Where's Martha Stewart when you need her?
I frantically tear bite-sized pieces of lettuce into a deep-as-a-well salad bowl. Yellow tape should cross my kitchen door with the words Keep Out: Disaster Zone! Dirty pots and pans spill over the edge of the kitchen sink as I prepare the perfect dinner party. Or rather the dinner party that Phillip expects to be perfect.
The humming garage door signals Phillip's arrival home. His shoes tap with a steady rhythm on our hardwood floor.
A delightful aroma has filled the kitchen, a rich bouquet of garlic and herbs. The almond rice pilaf simmers. I'm on parboil.
"Something smells out of this world," Phillip's baritone voice resonates in the hallway. He stands in the framed doorway of our kitchen taking in the scene. His gaze darts from the cluttered counters to the frazzled me.
"Meredith, you're knee-deep in dishes," he says with a bewildered look.
"I'm running a little late," I say, shaking a bottle of vinaigrette.
"I can see that." Phillip's arms cross over his chest. His mouth pinches.
I look down at my food-stained sweatshirt and baggy jeans, feeling like a reprimanded child.
The kitchen table is strewn with freshly cut daffodils from our garden. They'll soon wilt if I don't get them in water. Unwashed utensils and mixing bowls huddle together on the kitchen counter. The prime rib needs to be checked, and the asparagus, draining in the colander, waits to be steamed.
"My client will be here in less than an hour," Phillip reminds me as he loosens his tie. "He's coming all the way from Seattle. This is a key account. I can't afford to look bad."
Mind you, all of Phillip's accounts are key accounts and Phillip can never afford to look bad.
"The mess looks worse than it is," I say unconvincingly.
Phillip's eyes roll as he turns and makes a beeline out of the Disaster Zone.
I need a miracle to get everything in order. A brilliant idea comes to me. I begin to load the dirty pots and pans and cooking utensils into an extra-large garbage bag. When it's filled I start on another and then a third. I haul all the bags to the broom closet and push them in. It's a little tight, but I manage to close the door by leaning against it with all my weight. Abracadabra! Like magic, the food-encrusted pots and pans have vanished.
Everything looks tidy, except me. I take in a deep breath and catch my reflection in the kitchen window. My hair looks as harried as I feel. The ends are sticking out in a lopsided flip. My image could be framed and placed in a surreal museum exhibit entitled "Frazzled Housewife, circa 2000." A little too much stomach and subtle graying in the hair show the aftermath of childbirth and thirteen years of marriage. Well, what's more important, days spent at a spa or taking care of my family and household?
With everything under control I bound up the winding staircase to the master suite. Our bed is inviting with its goose-down duvet and fluffy pillows. I fantasize about hunkering under the covers for a long nap.
Before dressing, I go into the bath area to freshen up. As I stare in the mirror, I am hit with an overdose of reality. Like a battle-worn soldier, dark blue shadows underline my eyes. It has been an exhausting day, starting with the children's carpool to school, a PTA meeting, and preparations for the "supper extraordinaire" Phillip expects. I gaze longingly at the Jacuzzi tub. With a sigh, I turn toward the sink and splash cold water on my face.
"Where are Jennifer and Sarah?" Phillip's voice bellows through the closed bathroom door, referring to our six- and eleven-year-old daughters.
"Sari and Jenny are next door having dinner with the Taylors," I answer as I towel dry my face. "They should be home by eight."
"It's important that Mr. Paxton meet them. Family image is everything."
I swallow hard at Phillip's obsession with showcasing us as the perfect family.
The outfit I chose for this evening hangs limply on the closet door. I can see Phillip glancing at the shapeless pair of black pants and white linen blouse as I exit the bathroom.
"Is this what you're wearing?"
"Yes. Is it okay?"
"I'd prefer the red top. It will brighten your face. You look a little peaked."
Phillip admires his honed physique in the full-length mirror, turning to the right and left and then straight on. He sucks in his midsection and expands his chest like a strutting peacock in his blue silk shirt, tan trousers, and brown loafers. He rakes his fingers through his short, wavy, dark hair and leans in close to the mirror to smooth down an eyebrow. "I'll be downstairs tending the bar," he says, still staring at himself. Finally, he steps out of the room, leaving me to the task of pulling myself together.
I hold my breath as I yank up my pants and tug at the zipper. It barely closes. The red silk blouse pulls across my hips. The weight I gained over the holidays has yet to come off. So what if it's March? I yank off the red blouse and pull on the roomier white one.
What will I do with my hair? What was once a brilliant shade of auburn has faded to the color of stone-washed red denim; not a color you'll find on any Clairol box. I am not the type to get away with the "bed-head" look, so I fasten each side of my bob with the little brown barrettes Jenny left on my vanity. I add a swipe of red lipstick, a dismal red streak on an otherwise empty canvas. I try rubbing it off and it becomes a clown-like smear. I add some face cleanser and end up with a straggly pink stain. With no time to spare, I head out of the bathroom and step into my comfortable Mary Jane flats. The doorbell chimes as I descend the stairs.
Phillip shoots a wearied glance toward me. "I thought you'd be wearing the red blouse," he snaps.
