But two of my favorite maids are not. Just as they arrived as a duo more than four years ago, so are they leaving. For good. Together. Oh, it just turns off-center the already natural flow of daily activity in the house. Our household help are never just workers, and maybe because they always thankfully stay long enough to actually feel like family (except for a few rare, odd characters, the number of which I can still count on one hand), they become just that.
You know how it is when everything is gelled so solidly that, even if you have to go out of town suddenly, you know the household will run smoothly? Well, that only happens when you have an efficient team. And they were part of the efficient team I had. Each of them in their unique way. They already knew the way we wanted things carried out; we were likewise tolerant of their personal quirks.
There was that give and take. It worked. But then, even good things have to come to an end. In this particular case, the exodus was prompted by seriously sick parents on the one hand, burnout and a broken heart on the other. So, there goes one of the smartest housegirls I’ve ever had, and with her, the always-smiling cook. Thank God for Century Tuna and SPAM, and the fact that any household can happily survive on that. The non-cook that I am, I can still prepare Century Tuna in five different ways, and SPAM in two (just either sugared or not, in a sandwich or on top of rice). That more than made up for the discomfort of the transition period.
Two new girls have since arrived to fill the vacancies. One has the makings of another bright girl, loves to sing (can carry a tune, too), and unless she gets discovered by the guys over at Philippine Idol, I think she will be family in no time at all. The other one is a bit wobbly; she is forever dizzy, but she seems to work well. Can cook, too. We’ll see, only time will tell.
As if an abandoned -looking garden and the flight of two maids were not enough, the lighting was playing ghostly tricks on us. I had all the different rooms in the house checked, all the way out into the backyard. A total of 45 light bulbs needed to be changed. We used to hire an electrician, one of my husband’s childhood friends whom we could easily call. But that is the catch right there. It is easy to call him but it is not easy to get him to come to the house. In fact, he never comes when he says he will. Somewhere between the call, his yes, and the appointed day, he suddenly disappears. Meanwhile, the house looks like it always has mood lighting. Even when our guests happen to be a bunch of rowdy children who only want to play with clay on the wooden floor Yaya Lita covers with a shower curtain, the lights are sexy. Even when my husband’s poker friends get together to play, the house boasts romantic lighting. Never mind if they only have the pulutan, the chips, and San Miguel beer to seduce. Poor men. And I have only the electrician who never comes on time – or never comes at all – to blame.
Sick of sexy lights when the mood is far from sexy, I searched for another electrician, and my only two qualifications were: 1) he must be a legitimate one (meaning he knows the stuff he is doing and is actually employed in a reputable company with the word "electrician" as his job description) and 2) he must be reliable, in that he will come when he says he will. Whew! God is good because we found this guy qualified on both counts, first try. No, I will not share his name or number with you just yet, because if any of you start hiring him, I will be left hanging again. Until every busted electric line in our house is fixed, and until every dead bulb is replaced, this guy is all mine.
Then, there is the aircon. Despite regular maintenance and cleaning sessions, it leaks sadly, constantly, like the sobbing viewer of a telenovela. Just that one unit in the guestroom, that is, until my dad finally cornered the service man and asked him what was wrong. Apparently, the answer was in the size of the pipe used. It was much too small compared to the others. Thank heaven for that diagnosis. I am relieved that the unit itself need not be changed. Just the pipe, or tube, or whatever they call it.
Would you believe the water dispenser conked out on us also? The microwave, too. And the iron. When the latter happened, I was just so tempted to use the old-fashioned iron, the one with the cavity that you can stuff with burning coals, now commonly used as decor in the sala of some elaborate home. An antique, the mayordoma is now hushed. But back when I was growing up that antique was actually functional, used by Manang Petring to iron everything from daddy’s hankies to our tablecloths and sheets.
I then checked the curtains. Good Lord, in the den, I discovered that the mechanism of the Roman shades was no longer working, and my resourceful housegirl (the one who had to leave) had taken it upon herself to remedy that. But, of course, she used a stapler to clip the shades in place. So I called Gari, my curtain guy since 1998, and together we went through all the rooms in the house. It’s funny how you don’t see the changes in something that you see almost every day. It’s like living with a child. She is an infant first, adds a few inches here and there as the years go by, and by the time a relative comes over for a visit, he is shocked at how much she has grown. Same with curtains. But it is not always a pleasant surprise with curtains. That day, I realized how faded and woeful they had become, despite our handling them with much care. And the buttons stuck on the curtains in the kitchen: there were but three left, from the 16 that there should have been. Where did the other 13 go? And why did I not even notice them missing? Gari will deliver the new batch anytime this week.
The towels and the sheets are well and good, thank you. Color-coded per room, they are easy on the eyes even when stored quietly in the linen closet. A lot of them I got from Rustan’s, but the last time I went to Debenhams in Shangri-la Mall I saw some luxurious, delicious-looking ones.
Some of the drawers lining the perimeter of one wall in our bedroom are half in place, half not. They have a limp, I always say. My daughter unknowingly puts her weight on the open drawers, thus the lopsided look. I called George, the reliable cabinet guy, and he sent his boys to fix it.
Everything looks cleaner, neater, when things are where they should be. I know it will also make for a less frustrated me, a more restful home, a more efficient flow of coming and going, doing and being. Two additional bookshelves, repairs here and there, and a new iron later, things are looking up. The whole house looks brighter. And not just because of the new electrician.
Today, I opened the windows to let the air in. I heard sounds of life all around me. Our neighbor’s kids were playing outside their gate, the construction workers were clanking away on the site a stone’s throw from our house, a few car horns blowing intermittently, almost apologetically. There were actually birds chirping, dogs barking, and the breeze was definitely making its presence felt. Even with light bulbs that only partially work, things falling apart here and there, life goes on.
There are better things I can think of doing other than counting how many light bulbs need to be changed, whether or not to trim Helen’s unruly hair, and whether to check on the chipped paint and the cracks in the wall, but like I said in the past, if I must do something because I need to and not because I want to, I might as well make it as pleasant as I possibly can. I light burners around the house and the place smells of peppermint and apples (thanks to the essential oils I get from Ilog Maria). I must attend to the bills now. It is not entirely pleasant to see the numbers adding up, but I can at least try to enjoy writing out the check. I love National Book Store, after all, and I almost never leave without buying a new pen. Dong-A 0.4 makes my penmanship look nicer than it actually is. Or so I think. So I lift from the penholder on my desk the Dong-A in 0.4 with blue ink and I write out the checks carefully, slowly. Short of drawing flowers all around the border and spraying it with perfume, I try to make my handwriting as nice as can be.
The next time the house comes unglued, literally, I will know better than to be overwhelmed, or feel helpless. I can always take it a day at a time, tackle what I can when I can, find reliable servicemen (never mind the few hits and misses), and sit back and happily watch everything fall into its proper place once more.
Now, all is starting to be as it should be. Again. It is just a matter of time. Especially when the reliable new electrician is done with his job. Thank God for tools and know-how, the yellow pages, and the men who come with them. Because, as every housewife knows, household woes are always works in progress. And they almost never just come in threes.
Now, if only I can find a way to make Helen look pretty.