Last year, my wife and I were driving home from a rare and sacred event known as Date Night. For those of you who own businesses, have kids, or both, you know this isn’t just dinner, it’s a coordinated operation requiring logistics, planning, and at least one babysitter who doesn’t cancel.
We were heading north on the Dallas North Tollway in my Cybertruck, which at the time was still new enough to cause people to stare like they’d just seen a spaceship merge into traffic. The truck has that effect. It doesn’t quietly exist. It announces itself. Anyway, about halfway home, I noticed flashing lights behind me in the rear-view camera screen. My first thought was simple: no problem, they must need to pass. So I moved over.
They moved over.
I slowed slightly.
They slowed slightly.
That’s when it hit me: they weren’t going somewhere. They were going with me.
Now, I’m not reckless. I glanced down at the speedometer. I was maybe five miles over the limit. The traditional Texas interpretation of “respectfully keeping up with traffic.” We weren’t in the fast lane. Cars were flying past us like they were auditioning for Fast & Furious 19. I hadn’t cut anyone off. I hadn’t done anything dramatic. So I was confused.
To be safe, I exited the tollway and pulled onto a small side road in an empty, grass field. Two officers stepped out of the cruiser. One approached my window. The other began a slow, deliberate walk around the truck.
And when I say slow, I mean museum-level appreciation slow.
The officer at my window informed me I was speeding. Technically, maybe. Spiritually? Debatable. But as he talked, I noticed something interesting. He seemed to be stretching the conversation just a bit. A few extra pauses. A couple clarifying questions. Very polite. Very calm. Meanwhile, his partner was still circling the Cybertruck like he was evaluating stainless steel craftsmanship.
He leaned in slightly. He examined the angles. He did a full lap. If you’ve ever watched a cleaning supervisor inspect a freshly cleaned home, you know the look. The head tilt. The silent assessment. The subtle nod.
Finally, the walk-around officer returned, gave a small nod, and just like that, the tone shifted.
“Alright, we’re going to give you a warning.”
Just a warning…
No ticket. No lecture. Just… curiosity satisfied.
We merged back onto the tollway, and after a few quiet seconds, my wife smirked and said, “They pulled you over just to check out your truck.”
And it all made perfect sense.
The Cybertruck, especially when it first came out, wasn’t just a vehicle. It was a conversation starter. A stainless steel magnet that definetly turned heads. I hadn’t been driving recklessly. I’d been driving something that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie. But what does this have to do with house cleaning? More than you might think.
When something stands out, people notice. When something is different, it gets inspected. When something is done exceptionally well, or at least unusually, it draws attention. And it’s the same with homes. A clean house doesn’t just look good from a distance. It passes the walk-around. It survives the baseboard glance. It handles the countertop inspection. It earns the subtle nod of approval from anyone who steps inside. No warning issued.
At Dallas Maids, we joke that our work should withstand the “white glove test,” but in reality, it’s more like the “slow circle inspection.” If someone walked around your home the way that officer walked around my truck, would they nod… or would they pause?
I actually found the old warning slip while cleaning my desk this week (below). There’s something poetic about that. A reminder that sometimes you don’t get stopped because you did something wrong. Sometimes you just built something people want to look at. And if you’re going to attract attention, you might as well make sure everything’s spotless. Because whether it’s a futuristic truck or your living room floors, you never know who’s doing the walk-around.
P.S. When I first met one of my neighbors in Oakville, I noticed he drove a Tesla Model 3 and casually mentioned it. His immediate response was, “I’m not a Musk fan.” That’s when I realized owning a Tesla now apparently requires a disclaimer. So in that same spirit, despite having driven one, let me officially state for the record: I am not a member of the Musk Fan Club, the Musk Enthusiasts Society, or whatever secret handshake organization people assume comes with the key card. I just liked the car.