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Star Pro Cleaning Reviews from Real Customers
The Space Between Errands
I never thought I’d become the kind of person who lies about running errands, but here I am, sitting at Kaimana Beach while Malia thinks I’m at Foodland picking up poke and groceries. The cleaning service comes every other Tuesday—today—and I’ve worked out this little system where I “need” to be out of the house for three hours while they work.
Truth is, I could be home. I could be anywhere. But these stolen moments have become my lifeline.
It started six months ago when I scheduled our first cleaning. Malia was up to her eyeballs in work stress from that new hotel project in Waikiki, and I thought taking housework off our plate would help. It did. But what I didn’t expect was how much I’d cherish those three hours of forced exile from our Kaimuki bungalow.
The first time, I actually did run errands. Groceries at Don Quijote, hardware stuff at City Mill, you know the drill. But by the third cleaning, I’d discovered something precious: time that belonged only to me. No explanation needed. No schedule. No one checking their watch wondering when I’d be back.
Today’s particularly nice—one of those perfect trade wind days that makes you wonder why anyone would live anywhere else. Not too humid, about 82 degrees. The kind of day tourists pray for. I’ve got my spot on the sand, far enough from the Kaimuki folks who might recognize me but close enough to the water to hear that rhythmic shushing of waves.
I still remember the day I realized how desperately I needed this space. We’d been arguing—nothing major, just the kind of bickering that happens when you’ve been married eight years. Something about how I loaded the dishwasher “wrong.” I was standing there, holding a cereal bowl, suddenly thinking: when was the last time I was alone? Like, truly alone with my thoughts? Not working, not sleeping, not scrolling, just… being?
It’s weird how marriage can sometimes feel like you’re never alone but still lonely, you know?
So now, twice a month, I disappear. Sometimes I head to Kapiolani Park with a book. Sometimes I drive out to the lookout on Tantalus and just sit in my car watching the city. Once I even took myself to that little hidden beach past Makapuu that hardly anyone knows about. Got absolutely fried by the sun that day. Had to tell Malia I fell asleep on our lanai while she was at work.
“Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?” A woman gestures to the sand beside me.
“No, all yours,” I reply, shifting my bag to make room.
“Thanks. Perfect day, yeah?” She settles her towel.
“Every day we’re not stuck in traffic on H-1 is perfect,” I laugh.
I’ve gotten pretty efficient with my freedom. I check out the house cleaning cost calculator every few months to make sure we’re still getting a fair deal. Seems worth every penny for both the clean house and my sanity breaks.
The thing is, I love Malia. Deeply, completely. But somewhere along the way, I stopped being just me. Became us, became we. Most days that’s beautiful. Some days it’s suffocating.
Yesterday, Malia asked what takes me so long on cleaning days. Said the groceries never seem to match up with the time I’m gone. I mumbled something about traffic on Waialae Avenue and changed the subject. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I was sure she could see it through my shirt. The guilt was instant, thick like the vog that sometimes hangs over Diamond Head on still days.
I should probably tell her the truth. Any therapist worth their salt would say that’s the healthy thing to do. “Hey honey, I’ve been lying about running errands so I can sit alone and stare at the ocean for hours.” But then what? Then these moments become something we have to talk about, analyze, understand. They become another thing to process together, when the whole point is having something that’s just mine.
I check my watch. Almost time to head back. I’ll swing by Foodland and grab some poke—spicy ahi for me, shoyu for her—and those macadamia nut cookies she likes. The cleaning folks will be done by the time I get home. Malia won’t be back from work for hours.
Sometimes I wonder if she has her own little secrets, her own stolen moments. God knows she deserves them too. Maybe that’s what makes a marriage work in the long run—not just the things we share, but the spaces we carve out for ourselves, like the tide pools that form between the lava rocks at Makapuu. Little protected pockets where we can be completely ourselves, before returning to the larger ocean of our shared life.
The sun’s high overhead now. Time to brush the sand off, become a responsible adult again. But I’ll be back in two weeks, same spot, same lie. And maybe that’s okay.
— Kai Nakamura, Honolulu, Hawaii