Also, there are the cats. Who love to make mad dashes for the outdoors while strangers are manipulating awkward armfuls of stuff in through the door.
So: ordinarily, I shut the boys in the back of the house, which means the mud-room and this my office/our spare bedroom; and I hang a sign on the door that leads through from the kitchen, that says "Cats! Please don't let them out!"; and the nice women do not pass the door, and I either hide back here with the boys or else I run away altogether, and all is well.
Except that no doubt you will have spotted the one tiny flaw in this process, which is that all the territory beyond the kitchen doesn't actually get cleaned by the nice women. And as we know, I am not so much down with the dusting myself. And mostly I don't care, because mud-room and my office; but there is that little rider up there, which says "our spare bedroom". I sit here typing, and there is a bed at my back with a duvet and everything, only waiting to be occupied.
Right now, it is waiting to be occupied by Karen's mother, who's coming to stay for Thanksgiving.
So, yeah. Today I have been obliged to stay in, and to talk to the nice women; and we did a complicated shuttling thing whereby I hid out with the boys in our bedroom while they did the back of the house here; and now the boys and I have come back here where we are accustomed to be, while the nice women do the rest of the house.
But. But-but-but! They have cleaned everything in all directions everywhere, and spare bedroom yadda yadda, but! This is my office! And in the tradition of fictional cleaners everywhere, they have cleaned my desk and moved all my papers and nothing is where it was and I don't know where anything is now and and and!
Urgh. I'm sure it's all terribly clean, but oh, give me a home where the dust-bunnies roam and the desk is left strictly alone. It may have been chaos, but it was my chaos; and now it's somebody else's order, and I do not like this, Gunga Din.