I did something today. Something dirty. Something naughty. Something that could get my name burned off the family tree with a smoldering cigarette.

I hired a housekeeper.

And let me tell you, honey, you can burn my ass off that damn tree, I ain't never goin' back.

I'm from Missouri, hearty Midwestern stock. The women in my family are cleaners. They are cleaners and cookers and wives and mothers. They are superwomen. They can slaughter the chicken, fry it up, scrub the toilet and quiet the baby blindfolded while saying their prayers. One look at these women and you know darn good and well how the prairie was tamed.

They do not hire help.

Me? Apparently, they found me under a bush with the chickens and took pity. I thought I was keeping up okay. I thought my house was clean - enough.

Then I found Anna. Anna from Guatemala spent five hours in my one bedroom apartment. She went through a dozen rags and two whole rolls of paper towels, plus one vacuum bag and enough bleach to clean up three or four crime scenes.

Anna is hard core. My puny, watered down Midwestern stock can just go suck it. She sees your toilet scrubbing, raises you two chickens, a load of laundry and glass fit for a Windex commercial, and she does it in two languages. So there.

I have been out-womanned on two fronts, but you could eat off my toilet.