Fridays are officially my favorite day. And because Friday is my favorite day, Thursday afternoon and evening are my children's least favorite day.

On Thursdays, they are asked to spend an hour or two diligently preparing for the arrival of Marina. "Pick that up," I order. "Marina is coming tomorrow." Or, "Your room is a disaster area. Marina is not setting one toe in there if you don't get EVERYTHING off the floor."

Marina is, of course, my housekeeper, and also my friend.

It will come as little surprise to anyone who knows me personally that keeping a spotless home is not my forte. (It used to be, when I was a Swiss hausfrau, but those days are long over.) Despite the fact (or perhaps because of it) that I work from home, my house is often a chaotic wreck. Ironically, I can't tolerate a dirty home either.

(In my defense, my kids are the worst offenders here. When they're away, my house stays very tidy.)

But I make no excuses--I don't like scrubbing the tub or mopping all the wood floors. I'd do it if I absolutely had to--I have done it. But these days, were it not for Marina, my baseboards would prevent me from ever entertaining in my home, ever.

I know more than my share of folks who are uncomfortable with the idea of paying someone to do what they feel they ought to be doing themselves, but I'm not one of them. I am a firm believer in hiring people to do the things that you value but are not particularly adept at. As a professional writer, that's how I make my living: My clients understand the value of a well written bio, or article, or white paper and don't possess the skills or the time to create one , so they pay me to do it. And because I understand the value of a clean house but lack the skills and patience to achieve it, I hire Marina.

But the joys of a shiny kitchen counter, of perfectly straight vaccuum tracks on the living room rug, of a dusted bookshelf are now secondary to the simple pleasures of hanging out with Marina for a couple of hours, once a week.

Marina wants me baptized. She was shocked that I haven't been and says she's going to start praying for me, long and hard. She wants to see me married off, and encourages me to attend every quincenera and Mexican wedding I can reasonably fenangle and invitation to. (Yesterday, she told me I would meet a "princepeso azule." I have absolutely no idea what that means.)

She nags me to eat breakfast and I nag her to hire a new immigration lawyer. I worry about her pre-diabetic state and she urges me to quit smoking. She brings me beautiful string-and-bead necklaces with tiny saints medals on them, and I wear them. We buy each other Christams and birthday presents. She spontaneously cooks for me--incredible, complicated Mexican dishes I've never heard of. I roll my eyes at her husband and his stubborn refusal to sign the forms and submit them to INS. I adore her children, she adores mine. We want her son to marry my daughter and are actively matchmaking. (It's working. They're now "text buddies.")

I'm having people over for dinner tonight and yesterday, when I told Marina about it, she insisted on making tamales for me to serve. (I was going to make spaghetti. I guess she didn't think much of that idea.) Marina's tamales are pure heaven. I couldn't be more grateful.

Marina is one of the sweetest, funniest people I've ever met. She's an incredible mother, an incredible cook, and a fascinating story teller. At 46, she's a singular combination of girlishness, silliness and wisdom. I don't think I've ever known anyone as kind, as forgiving, as generous as Marina.

Given how fond a relationship that has developed, it is occassionally awkward (for me, anyway) that this wonderful woman is the one who scrubs my tub. And I'm not sure how to reconcile that. She's my freind AND my housekeeper. I can't fire her for being my friend, and I'm not going to not be hers because I employ her. But still, it's weird.

When things were looking way dicey for me financially, I considered letting Marina go and couldn't do it. I'd give up an awful lot before I did that, and not because of her exceptional housekeeping skills (which are exceptional), but because things are tough all over and I couldn't in good conscience eliminate that bit of income I provide. (It's not that much, but it's something and it's hers. Early on she asked me to pay her in cash, explaining that if I wrote her a check her husband would deposit the money and she'd never see it again.)

A few years ago, I was so close to not being able to pay my rent that I put an ad on craigslist and spent a few weeks as a housekeeper myself. It was a strange experience, wandering around an apartment I'd just spit-polished behind a wealthy, pretty 30-something as she checked and rechecked my work. ("Could you get the grout cleaner in the kitchen?" "Sure.") So I've done this work, because I had to. And it's an odd position to be in, cleaning up after somone else for money. I like to think I get it, and maybe I do.

But so what? Me and my big fat benevolence can't mean that much in the grand scheme of things, surely. And who am I really helping here--Marina? Or my own sense of myself? Am I a priveleged lazy white woman who only imagines affection where none can truly exist? Or is my frienship with Marina what it seems--a lucky coincidence, a bit of serendipity, and true?

Had I not been in need (or want) of a housekeeper, Marina and I would never have met. She lives in Hayward, 27 miles south of Berkeley and a world away as well, in many ways.

But I did, and she came, and I consider myself truly blessed.  I hope she knows.