Snow fell during the night, and the vista is covered in a thin white frosting. But a wet wind is swirling through the trees, slapping raindrops up against the windows. By noon everything will be slush.

My cleaning service comes today. The first time I ever had this done was in December, just before my holiday open house. I especially wanted the kitchen floor done. It's white with a blue-gray pattern of squares -- top-of-the-line no-wax Mannington Gold, the Cadillac of vinyl flooring. It was installed in 1995 when we remodeled the kitchen, and until December it had never had a thorough cleaning. Oh, we swept, of course, and did spot-lifting, but a move-the-furniture get-out-the-bucket restore-that-first-day-gleam kind of cleaning? Not me!!

I hate to clean, especially floors. (Correction -- I like to do windows, and glass in general. Or rather I'm willing to overcome my aversion to cleaning in order to maintain a pleasant view. This is not an uncommon quirk. Someone once suggested that it's because windows stay done longer than anything else in the house.)

The first cleaning was a real success. The young woman who showed up had graduated from the school where I taught, and was now in her second year at the community college, studying to become a probation officer. She was energetic and cheerful, and when she left the house sparkled. I liked the result so much I called the office right then, and signed on for someone to come every four weeks, the same young woman if possible.

By January that girl had left this agency's employ. (I would imagine the turnover is huge.) Two women came that time, one the manager and the other a trainee. In February they sent someone who had trouble finding her way out of the house -- seriously. 

After showing her what needed to be done I returned to my study (which doesn't yet get cleaned because it's too cluttered). After fifteen minutes she called up the stairs to ask me where the door to the garage was. Now, understand, this is not a big house, and she had entered it through the garage. There are only two doors leading out from the kitchen -- I would think that if you opened one and found yourself about to descend to the basement, you'd try the other before asking for help.

I had to leave before she was finished. When I returned I discovered that she had completely missed the downstairs bath, and had evidently not moved the tv cabinet in the breakfast room. (I discovered this when I moved it in order to place the extra chairs I need for my writing students who come on Thursdays. Some bits of popcorn and the hair clip my daughter had been looking for were still behind it.) She had, however, cleaned my daughter's bathroom so thoroughly that the kid couldn't find her contact lens supplies.

But at least she'd found her way out of the house. She left me a receipt. "Thank!" she wrote on it -- that's not a typo -- there was no s  -- and put a smiley face in the loop of the h.

I don't know what to expect today. When I started writing this I was going to launch into a meditation on what an old boyfriend once called my "amazing clutter." But it's 7:30. They're due at nine, and I need to tackle some of that clutter -- clean before the cleaning lady comes.

What I'm writing here almost sounds like a whine -- affluent suburban matron can't get good cleaning help. That's not where I was going when I started. Oh well, they can't all be Anna Quindlen quality -- if, indeed, they ever are.

I just looked up. My study is in the front of the house, with two small windows that look out onto the street. I should be able to see my friend Janice's back yard, but while I was writing a blizzard started up, and there's a whiteout in progress now. Not the best day to have someone come to clean your white kitchen floor.