The Favor My Well-Meaning Neighbor Did For Me That Backfired
She didn’t mean to make me feel like a slob
In this mean old world are some very nice people
One such person was my neighbor some years back. Mary (not her real name) lived across the street and was as sweet as the day is long.
When we first moved in she welcomed us to the neighborhood with a plate of cookies. When we were called away for a weekend she offered to collect our mail and keep our cat company. She saved us from a few expensive landscaping blunders by giving us, California greenhorns that we were, gardening tips better suited to our new Idaho environs.
Mary took uncomplaining care of her husband, who had dementia. She was equally devoted to her grandchildren and her church. She was the kind of person who, when thoroughly riled up, might go so far as to utter the word “fiddlesticks.”
Mary and I were very different people.
She and her husband both went to their heavenly reward some years ago. Now, when I look across the street at what was once her house I feel a pang. I was very fond of Mary.
I am somewhat in awe of people like her
Mary wasn’t saccharine or “nice-nice:” she didn’t put up a disarming front to distract from an ulterior agenda. I’ve known people — mostly, to be honest, women — who do that. Their sugary facades conceal a hearty nastiness of which they are quite unaware. I’ve learned to watch my back when I encounter them.
But Mary was genuine, the real deal. She was simply a good person — better by a long shot than me, with my tendency to swear like a longshoreman when annoyed and my lively shadow side always ready.
Mary knew that about me and yet seemed to find me endearing. So when I hosted a group of neighborhood women for a monthly Girls' Night Out — think ladies’ book club but without the pretense of the books — at my house, Mary was first on the invite list.
During one such evening, I went and opened my big mouth
Blame the wine. My husband, an actor, was performing in a play out of town and would be gone for a couple of months. I was managing a state division of a nonprofit, one of those jobs that pretends to be full-time but is more like every-waking-moment-and-then-some.
It was the middle of winter, and between working, keeping the cat and dog cared for and the sidewalk shoveled and salted, I had my hands full. I’d managed to tidy the public parts of the house that week for my Wednesday night ladies’ evening, a sanity-saving event, but I had friends from California coming to stay over the weekend.
So, relaxed and a bit lubricated, among the chitchat I let drop a few whines about how I couldn’t imagine how I was going to find the time to clean the house by Friday.
“Oh well,” I said, pouring another round of Chardonnay. “The house guests will have to overlook the dust bunnies and grungy bathrooms.” Even at the time, I recognized what a petty complaint I’d made.
So I thought no more of it. But Mary was listening. And Mary, my trusted neighbor, had a key to my house.
That Thursday evening, I came home to an unnerving discovery
I came in through the door from the garage with my arms full of groceries. The cat and dog both stared at me, their expressions asking are you aware of what went on in here?
The air in the house had a distinct whiff of cleaning products. I set my groceries down and observed that since I’d last seen it in the dim hours of early morning, my kitchen had miraculously transformed, from lived-in to immaculate. Even the pantry shelves gleamed.
On the floors, not a crumb was to be seen. Not so much as a stray pet hair besmirched the carpets or upholstery. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere, and when I’d left that morning there had been specks a-plenty.
I wandered through the house, my wonderment giving way to suspicion. I stepped into the main bedroom — were those fresh sheets on the bed?
Good heavens.
By now, my stomach was churning. I tiptoed into the primary bathroom and found it sparkling, every errant hair and smear expunged into hospital-worthy pristineness. With a dull sense of horror, I checked the shower.
We have since completely remodeled that bathroom, but at the time its shower was a dingy, tank-like compartment with a tendency to sprout mold in its mortar and corners, no matter how much I threatened it with bleach.
But now, as though an army of scrub brush-wielding elves had swarmed it, that shower glinted with purity, winking at me in recrimination. See? I’d look like this all the time if you were halfway competent.
I called Mary; she picked up the phone instantly
“Mary, did you . . . did you clean my house?”
“It wasn’t just me!” she said, her voice fizzing with glee. “I rounded up Karen and Tina and Shelly too! It didn’t even take us four hours! Do you like it?”
“It’s amazing,” I said, “I don’t even know what to say. I can’t thank you enough, but I never meant for you to —”
“Oh, don’t be silly, it was fun!”
You shouldn’t have. Seriously, I wanted to say but didn’t. Mary sounded so very delighted by her act of unasked-for kindness.
I, on the other hand, was mortified.
Not only had Mary, bless her kind, intrusive heart, delved into every nook and cranny of my private spaces but she’d recruited three other women for her stealth campaign. Women I saw nearly every day. Women I liked very much but would never have invited to examine the state of my bathroom cupboards.
Which had also been tidied and dusted.
It is possible to be grateful and embarrassed at the same time
Did I enjoy having a sparkling clean house? I sure did.
Was it a relief to have everything magically tidied before I had a house full of overnight guests? It sure was.
Would I have given all that up to avoid having the neighbor ladies go through my personal spaces with their dustcloths and sponges?
Yes. A thousand times, yes.
I know they meant well. I am 100% sure they intended nothing but kindness, and after all, I was the one who had kvetched about the state of my house.
So I kept my misgivings to myself and accepted it as the gift it was intended to be.
The years have spun past since then. Karen, Tina, and Shelly have moved out of the neighborhood and as I said, Mary has moved off the planet. I miss them all.
Now when I look back on what I think of as The World’s Most Benign Home Invasion, I smile. It was a nice thing they did.
Too nice. And I mean that literally.
