A few years ago, for Christmas, all the women of the family got together and cleaned Maggie's apartment. One of the perils of losing your eyesight is not being able to adequately clean your environment. For example, you wipe the counter but you can't really tell that you missed a spot or a lot of spots. The kitchen grit accumulates and forms a protective dirt coating on your counter, hypothetically.
We all took a room; I was stuck with the kitchen. One of the smaller rooms, but I was the last to finish. Mostly because I had to beg my grandmother to throw away the tins (plural) of rock hard marshmallows. Of course, if New Hampshire is buried in snow, and my grandmother starves for want of marshmallows, I'm gonna feel real guilty.
Eventually, my mother and aunt hired someone to come clean the house biweekly.
You know how the old person cliche is to accuse the housekeeper of stealing? I got this story from my aunt over Thanksgiving hors d'oeuvres.
"The house cleaners stole two pairs of my boots," Maggie asserts.
"Where were they?" my aunt asks.
"On the floor...in a garbage bag."
They've also taken her back scrubber. Because you know these are the kinds of things people steal.