To make a long story short, I’m cleaning my own house again.

Just as I was falling for Shelly and the sweet perfume of her Mop & Glo; she disappeared.

A week went by without a word.

And then another.

I felt confused. I felt betrayed. I felt cheddar cheese goldfish and a dog dreadlock stuck to the bottom of my foot.

When I’d all but given up hope, I got a message on our answering machine:

"Hey, Miss Amanda. This is Shelly. Sorry I haven’t been there to clean. I was in jail again. Let me know when would be a good time for me to come back."

As I played the message back a few times, I was touched by her honesty. My husband, however, kept looking at me and mouthing the word JAIL.
 
     “What?” I asked, although I knew what he was thinking.
 
     "You will give our house key to just about anyone, won't you?" he asked.  

     “If they are carrying a vacuum, yes.”

The fact that Shelly had been in jail didn’t really bother me. It was the fact that she had been in jail again. She made it sound like jail was just another pesky habit she couldn’t quite kick.

And while I’d love to be the kind of person who says, “no problem, just fit me in between incarcerations,” the fact is, advance notice has always been my drug of choice. The smell of a new Day Runner, for example, gives me chills. Delicious, pre-scheduled chills.

Not that I don’t wish Shelly the best.

I just think that in this case, we needed a clean break.