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Lazy Susan’s Cleaning Service Reviews from Real Customers
Confessions of a Cluttered Brooklynite
I’m not a complete disaster. At least, that’s what I tell myself. But living in a 400-square-foot studio in Bushwick (right above that insanely loud reggaeton bar, ugh) means clutter happens fast. One day, it’s just a few dishes. The next? My floor’s a minefield of laundry, takeout containers, and—wait, is that a moldy coffee cup under my desk? (Gross. I know.)
I mean, I try. But between my 9-to-5 (more like 9-to-whenever-my-boss-feels-like-letting-me-go), weekend brunches at Sally Roots (because avocado toast is basically a food group here), and attempting to have a dating life that doesn’t involve swiping left in bed at 2 a.m., cleaning falls by the wayside. Hard.
And look, NYC apartments are tiny. Like, “I can reach my stove from my bed” tiny. So when my space is messy, my brain feels messy. Ever tried meditating while staring at a pile of unopened mail and three pairs of shoes you swear you’ll donate to Beacon’s Closet someday? Yeah, not exactly zen.
Then there was The Incident. (Cue dramatic music.) My college friend Visited—capital V—and I spent hours stress-cleaning, only for her to walk in and immediately trip over my one rogue sneaker. “Girl,” she said, staring at my “organized” chaos, “you need help.” And she wasn’t wrong.
So I did what any self-respecting, overwhelmed millennial would do: I googled “house cleaning cost calculator” while eating cold pizza. (Judge me.) Turns out? Not as pricey as I thought—especially when you factor in the emotional toll of knowing you should scrub your shower but… not.
Hiring a cleaning service felt like cheating at first. Like, am I that incompetent? But then—oh my god—the first time they came? I walked into my apartment and actually gasped. The floors! The smell! The fact that I could see my kitchen counter?! It was like someone had hit a reset button on my life.
And the time it freed up. Instead of spending my Saturday wrestling with a mop, I was at Prospect Park, reading a book like some kind of relaxed person. Wild.
There’s this weird guilt, though. Like, “Shouldn’t I be able to handle this myself?” But then I remember: I don’t feel guilty paying someone to make my coffee (shoutout to the barista at Variety who knows my oat milk order by heart), so why is this different? Life’s too short to hate your own living space.
Now, every other Thursday, I come home to a spotless apartment. It’s magic. And yeah, maybe I still leave my socks on the floor sometimes (old habits die hard), but at least now it’s a choice, not a cry for help.
Funny how a clean space makes everything else feel lighter too. Even that reggaeton bar downstairs? Still loud. But now, I can dance around my clutter-free apartment without tripping. Progress.
— Zoe Ramirez, Brooklyn, NY