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Molly Maid Of Sarasota Reviews from Real Customers
How Sarasota Made Me Hire Help
OK, so. I’m not a messy person. In theory. But living in Sarasota—where the air is basically 90% humidity and 10% Siesta Key sand—means dust settles like it’s paying rent. And when my realtor said, “We need listing photos next week,” I panicked.
Because here’s the thing: my house wasn’t dirty dirty. It was… lived-in. The kind of place where you kick off your flip-flops by the door (RIP my poor Salt Life sandals, sacrificed to the Lido Beach tides last summer) and tell yourself you’ll vacuum tomorrow. But tomorrow turns into, like, six months, and suddenly you’re Googling “house cleaning cost calculator” at 2 AM while eating a stale grouper sandwich from Owen’s Fish Camp. (Why do I do this to myself?)
I mean, I tried to clean. I really did. But between work, dodging afternoon thunderstorms (seriously, Sarasota weather is bipolar), and my dog Bubba’s obsession with rolling in dead palm fronds… it was hopeless. My “deep clean” consisted of shoving everything into the laundry room and hoping the photographer wouldn’t open that door. (Spoiler: they did.)
Then my neighbor Janice—bless her nosy, lemon-bar-baking heart—said, “Honey, just hire someone.” And I was like, “But what if they judge my baseboards?” (Which, let’s be real, hadn’t seen a sponge since the Ringling Museum was just a twinkle in Sarasota’s eye.) But desperation won.
The cleaners came. Two angels in sneakers, armed with mops and what I can only describe as magic. They didn’t even blink at the layer of Gulf Coast grime on my windows or the mystery stain under the coffee table (RIP, iced coffee from Perq). They just… fixed it.
And oh my god, the smell. Not just “clean,” but like… sunshine and citrus and zero regrets. I walked in after they left and actually gasped. My floors gleamed. My shower tiles? No longer a science experiment. Even Bubba’s dog bed looked like it belonged in a catalog.
I sat on my now-crumb-free couch (RIP, my secret popcorn habit) and had this weird moment of… guilt? Relief? Both? Like, why had I tortured myself for years thinking I had to do it all? The stress knots in my shoulders (from scrubbing? From life? Who knows) finally loosened.
And the best part? When the photographer came back, they said, “Wow, this place sparkles.” And I didn’t have to lie about doing it myself.
So yeah. Sarasota taught me something: sometimes, you gotta let go of the mop—and the pride—and just call the pros. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go enjoy my spotless house. At least until Bubba finds another palm frond.
—Darla Whitmore, Sarasota, FL