The Cleaning Lady

It is 8:12 and I am furiously making the last minute sweep of my bedroom and bathroom, tidying up the unruly mess that is my natural way of life.  The cleaning lady arrives at 8:45.  She is not the stereotype of New Yorker cartoons of yore, but a tall, brisk, striking blonde with an upsweep, securely and perfectly in place, with a can do attitude and no holds barred when  it comes to organization.  I am terrified.  Yes, I love having the kitchen made spotless and gleaming.  Yes, the carpets are vaccuumed thoroughly, the tile floors polished.  All good.  But it is the hours of frenzied tidying, clearing the bathroom counters, the kitchen counters, putting away clothes, shoes.  I am exhausted, and what's worse so out of sorts that I shall not have the proper response to her hearty hug and loud loud good cheer.  I have to stop now.  I've got catch a quick shower, and, oh, god, so many other little details to attend to.  Wish me luck!