Housecleaning has been the bane of my existence for as long as I can remember. At the ripe old age of 50, I finally came to accept the fact that I would never be named “Housekeeper of the Year.” I think that my recalcitrance stemmed from my belief that housekeeping was, to a large extent, pointless. Take the kitchen, for example. I would spend an hour or two scrubbing it to spotless perfection, only to cook a meal and have grease-spattered countertops and smudged cupboards defiantly stare back at me. In my heart, I just knew that all of the dust in the neighborhood chose my house as its final resting place. The stuff accumulated on the blinds, on picture frames, on ceiling fans, on knick-knacks – and of course on coffee tables and the top of the TV.
My shortcomings as a housekeeper were never more obvious than when I went to visit my two closest friends. To say they are tidy is an understatement. A dust mote wouldn’t dare cross the thresholds of their homes. I suspect that one of my friends cleans her house with the thought that Martha Stewart will show up any day to give it the white glove test, while the other spends part of each Saturday...
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