“I wish I were a better housekeeper,” I sighed, as I studied the chandelier that was covered in dust.
My husband and I had invited friends for supper, and in my own inimitable fashion, I had left all the chores — setting the table, cleaning the bathroom and tidying the living room — until the last minute.
I was sure other women routinely polish their chandeliers, so there’d be no surprises before company arrived. These model women surely don’t put all the dishes on the table before realizing the cloth is crooked.
They have linen closets where the towels and washcloths are nestled in neat piles exuding a soapy aroma. Their dresser drawers reveal precise stacks of meticulously folded tops, shorts and jeans.
But why was I torturing myself? I’ve known for decades that my housekeeping style is best described as the “lick-and-a-promise” technique.
I’m always assuring myself that one day I’ll line the drawers with fresh paper — and rearrange the contents in fine style.
When that day comes, however, you’ll find me at the computer writing another column — or musing about how a character in my next mystery will meet his maker.
It’s not just housework that plagues me about these disciples of Martha Stewart. They also have long, silky hair with plenty of body, which they effortlessly twist into various exotic chignons and braids.
As for me, I’ve battled my own hair for years, bemoaning it as too limp, too thin, too curly or too straight. It has become the emblem of my struggle to accept myself for who I am.
Does it all go back to teenage days when I criticized myself for being fat? Is it because my father — may he rest in peace — rarely doled out compliments?
Little wonder that when priests earnestly talk about God’s unconditional love, I struggle to understand.
Instead, in my mind’s eye, I envision the perfect woman who stalks me in my nightmares.
Attired in a silky gown, she lives in a posh house that would do Martha Stewart proud. Her figure remains slim, no matter how much she eats.
She isn’t like yours truly, who can’t resist dipping her spoon into the quart of ice cream before putting it in the freezer — and can’t be trusted around chocolates.
She isn’t someone whose passion for salted cashews could become an obsession worthy of a chapter in a psychology textbook.
To make matters worse, I also envision this flawless lady as a model parishioner, who volunteers for everything at church — and never hits a wrong note when she sings the alleluias.
When this lady belts out “Jesus Loves Me,” she doesn’t bat an eye, because she thinks it was written for her.
On the day I was staring at the chandelier and bemoaning my lackluster housekeeping skills, my husband was in the kitchen preparing supper for our company — and he said something that will remain with me always.
It’s a reassurance I wish I could offer to anyone who has ever wailed about being too fat, too thin, too old, too young, a terrible housekeeper or an unworthy servant of Christ.
“I like you just the way you are,” he said.
And suddenly I realized Jesus does love me, just like the Bible says. That may be as close to feeling God’s unconditional love as I’ll ever get — and I’ll take it.
