The Great Spring Cleaning Incident of 2008

May 12, 2008

Thank goodness no one was hurt.

It's a miracle that James is okay.

I guarantee that we will never be so negligent again.

Okay, now that I've gotten the necessary disclaimers out of the way, I'll let you know what happened.

Last week Jared took the initiative to remove the storm windows and replace them with our seasonally appropriate screens--not a small job. I was thrilled to see this kind of action on my husband's part because a) I'm far too lazy to do it my self, and b) he's usually kind of lazy, too.

But there he was, going from window to window, whistling while he worked, mingling the occasional swear-word into the melody. He repaired a few screens, he cleaned the windows spotless, and he even let James follow him around with a plastic replica of a jack-hammer.

Several hours into his project, I announced that dinner guests were on their way and Jared would have to finish up later. He happily quit the job mid window-wipe and came downstairs to take a shower.

Three days later, after the task had been long completed, I brought a kicking and screaming James upstairs for his afternoon nap. I put the overtired little angel in his bed, tossed him a couple of books, and shut the door behind me.

As I flopped on the couch to watch a mid-day soap or three, I was amazed to hear almost nothing coming from James's room--there was total and complete silence. I let out a long slow sigh, licked the chip grease from every finger, and thanked the air that my kid was finally sleeping.

Imagine my disappointment when I heard James screaming and crying ten minutes later. I marched upstairs ready to hurl my forty pound bundle back in bed, but let me tell you, that plan was quickly shot to hell. When I opened the door, I found my three year old son holding a bottle filled with bleach spray.

Please understand, we don't usually let our child play with heavy-duty cleaning chemicals unsupervised--the spray bottle was inadvertently left upstairs after Thursday's window washing extravaganza. And of course, being a developmentally normal three-year-old, James found it, loved it, and used it.

I approached James slowly and said, "Whatcha doing bud?" and he casually replied, "I es just cweanin' for da summah!"

"Well James," I replied, "It looks like you've gotten everything! I'll take your soap now." And he willingly handed it over. Then I took James out of his bleach-splotched clothes and immediately put him in the tub.

After his bath I went to assess the damage and I've got to admit, the kid barely missed a spot. He had bleached everything from his walls, to the floor, himself, his monkey stuffed animal, his rug, his furniture, his books, even his nightlight.

His room still smells like an indoor pool, and we start the full-out remodel today. And trust me folks, this room needs a full-out remodel. It looks like a DeadHead's paradise--every square inch is tie-dyded.

I spent my entire Mother's Day brushing up on CPR, the Heimlich Maneuver, and thanking God and Mother Nature that my child wasn't injured. In between prayers of gratitude I occasionally pictured myself whacking Jared in the gonads with a frying pan--but those images didn't last long, this was an honest-to-goodness mistake.

We're just sad that we're no longer in the running for the Parents of the Year award.

Near Death Experience

May 8, 2007

A few days ago, in a moment of sizzling hemorrhoidal flare-up, I dodged into my in-laws' bathroom desperately seeking relief. I've been using their facilities for the past seven years, so I entered their guest-bath fully expecting to find a small box of moist-bum-towelettes perched upon the back of the commode.

In case you're not familiar, these bum-towelettes are very similar to baby-wipes. The only differences are: they're smaller, the packaging does not feature a logo of a bear holding a balloon, and they're fully intended for adults. If I had to give it my best guess, my mother-in-law keeps a package on hand in case a guest inadvertently sharts himself during an uncontrolled fit of laughter. If that gesture alone doesn't make her the Hostess-with-the-Mostess, then I'm convinced that there's no such thing.

The moment I crossed the bathroom threshold, I saw that heavenly little box gently whispering the words 'cooling sensation' and within one quarter of a second I had dropped trou. With my pants firmly around my ankles, I hopped toward the toilet with bold determination--and if you know me personally, then you know that I seriously suck at hopping.

Just for a moment, I want you to close your eyes and imagine that you have the itchiest arse in the history of mankind. Now I want you to go deep within yourself and imagine how it must have felt when I discovered an empty box of bum-towelettes.

Devastating. That's how it felt.

Fortunately, hope was briefly restored when I spotted a full container of towelettes sitting right next to the empty one. Without a moment of hesitation I tore open the container, ripped out a wipe, and did what I needed to do to tame that evil little roid.

And that my friends, is the moment that I screamed like a woman tied to a set of train tracks and briefly blacked out--or perhaps it was a long blink, I really can't be sure. When I finally came to, I could barely tolerate the pain. It felt like satan himself had nestled in my pants and launched a fire ball right into the crack of my you-know-what.

Sweat was rolling down my brow, I was on my knees clawing the bath mat in agony, and before my swear filter had a chance to kick in I'm pretty sure I said, "@#$# &^%!@) &^%!@ &*(^% MEREDITHHHHHH!!!!" That's my mother-in-law's name.

After the pain had dulled to a wavy throb, I coaxed myself off the floor, picked up the second container of wipes--the one that had done this horrible thing to me--and read the label aloud: Lysol Sanitizing Wipes Waterfall Scent. I damn near died all over again.

Moral of the story--read before you wipe.

Curtain Shopping: The Conclusion

May 8, 2007

The Curtain Shopping post was intended to be a one-time rant, but since I've gotten several emails asking for the conclusion I'll go ahead and share. I never knew that you guys cared about my window decorations so much--I truly feel loved.

Here is the 'before' shot of the living room window. I snapped this picture while we were looking at the house with our real estate agent. The photo is kind of dark, but not so dark that you'll miss the big screen TV in front of the bay window. Obviously, this house was inhabited by a bachelor:















And here's the 'after.' Please take note of the beige walls and the bright white curtains. I'm totally wild when it comes to home decorating:















Here is the 'before' picture of the dining room window. Barring the fact that I hate house plants more than I hate rodents, Splenda, and the devil himself, it's really not so bad:













One gallon of trim paint, a zillion hours, and $150 later, here is the result:














But the best decorating touch of all? Walking past the windows nude four to six times daily. Just ask the neighbors--it's totally breathtaking.

I Can't Fight this Feeling Anymore

May 5, 2007

Maine is an interesting place, in that it completely lacks diversity--racial and other wise. Last I heard we were one of the whitest states in the Union, second only to Vermont. In all seriousness, the only non-white friend I've had in Maine was my lab-partner junior year. And get a load of this--you can't even find a Spanish channel in this state, but there are two French channels and a lot of NASCAR shows. Those viewing choices are mad caucasian if you ask me.

Religious diversity is also a novelty in these great North Woods. Basically you can choose between St. Andrew's Catholic Church, St. Michael's Catholic Church, or St. Mary's Catholic Church. Mormons like us are about as rare as the red-tailed-yellow-belly-sap-sucker, and I don't even know if that's a real bird.

And to top off this lack of diversity, there are only two general breeds of people in State of Maine: the yuppies and the hicks. It's not a spectrum, so there's no in between--if you live in this state, you're one or the other. You might as well choose your identity and go with it.

Having been raised in a middle-class family in a trendy Connecticut town, I like to believe that I fall into the first category. After all, I took a field trip to Europe in high school, I live in a house with lovely bay windows, and every once in a while, in the dead of the night, I'll find myself lying awake imagining how peaceful my soul would feel in the driver's seat of a BMW SUV.


Then I roll over and remember that I'm married to this man:

















Not only does he drive the '89 Blazer that's currently in the shop for a fallen-off front wheel, he also wears outfits like that one. He won the hat, shirt, coaster, mug, and coordinating tote in a contest at the local fish n' game club. And whoa is me, he's strategically placed the items throughout the house in an effort to help with the decorating.

He's like, "Amy, I don't understand why we can't display this coaster in our hutch next to the crystal."

And I'm all, "Because there's a picture of an otter wearing sunglasses on it--that's why. And take that tote-bag off of the curtain rod."

Just when I think it couldn't get any worse, this little person comes waltzing around the corner:

He was on his way out the door to dig up some worms to catch some catfish. When I heard what was on the agenda, I was glad that Jared had put him in the camouflage pants--because honestly, it's important to dress the part.

As the screen door slammed behind him I was like, "Don't forget to mess your pants buddy! That's how the real hick kids do it!"

I should shred the Pottery Barn catalog, bronze a large mouth bass and take up smoking--I'm afraid my fighting is in vain.

Any other hicks out there? Got any tips for me?

Second Place

May 2, 2008

James started part-time daycare this week, and so far so good. Actually, it's so great that I haven't experienced the slightest twinge of irrational-mommy-guilt. I suppose I should mention that I feel incredibly guilty for not feeling guilty. But I don't think that really counts.

So far, I only have one reservation with the 16-hour a week arrangement, and I won't mince words here folks: James seems to like his daycare provider far more than he likes me. I've always assumed that moms were reluctant to use childcare in fear that the babysitter might run exotic experiments on their child (or something along those lines). This whole loving-Miss-Nancy-more-than-I-love-my-mother issue never even graced my mind.

Yesterday when I picked James up, Miss Nancy glided to the door with her usual smile and halo, turned to James and exclaimed, "James! Look who's here."

And in a super casual 'I prefer Cheetos' kind of way, James said, "Uh no. I not go wit my Mommy. I not go home. I jus tay wit my fweinds."

It was his fourth day at Nancy's house, and it was the fourth time I heard that very same line. Needless to say, it was getting a little old. So old in fact, that I had to fight the urge to rip off my t-shirt, point to my stretch-marked stomach and say, "You did this to me. It was totally worth it. Now get your afro in the station wagon." If he does it again today, I swear on my uncle's monkey, I'm gonna wanna flash my dimpled-up butt cheeks--you know, just to drive the point home.

I've heard there's an old lady in town who does a lot of babysitting. Supposedly, when the kids act up she makes them sit in the corner and listen attentively as she reads the super freaky seven-headed dragon story from the Book of Revelations.

I might see if she's available tonight.