the dishes. Always nearby, so close that I know his breath reeks of coffee and reflux. We ended the day when he asked me to give him a massage ‘for pleasure.’ I’m not sure why I didn’t leave sooner. He was careful with his language and careful not to cross the line, but testing me nonetheless. Still I never left his apartment until time was up- the giggly blushing bimbo afraid to insult a man in charge, however inappropriate he may be.

I stayed at Mitfan’s for the full duration of the cleaning, yet I plan a covert escape from controlling, overbearing Fiona. After she has me assist her in moving a stereo system that I should be careful not to drop because “it’s worth like one or two thousand dollars” (is that supposed to make me feel better about being paid $10 an hour?), I fantasize about how I am going to steal the wads of cash that she has in her walk-in closet and make a run for it. Instead I sweep up the floor and find a penny and a dime and return it to the spot on the ugly Ikea shelf next to her hundreds. Just because I am working for $10 an hour does not mean I’m desperate, and does not mean I do whatever the client wants. I am prepared to tell her just that. Or just this: “You are very nice but this is not for me. I do this for fun, I don’t need this job. Thank you anyway.” But I do need this job. I just ran out of unemployment and I’ve been living like a maniac, spending on acupuncture, nutrition, therapy, organic food, fancy doctors who don’t take insurance, expensive hair stylists. Do I really require this much maintenance? Plus just as I am determined to go, she asks me to please wash my hands and go get her baby from upstairs and bring her down. It’s no secret that I’m dying to be a mom, and holding sweet soft baby Lili was worth any amount of torture I got from the mother. Initially talking back and rebellious, after a few hours of bossiness sprinkled with praise and a baby on top, I am broken and tamed. The more torturous and controlling Fiona is, the more I seek her approval and coddling. Soon she is telling me how wonderful I am and I get my fill of confidence and my fill of baby breath. It is time to leave and she dismissively tells me my check is on the mantle. A check! I’m not sure this lady is worth it. Between her and Mitfan I am ready to avoid Park Slope jobs all together.

I need some Zen... Tao te dingaling of the day:

In harmony with the Tao,
the sky is clear and spacious,
the earth is solid and full,
all creature flourish together,
content with the way they are,
endlessly repeating themselves,
endlessly renewed.

When man interferes with the Tao,
the sky becomes filthy,
the earth becomes depleted,
the equilibrium crumbles,
creatures become extinct.

The Master views the parts with compassion,
because he understands the whole.
His constant practice is humility.
He doesn't glitter like a jewel
but lets himself be shaped by the Tao,
as rugged and common as stone.

Vinny's Valuables

Like The Heathers, Vinny and John live in Bayridge and have a lot of breakable chotchkies to clean around. Unlike the Heathers, Vinny and John are potheads who go out back to smoke while I clean which makes it tempting for me to be more careless. I knock over and break more little porcelain bunnies and crystal angels than I can count. I either place the broken piece back carefully or throw away the evidence. I feel really guilty because Vinny and John are my coolest customers by far. They smoke me up second handedly and they play classic rock for me while I clean, something my dad would be proud of. Ineed, it does remind me of the days I used to accompany him on his paint jobs sitting on a drop cloth with my own little paint brush, watching him and his buddies pass the joint, play the music and re-paint someone’s apartment, covering every last imperfection with a shiny white gloss or creating a dull beige molding. My dad was so careful, and me so reckless. I don’t just knock over all of their pointless decorations, I actually begin to destroy their house. It is so old that with every stroke of a broom, every wipe of a wall, something literally crumbles off and I have to wipe again and it will crumble… again. Oh Vinny and John, did you purchase the frame of your house at Ikea?