Confessions of a Domestic Failure Page 19

  Furniture is also a great investment. It’s so well-made it will last forever. The holidays are coming up. I’d love to host everyone and see the looks on their faces when they see such a chic collection in our home.

  François cleared his throat. “Would you like to call your husband?”

  I exhaled sharply. A year ago I was managing million-dollar client accounts and now I’m some stay-at-home mom who has to call her husband before making a purchase? Absolutely not. I’m a modern woman. Just because I’m not making the money doesn’t mean it doesn’t belong to both of us. We’re both contributing. If I didn’t take care of Aubrey, he wouldn’t be able to work. I don’t need his permission to spend our money. I’ll just use the credit card he doesn’t know about.

  “Is Visa okay?” I heard myself ask.

  “Absolutely.”

  François copied my card information and promised to send me a receipt by email. The furniture is set to be delivered a week from tomorrow.

  Before leaving he looked around again, perhaps expecting a busload of children to come running down the stairs. I really do need to pick up more. The new living room set is really going to inspire me.

  11 P.M.

  I just checked my email for the receipt from François.

  6-piece Verdanza Package: Emily Walker Home

  Ashley Keller

  Visa 4875-****-****-****

  Total: $8,025

  My entire body morphed into an ice cube. Eight thousand and twenty-five dollars. There had to be some mistake. This was someone else’s order. I scanned the itemized bill.

  3-section couch: $2,500

  Loveseat: $1,025

  Recliner: $1,025

  As I kept reading, no, no, no, no, echoed in my head. The price François had shown me was for just one piece, not for the set. How could I have been so dense? I didn’t even know if I had that much credit available. I immediately hit Reply to tell François to cancel the order, but something stopped me. If I did, Emily would find out, which would mean not only would I be humiliated in front of my idol, I’d lose any chance of winning the grand prize. I closed the email window.

  What was I going to tell David?

  Nothing. I was going to tell him absolutely nothing. He was already worried about money; this would send him over the edge and he’d demand everything go back immediately, which would make all the hard work I’d done in the Motherhood Better Bootcamp a complete waste.

  I had to deal with this myself. Either I’d win the prize money or I’d pay it off without him knowing. All I needed was a little side money. How much was $8,025 anyway?

  A lot. It was a lot.

  Oh, crap.

  Friday, March 1, 4:45 P.M.

  I spent the entire day trying not to think about the fact that I spent almost $10,000 on furniture behind my husband’s back. That’s the price of a car. Not a brand-new car, but a good one. That money could have gone toward our mortgage. I remembered David’s reaction to the dress I bought for our date that never was and tried to picture his face if he found out about the furniture. He’d blow a fuse. What if he walked out of the house and just drove away? He’d never do that to us...to Aubrey. As I popped a frozen lasagna in the oven, I tried to snap myself out of the fear cycle. “It’s only money,” I said over and over.

  “Ma-nee. Ma-nee,” Aubrey repeated from her high chair. She was starting to talk a lot more lately. Note to self: Be careful what I say around her.

  I heard my phone vibrate against the countertop.

  David. Going to be late. Also, I’m taking my car to the shop tomorrow. Transmission. Oil change. I’ll need yours for work.

  Well thanks for the notice, I thought. Just because I’m a stay-at-home mom doesn’t mean I actually stay at home all day. Use of a vehicle would be nice. Also, François and his team are coming over to give the house the grand makeover I can’t afford. I’d planned to be out all day. Without a car what was I supposed to do? Hang out in the backyard with Aubrey? Set up a tent at the mall?

  I quickly fired off a text to David explaining my predicament (minus the furniture we couldn’t afford part).

  He responded five minutes later with a simple, Problem solved! My mom will pick you up at 9 o’clock and take you to her house.

  WHAT? Yes, she may have come through for me with dinner before, and I may have said a few times that I wanted to get to know Gloria better outside of the context where she tells me things like “Your house sure is full of stuff,” and “Any thought on when you’ll be getting the baby some proper shoes instead of those overpriced granny slippers?” But an entire day?

  I was just about to call David when he texted he was going into the DentaFresh pitch. I wished him luck. Now wasn’t the time to stress him out. I slammed my phone down on the counter.

  “Crap.” An entire day with Gloria.

  “Cwap. Cwap. Cwap!” Aubrey yelled, hitting her high chair tray to punctuate each word.

  I really needed to watch my language.

  What was I going to do? There was only one thing I could do. Eat my feelings; tuck them safely into my stomach and thighs. I popped a corn chip into my mouth and washed it down with a generous splash of pinot noir out of a lidless sippy cup.

  Aubrey giggled at me from her high chair.

  “Tomorrow, we’re going to grandma’s house.” She clapped her hands gleefully.

  Saturday, March 2, 8:30 A.M.

  I’d spent the last three hours cleaning the house from top to bottom. No more French fries in the couch. I even cleaned out the high chair and discovered that Aubrey has never eaten anything, ever. She’s been tucking food away like a rodent under the plastic cushion of her chair. I swear I found enough food to feed a small nation for weeks. But that’s all gone now.

  Joy called me while I was a tornado of all-purpose cleaner and rags.

  “You actually cleaned?” she asked in an irritated tone. As I predicted, she was teeming with jealousy once she found out (via my dramatic Facebook post—the one I’d made before knowing what I’d actually spent) that I’d ordered the Emily Walker Home line and was getting my home redone. Since I’d been accepted into the Motherhood Better Bootcamp, Joy had been downplaying it as my “little support group.” It felt good to finally have something over her.

  “Yes, I cleaned. I do it all the time,” I answered, out of breath from trying to remove a month’s worth of grime from inside the microwave.

  “So, what time is Gloria picking you up?” Joy knew how to take the buzz out of any situation.

  Gloria. I’d been trying not to think about the fact that I’d be spending the entire day with my mother-in-law.

  “Hopefully never o’clock. Are you sure you can’t come get me?” I really must have been desperate if I was begging my sister to let me spend the day in her Stepford-land.

  “Like I said, I’m making the drive up to see Mom with Ella. We’re going to see Veggie Friends on Ice.”

  I already knew that. I’d tried, and failed, to get tickets to the show even though the televised version makes my ears bleed and the three-hour drive to the arena and back with Ella sounded like pure hell. Anything to avoid the awkward afternoon that lay ahead of me. But they were all sold out.

  “Fine. Abandon your sister in her time of need.”

  Joy huffed. “Oh, stop being so dramatic. Maybe you’ll learn something.”

  I started to say, “What’s that supposed to mean?” but Joy cut me off.

  “Ella needs a change. Talk to you later!”

  As I clicked off, the doorbell rang. Of course Gloria would be early.

  I picked up Aubrey from her playpen and held her in front of me like a bulletproof vest. I swung open the door and was surprised to see a team of five women in crisp pink cotton dress uniforms with white aprons holdi
ng buckets full of cleaning supplies.

  “Happy Maids to the rescue!” one sang.

  Another chimed in, “We’re happy maids, we love to dust. Get a sparkling house without the fuss!” she belted out.

  Aubrey shrieked with happiness at the impromptu musical.

  “Wow! That’s...something,” I said. “Come in, come in.” I invited the barbershop quintet inside and they immediately spread out in all directions with mops, buckets and spray bottles filled with a rainbow of colors. I heard water running in the bathroom.

  “Okay then, let me know if you need anything...” I’m not sure if any of them heard me as the only two in sight were already sweeping underneath the couches and vacuuming the drapes in the living room.

  Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and a cheery-looking Happy Maid was standing there, holding a business card.

  “I’m Mary! I love being a Happy Maid! We’ll be in and out in an hour, Mrs. Keller,” she practically sang before running off into the kitchen.

  The doorbell rang again. This time when I opened it, standing in front of me was an impossibly tall, slender woman in brown slacks and a T-shirt from the concert of a band I’m probably not cool enough to know. Over the T-shirt she wore an expensive-looking caramel leather jacket with brass buttons. Her hair was in tiny black braids all the way down her back. She looked oddly familiar.

  “Hi, I’m Ashley Keller.” I stretched out my hand. Aubrey babbled on my hip.

  “Hi, Ashley, I’m Shelly Harbor,” she said, studying my porch.

  Shelly Harbor! The interior designer to the stars! The brains behind every celebrity baby nursery was about to enter the aesthetic disaster I call my home. I gulped.

  “Oh, my goodness, Shelly! I’m a big fan. I love your work!” I couldn’t believe she was here. In the flesh. A TV person who rubs elbows with famous actors every day. I bet she just came from a mansion with twenty-foot ceilings. My home was going to look like a campground compared to what she normally deals with.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” she said sweetly, entering the house. She carried a white suede clutch with gold accents that somehow paired perfectly with her slacks and T-shirt. Even in white ballet flats she was so glamorous.

  “Can I get you anything to drink or eat? Breakfast?” I asked. Yeah, Ashley, she wants some eggs and orange juice. Get it together. Pretend like you interact with people on a daily basis, I thought.

  She smiled. “I’m fine. It’s so great to meet you. Emily sent me the photos from your home and I think there’s a lot we can do here.”

  It was only then that I remembered that I’d sent in photos of every room as part of the bootcamp contest entry form. There was a slight possibility that I’d edited out a little bit of the clutter. If Joy can Photoshop her kid’s lashes, is it so wrong to make a little laundry disappear?

  Shelly sat down at the kitchen table and opened up a sketchbook with all kinds of collages from magazines. Two feet away from us a Happy Maid was spraying and wiping down the cabinets. We’re supposed to clean the cabinets?

  Shelly barely seemed to notice, but I found it tough to stay focused with all of the excitement.

  “Your home is already beautiful, and the paint looks recent. All that’s missing are livable storage spaces for things. I’m thinking a modern country look updated to suit a growing family. How many kids do you have?”

  Not again. I shifted Aubrey from one knee to the other. “Just the one.”

  Shelly touched her face. “Oh... I thought from the photos...”

  Apparently I hadn’t edited ALL of the clutter out.

  “She has a lot of toys.”

  Shelly smiled kindly. “I’m sure it’s normal. You should have seen Emily’s house before I redesigned it.” She laughed.

  Before she redesigned it? I thought Emily did all of her own interior design.

  I cleared my throat. “Doesn’t Emily—” But I was interrupted by the beeping of a truck backing up.

  Shelly stood up. “We have a surprise for you, Ashley! Your Emily Walker Home furniture is coming in today and we threw in a few extras. You’re going to love it.”

  I felt a bubble of excitement begin to rise into my throat. It was followed by a bubble of dread. Who knows, maybe I’ll win the lottery...

  The doorbell rang again.

  Shelly stood up. “It’s showtime!”

  I swung the door open again and there was François. I was relieved to see that there was no camera crew this time.

  “François!”

  “Allo! I just wanted to pop by and help out any way zat I can!” He pushed past me and hugged Shelly. Of course they’d know each other.

  “Did she tell you zee good news?” François said while pulling a little black-and-white striped handkerchief out of his lapel to dab at his brow.

  “Yes, the furniture is here! I’m so excited!”

  It was then that I noticed François had brought a guest who was still in the doorway. He was tall, in his fifties and was wearing a gray suit and tie. His formal appearance was in stark contrast to Shelly’s rockstar glam and François’s French chic looks.

  “Hello, I’m Ashley.” I reached out my hand and he shook it curtly.

  François cut in. “Ah, yes. Ashley, I want you to meet Dr. Simpson.”

  Dr. Simpson stared at me as if he was trying to figure something out. He noted the flurry of cleaning ladies running around in dresses and nodded.

  “How brave of you to let them into your space,” Dr. Simpson said, nodding toward the Happy Maids. “How are you feeling about this?” He removed a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket.

  “Excuse me?” I asked, puzzled.

  François touched my elbow. “Is zere somewhere we can sit down?”

  “Sure.”

  Shelly coughed nervously and then excused herself. “I’m going to help the delivery men...good luck.”

  I led Dr. Simpson and François to the couch where a Happy Maid was using a broom to hit toys out from under the recliner. A sippy cup filled with what had probably been milk at some point came shooting out and hit the wall, causing the top to fall off and a cottage-cheese-like substance to come spraying out. I was mortified.

  I stood to help. “I’ll get that.” But the Happy Maid just waved me away and began cleaning it up with gloved hands.

  At the sight of her forgotten cup, Aubrey tried to leap out of my lap and slurp down its rotten contents.

  “No, Aubrey, yucky.” I distracted her with a stuffed octopus with mirrors on each tentacle.

  I looked up to see Dr. Simpson and François staring at me. François had a look of abject horror on his face. It’s probably not every day he sees homemade cheese spray all over a wall.

  Dr. Simpson and François sat on either side of me.

  François shifted nervously. “Ashley. I brought zee doctor here after seeing your condition yesterday,” he spoke calmly, as if talking down a toddler holding a Sharpie.

  “What condition?” I asked, while Aubrey pulled my hair.

  I looked at Dr. Simpson whose presence was starting to feel more and more looming, especially with him studying my face as if I were a specimen under a microscope.

  The doctor cleared his throat. “Ashley, being a hoarder is nothing to be ashamed of. I’m here to see if we can make some breakthroughs today.”

  I choked on the air and burst out laughing. “A hoarder? I’m not a hoarder! Would a hoarder’s house look like this?” I gestured around the room and quickly figured out that while it looked clean to me, three laundry baskets of clothes, an entire wall of toys, and the recent cup o’curds weren’t helping my argument.

  “No one eez judging you. We only want you to not live in your own filth.” François nodded patronizingly.

  I sputtere
d, feeling insulted. “Okay, look. I buy my daughter a lot of toys but I’m not a hoarder. Dr. Simpson, feel free to tour my home and see for yourself.”

  Dr. Simpson nodded without saying a word as if he were witnessing massive denial.

  Suddenly a Happy Maid holding a large garbage bag was standing in front of us.

  “Mrs. Keller, what would you like to do with this?” Oh, no. It was one of the “hurry up people are coming” bags from my bedroom. To my absolute shock she emptied the bag right there on the living room floor. Dr. Simpson, François and I stared at the foot-high pile of underwear, solo socks, candy wrappers, a wine bottle or two, stuffed animals and other random goods.

  I set Aubrey on the floor and began hurriedly tossing items back into the bag.

  I looked up at Dr. Simpson. “I was in a rush to clean.” I swiveled my head to the Happy Maid whose ever-present smile had slightly faded. “I’ll take care of this.”

  It took half an hour and a tour of my home, but I finally convinced Dr. Simpson and François that I wasn’t a hoarder, just very bad at home management.

  “Ah, so you are just very messy, zen!” François declared happily.

  “Exactly!” I agreed.

  François took my hand “I’m so, so sorry, Ashley. I was simply worried,” he explained.

  “It’s quite alright,” I said, feeling both embarrassed and relieved. At least now when David complains about the house I can say that a psychiatrist signed off on it.

  “If you ever want to get to the root of your issues, feel free to get in touch,” Dr. Simpson said before handing me his card.

  François and I bid Dr. Simpson adieu. When we closed the door I gave him a look.

  “I am so sorry, Ashley. I just had to be sure,” he sputtered.

  “It’s alright,” I assured him. He probably just hadn’t seen many homes cared for by first-time moms with an Amazon Prime account. Which led me to wonder. What did the other moms’ houses look like?

  “Am I the first bootcamp mom you’re visiting?” I inquired.