The Good, the Bad, and the Scrubbie

So did I tell you about that time I scrubbed toilets with my bare hands for a week?

At first cleaning houses didn’t seem that bad. I commented as I was hand mopping my first bathroom that I felt like Cinderella. I thought it would be good for me: an employment opportunity where I could use my awesome cleaning skills. Sanitation and sanity have the same opening letters, so I thought, heck to the yes! This job was right up my alley.

Oh, how wrong I often am, and was. No one used gloves; we cleaned an entire house out of a bucket full of a little Lysol and water. An entire house. Out of one bucket. So we were, in my highly deranged opinion, not really sanitizing anything. And we were getting filthy in the process.

I must have somehow forgotten that I am terrified of toilets and public restrooms: I watched in disbelief as my trainer stuck her bare hands in the toilet to clean the bowl with a green scrubbie. Then I was told to do the same. My incredulity increased as she then used the same scrubbie to clean out the bathroom sink. Oh, the horrors I have seen. I silently mouthed a prayer: Clorox Toilet Wand, appear.  Be my savior and my guide.

I endured snarky little side glances and hushed comments reflecting the obvious: I was the new girl, with no experience. Other comments berating my intelligence ensued, including one pointed suggestion about not mopping yourself into a corner because “some people just have no common sense.” Apparently it’s also “useful to be 10 percent smarter than the object you’re working with.” The lovely woman making that remark tried to make the insult sound self-deprecating. I replied wryly that in that case, I was doomed.

With many more snarky remarks caught in whispers or under breath, I could see why my employers were so insistent that there be no workplace violence in their brief orientation. I am not a violent person but by the end of my first day throat-punching was definitely on my mind.

Continual comments from one chick were particularly but unintentionally hurtful: she kept telling me how “OCD” she was. I straighten the rugs, she explained, because I’m OCD. I center the knickknacks because I’m OCD. I could have explained the difference between Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder and forms of OCD I suffer from, but I have a feeling that the significance would have been lost on her. Part of me wanted to open my eyes wide and enumerate all of the medication I take daily to keep the beasts at bay. But, no. Not worth it. Also, I wasn’t up for facing further ridicule.

The lady and gentleman I had the pleasure of working with the next three days were exceptionally pleasant. But one suggested that I stand on the lip of the bathtub in order to rinse the top of the shower tiles: the other told me horror stories about residents at one local apartment complex that use the floor as a toilet.

I couldn’t hack it.

But at least I couldn’t say I didn’t give it my all. The fruits of my labor were obvious: my entire right leg was bruised up and down. My elbow was also inexplicably bruised. My knees cried in protest every time I leaned over, presumably from cleaning baseboards for hours. My back hurt so badly the third day that I had difficulty leaning over.

What I learned: stainless steel can be polished up with baby oil. Always make sure you have the right apartment unit before dragging a vacuum and a cleaning kit up three flights of stairs. Though you be a cleaner, that does not mean that the inside of your personal vehicle does not resemble a scene from the movie Saw. Cleaners sometimes experience incontinence because in order to maintain an air of professionalism, we cannot use the client's bathroom. One human body contains about a million pubes. Coffee filters are a great way to get a streak-free shine on windows and mirrors.

I also gained great respect for these men and women who clean houses on a regular basis, full of haughtiness or not. My OCD was in overdrive the whole time, especially since it was not possible to wash your hands in most settings. The amount of elbow grease expended by my co-workers was truly astounding.  These folks work their asses off, and it is definitely difficult, honest work.

But when you get home and that grey hair you see on your head is actually someone else's...you start to reconsider your professional choices.