Those are mine.

I have mentioned here at Beyond Pickles that I like to keep a fairly neat home. I do. And so does my husband.

But we like to do other things more than we like to clean.

End result: a cleaning person.

Luckily for us, our new building is “full-service.” By this I mean that there is a business, of some sorts, located by the service entrance. It runs a convenience shop (where you can conveniently purchase a dozen eggs for $5.) It collects your dry cleaning and sends it out. It runs a cleaning service.

The cleaning service really seemed great: a good bargain for these parts, and flexible. We hired them a number of times, and all on the fly: “Can you come tomorrow at 11:30? Really? Great.”

And so, a team of two women came and cleaned our place. Five, maybe six times. The same woman came every time, but she was often accompanied by a different helper.

I have to admit, I have never been comfortable with having a person clean my home. In high school, when I would come home from school and the cleaning lady was there, I would hide upstairs until she was finished. This is impossible to do in a New York apartment, though. So when the cleaning team would come, I’d skedaddle.

A few weeks ago, the cleaning team was set to come at around 4pm. Acey and I went to playgroup at 3:30. When we approached the building at 5pm, I could see by the lights in our windows that the team was still there, doing its thing.

No problem. The woman with whom I had become familiar said they would be done in about an hour. This was fine. I went about the business of feeding Acey his dinner and moving toward bath and jammies.

So, as I sat down to feed Acey, a young woman was working in our living room, which is separated from the kitchen by a large island. She was probably about 19 years old, though she looked 15. She was pleasant enough.

But as she moved over the floor with a mop, I noticed something strange.

She was wearing my slippers.

We actually don’t wear shoes in our house. Acey is still crawling, and taking off shoes that have been pounding the ground in the subway and Manhattan gutters seems a nice way to cut back on germs. There is a doormat by our entryway, and we tend to have 3 or 4 pairs of shoes hanging out there at any point. My husband and I wear slippers, though, in the house, and often when we have to go short distances inside the building.

My slippers had been on the doormat. But now they were on the cleaning lady’s feet.

I was flummoxed. At first I thought maybe they weren’t mine. But I saw the familiar spit-up stains on the left one, and the place where the sole was separating from the body on the right. Plus, they were far too big on this tiny girl: truly, she could’ve taken one and used it as a toboggan.

Anyway, I was so startled and confused by the situation that I didn’t say anything. Silly, I know, but true. It’s because of my discomfort with cleaning people. I almost felt like, “You clean my toilets for me, so I can’t ask you to not wear my slippers.” Instead, I emailed my husband and reported the happenstance.

Acey finished dinner, had his bath, and changed into his jammies. The cleaning team left.

I checked my email to find a message from my husband that was riddled with alarm bells. He wanted me to report this to the manager of the building, the head of the little convenience shop, the Mayor of New York. He was nervous this team was wearing other articles of our clothing, and perhaps was the reason my watch was missing.*

Okay. So, I carried Acey downstairs and I talked to the store manager. But before I did this, I slipped my foot into my slippers. They were damp with perspiration. Oh. God.

“Hi. I’m from 516? I had the cleaning service in this afternoon.”
“Yes?” he said.
“Well, I actually wanted to complain,” I began. “When I got in, I saw that one of the women was actually wearing my slippers.”
The gentleman met this with a blank stare.
“She was wearing my slippers,” I tried again. “On her feet.”
“Um, okay.” The man started leafing through his book. “What apartment were you, again?”
“516.”
“Right. I guess I’ll tell my boss?”
“I mean, I don’t want her fired or anything. They did a fine job. But she may not wear my clothing. This is not okay. I feel like my privacy has been violated.”
“Okay. Um, okay.” The man was not apologetic, but neither was he irritated. He just seemed confused.

I left feeling not exactly like I had righted the situation, but at least I had done something. The damp slipper thing actually turned my stomach.

An hour or so later, my husband and I were eating dinner when someone knocked on our door. I guessed it was the store manager, and asked my husband to deal.

But when he opened the door, I heard a kind of hesitant back-and-forth, and my husband called for me to come. Ah. The cleaning team must be here.

They were.

The more senior member began: “Hi. Um, the man downstairs said you had a problem with the Swiffer®?”
“Swiffer®?” I said. “No. No. The cleaning is fine. I did speak to the man downstairs, but because one of you was wearing my slippers.”
“Oh. Because the man downstairs said there was a problem with the Swiffer®.”

A few things here. Clearly there was a bit of a communication problem between management and employees. You might also note that I explained why I had complained, but this didn’t seem to matter. I started to get a little confused. Maybe by keeping my slippers on the front mat, I was suggesting that all who enter should wear them inside? Like a Japanese household? No, that can’t be the case. We’re not Japanese. And for what it’s worth, nobody was wearing my husband’s slippers. Or his filthy Pumas, for that matter, which were also on the mat.

“There is no Swiffer® problem. I had a problem because you were wearing my slippers.” I looked to the younger girl. “That’s not okay. I don’t want you wearing my things when you are here.”
“Oh. Okay, well I was wearing these.” The more senior girl motioned to her high top sneakers.
The younger girl finally spoke up. “I was wearing them last time but you didn’t say anything so I thought it was fine.”

Time out. She wore them the last time she cleaned in our apartment? Was I home? How did I not notice?

“Look, I can assure you, had I realized you were wearing my slippers, I would’ve said something. I mean, they were damp on the inside when you were finished here tonight.” My face involuntarily contorted in disgust. I should point out, however, that I never raised my voice. I was really trying to explain why I had a problem.

The younger girl had had enough. “If you had had a problem with me wearing those slippers, you should’ve told me yourself.” She slowly cocked her head from side to side as she spoke, while moving a finger in a circle until it came to rest, pointing at me.

So this is my fault? You leave a puddle of perspiration in the slippers that carry me through my days and nights and you raise your voice at me?

“Okay. We’re done here.” I closed the door.

Needless to say, nobody ever apologized. We have never hired the cleaning service again. What is more, I had to throw the slippers away. I know that seems a bit compulsive, but I could sense the dampness long after they had dried out. And with the stains and the loose sole, they really were ready to go.

Meanwhile, I see Little Miss Sweaty Peds frequently. I smile at her. It’s too awkward to be unpleasant, especially since she will never see my point of view. Initially, she gave me the death-stare. Now she smiles back.

I can practically hear her talking to her coworkers as I walk away, “That tall lady? She told me to wear her slippers, then she went all bat-shit-crazy because we didn’t use a Swiffer® to clean her place.”



*I later found my watch in my robe pocket. Whether the cleaning team had donned my robe, watch, and slippers at some point, I can’t be sure.