I am a commuter with a bad shoulder and a secret desk drawer full of library books. I have to be choosy about what I take home and when, as to not over-encumber myself, aka trigger pain, whininess, and potential migraines.

Last Friday, I had a full bag of Cybils nonfiction ready to take home for the weekend, when one last hold appears on the shelf…

… seven pounds of Martha. Martha Stewart’s Homekeeping Handbook, to be exact.

I stuffed it into my Desk Drawer of Shame, of course, and saved it for another day, a day when I would bring a rolling suitcase into my office and heft this baby home.

But of course, that is a lie. I wasn’t even sad to learn that this book was so ginormous – I was giddy, and I stuffed down seven other books on science and history and took it straight home so I wouldn’t have to be without it for an entire weekend.

Martha, where have you been all my life? And where were you when I was trying to be a better housekeeper last month? You have lists of what to clean and when, and how! And after twenty-seven years, I now know how to do  the dishes properly, despite the complete lack of counter space to do so.

Maybe I threw out my shoulder. Maybe I tried to read this in a the subway station on my commute before I realized what a crazy person I would look like trying futilely to shove a Cleaning Bible into my purse as the train pulled up. But I also voluntarily purchased cleaning products, did seven loads of proper dishes, finally scrubbed my stove-top that has been impenetrable since Sept 1 (the final solution: Brillo pads), and my apartment almost looks like grown-ups live here.

Well, at least it did for a few days, before we went back to work and cooked and lived and shamed Martha and spray bottle and her giant tome. Maybe this weekend I’ll redeem myself by scrubbing some baseboards and vacuuming curtains.