Let me preface this post by saying that I am eternally grateful that I can hire someone to help me out around the house. All these marble and tile floors that need to be mopped daily because of the sand and dust and the 6 bathrooms alone would quickly become my nightmare without major assistance. Thankfully, I have that. But along with the help comes some headaches . . .
I was looking for two books this morning. Books that I know I left on the floor next to my bed because I was reading before I went to sleep and there’s not room on my teeny tiny nightstand to put them up. But now they’re gone. If I were straightening up, where would I put them? And so the hunt begins . . . trying to put myself in the mind of someone who is from another culture, who I don’t know very well, who may or may not understand me if I ask her a question.
Sometimes I put things in places that might not make sense to someone else, but it’s exactly how I want it. Like the old pitcher that I have tucked under the entryway bathroom sink because I use it to water the plants out front since it’s easier than dragging the hose out from the garage. 50% of the time the pitcher gets put back in one of the lower kitchen cupboards and I have to track it down before I can start watering. One time I asked Nanny to water the pots in the front of the house and I came home to baby seedlings that looked like they had been through a hurricane — battered and bruised and lying over in the dirt. I think she must have turned the hose on them full blast and that was that. (Thankfully I was able to rescue most of them by propping them back up and supporting the stems with extra soil.)
She’s a mad washer — she puts everything in the washing machine. I opened it today to find one of my decorative pillows in shreds because she had put it in with a bunch of heavy towels. I’m not even sure why she thought a pillow that sat on the back of the couch, mostly untouched, needed to be washed in the first place. Too bad it was one of my favorites, from a trip to Turkey. No big loss though in the grand scheme of things, but I do feel like I have to go around “rescuing” things. Like the kids’ lunch boxes that can easily be rinsed out in the kitchen sink. I found them in the pile to be washed and brought them downstairs and rinsed them myself.
I wore a wool sweater for about 10 min before bed, laid it on a bench in my room and it disappeared back into the wash. Combine our hard super hot water with a dryer that scorches with blistering heat and my clothes are looking old after 2 months. I hung up my sweater on the coat rack so it wouldn’t get washed (I’m terrible about hanging things up so this was an extra effort I made to keep her from washing it) and the next morning it was gone. I asked if she knew where it was and, sure enough, it was back in the laundry basket to be washed. I did have a conversation with her about how I would put things in my dirty clothes basket if I want them to be washed and that seems to have helped. It doesn’t solve the problem for the rest of the household, but I can only tackle one thing at a time. Next up will be explaining that not all of Camille’s knit clothes or fancy dresses can go in the dryer.
Some of my white towels are now baby blue after she washed them with one of my dark blue couch throws. Thankfully they were older ones that I don’t care about. I pointed it out and I hope that she won’t make that mistake again. It’s all trial and error at this point though. (Most of our clothes don’t really need to be sorted by color, but I might have to ask her to do it just because of the few things that do.) My last laundry pet peeve — she leaves wet laundry overnight in the washing machine. I’ve started checking the washing machine before bed every night and moving the clothes to the dryer so they don’t get mildewy smelling after sitting wet for hours. I think she’s catching on because last night she piled the wet clothes on top of the dryer before bed instead of leaving them in the machine. Baby steps.
The language barrier is a thing — I think she understands, and she always says, “Yes, Madame. Of course, Madame,” but then come to find out that she maybe doesn’t exactly understand what I meant. When the movers delivered our stuff I asked her to help open the boxes when they brought them upstairs. When I made it upstairs after the truck was completely unloaded, the masses of boxes were all siting in stacks in every room of the house and she was fluffing pillows and straightening stuffed animals on one of the kids’ beds. A perfect example of rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic if I’ve ever seen one. I asked her about opening the boxes and she said, “I did!” And proceeded to show me how she had cut open the top of every box . . . and then just left them like that. Totally my fault for not being more clear or specific, though I could have sworn I said something about unpacking. But maybe not, since I was busy trying to check items off the inventory sheet as the movers brought boxes inside.
During the unpacking process I asked her to put all of my Starbucks mugs in the china cabinet. Meanwhile I packed up and put away all the loaner embassy wine glasses and dishes inside a cupboard, out of the way, to be returned at the end of our tour. 24 hours later I come home to find all of my mugs in the storage cupboard and all embassy dishes in the china cabinet. I think she wants things to look nice, but if I put things in a certain place, I sort of expect them to stay there. (I sent a few exasperated texts to Josh and put things straight myself, grumbling and missing Josie the entire time.)
Similarly, in the garden I placed my pots and planters for maximum sun exposure, but Nanny moved them so they would act as a border for the patio. It was a great looking border, but my tomatoes were getting shaded by the house. In the front yard I arranged my potted plants on the front walkway, in full sun, but she moved them so they lined both sides of the front steps. It feels like a passive aggressive dance, with no words exchanged, but I put things in place, she moves them, and I move them back where I want them. Each time she seems to have gotten the message and hasn’t moved them again. I only have about 300 more items in my house that we will probably place and replace. I guess we’ll have come to a happy agreement by the time we leave 18 months from now.
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| Nice layout visually, but not what the plants need |
BUT she can cook. Just like Amelia Bedelia in the comical kiddie series, great food covers a multitude of sins. We’ve worked out a good system and she cooks 3 nights per week. I give her money in the morning, she walks to the grocery store and buys the ingredients (thankful that we have a grocery store right around the corner so I don’t have to go with her) and she cooks whatever she wants. I’m happy leaving the menu planning to her since we will eat anything. Win. Win. Win.
Some favorites from the past two months are lasagna (with a Greek flavor profile, not Italian), meatballs wrapped in cabbage simmered in tomato sauce, garlic lentils served on pasta, sweet potato frittata, ginger beef or chicken with corn fritters, white fish with lemon butter and spring onions — there hasn’t been a single meal that was a bust. She cooks with a lot of ginger, garlic, Thai sweet chili sauce, and her seasoning is spot on. Enough salt, enough heat and deep flavors from long and slow cooking.
It makes it a lot easier to overlook a few crushed plants, rearranged carpets (that I put back where they belonged, of course), and battered clothing when I’m feasting on ginger chicken. 2 months in and things are getting better. My house is pristine, everything is dusted and straightened up regularly, even my underwear is folded and lined up like a rainbow in my drawer, and hopefully she has a job that she’s happy with. We’ll work out the laundry quirks and our communication in English will hopefully improve with time.
