keeping house

An adorable group of kids at Booker Arts Magnet (where my husband happens to work) are doing a project with Heifer International (where I happen to work), and my friend Sarah and I wanted to help. The kids are going to visit the Heifer Ranch and then write an ABC book about what they learn there. Paying for all the kids to get a copy of the book they write and illustrate is looking to be pretty expensive, so Sarah and I jumped into action with operation bake sale.

Awesomely, Sarah’s mom who lives in Jonesboro and was totally not on the hook for this in any way, took the lead. She’s just amazingly nice like that. So a few weekends ago she and Sarah stormed the Jonesboro Sams Club, making off with a cart full of rice crispy treat ingredients and enough saran wrap for a Christo installation. They spent their Saturday preparing 60 giant crispy treats for sale. On Sunday Sarah brought the goodies back to LR, all packed to go to the office the next day where we would nestle them into cute little baskets and set them out in the break areas with donation jars.

Then it snowed. Remember that? For three days Sarah and I fretted about the rice crispy treats that languished in their plastic shrouds, growing stale and gummy. Sarah conducted a.m. and p.m. freshness checks, sacrificing her own figure and oral health to make sure our wares were still worth the $2 each we planned to ask. The office opened up again Thursday, we adopted a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy about just how fresh-baked our baked goods were, and the first round of operation bake sale was a success.

The next weekend I pulled out my mom’s Junior League cookbook, a 1976 version from Asheville, N.C., that included a recipe for “The World’s Richest Brownies.”

elegance, y'all

The recipe was contributed by Beverly Maury Bagley. Never heard of her? Maybe Mrs. C.S. Bagley rings a bell. That’s how real ladies used to roll back in the day.

is this copyright infringement?

Mrs. R.S. Bailey was all about some brownies that come with a warning to cut squares small, a warning that I fully intended to ignore. But then I started in on my double batch. First, the butter:

Are you drunk? No, you are not. Four sticks of butter. Really, four.

Then eight squares of chocolate, then a mountain of sugar. Five cups.

Too much?

The finished product:

doesn't look too bad

Honestly, the brownies weren’t that great Sunday. And Monday they weren’t amazing. But by Tuesday they were freaking fabulous and those baskets in the break rooms emptied out. I can’t explain the magic. All I know is that operation bake sale was a mad success.

When Mr. E the window guy got out of his truck Saturday and oozed his way toward our house, I knew he’d had a rough night. His eyes were wide and dazed, and he was moving slow. This is a look I recognize, since my husband and I usually look much the same. So I asked Mr. E if he was okay.

“My boys kept me up last night,” he said. Oh, I thought, so it IS the same look I see most days in the mirror. He must have young sons.

“How old are your boys?”

“Well, I’m 50. Ted’s 48, Bill’s—“

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I thought you meant you had little boys who kept you up.”

It was an awkward introduction for me and the party time window guy, but Amos was far more graceful. He doesn’t take quickly to everyone, but occasionally he falls in love at first sight. Such was the case here.

“Hi, man! Hi, man!” Amos shouted this nonstop while Mr. E circled the house, inspecting the windows and taking measurements. Amos followed him from inside, popping up at each window like a groundhog to greet him. “Hi, man!”

When Mr. E came inside, Amos snatched up his dad’s tape measure and fell in step, going behind Mr. E to make sure his window measurements were correct. Mr. E was clearly struggling, but I think Amos’ energy helped him. So much so, in fact, that Mr. E eventually serenaded Amos with a slow but heartfelt rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching in.”

Those two seemed perfectly content together so I stayed about seven paces behind, disguising my laughing with fake coughing fits and willing my weakened pelvic floor muscles to hold up so I wouldn’t wet my pants.

This isn’t Amos’ very first love. That honor goes to Uncle Jerry, a Korean War vet with the forearm tattoos to prove it. Jerry is the only member of my husband’s mainly teetotaler family with the balls to order a beer when we all meet up at the Olive Garden. When Amos’  grandparents took him by Jerry’s house a few weeks ago, Amos crawled into Jerry’s lap and the two reclined in a Lazyboy together to watch football. It was the only time in his life that Amos has been still when he wasn’t sleeping.

Surely it’s too early to label Amos as “a man’s man,” or to assume that because he’s attracted to these laid back characters he will also be a cool customer. It might just be that Mr. E is a real-life Bob the Builder, and Uncle Jerry looks like he has coloring books printed on his skin. Still, it’s so sweet for his mama to get to watch Amos get excited about these first crushes, as odd as they might be.

Perhaps it was revenge for my setting her daughter on the path to self-hatred and negative body image by giving her a Barbie, but Mom on a Wire gifted my Amos with a Thomas the Train sticker book for his birthday. He’s gotten stickers before, but I’ve always hidden them away immediately because I worried they would soon be plastered on my freshly painted walls or my grandmother’s antique furniture. I didn’t really know at what age stickers become appropriate, but I was shooting for the teen years when the threat of grounding or a withheld learner’s permit would keep him in line. Now a quick google search tells me stickers are all the rage among the toddler set and we’re late getting on the bandwagon.

Of course I know it’s silly that I held out this long. If you visited my house you would see signs of ruin everywhere. Our leather couch that was so posh and delicious two years ago is now shredded by cat claws. The custom drapes (left by the previous owners, I’m waaaay too cheap for that) are matted in dog fur. Close inspection of the walls reveals crayon smudges here and there. Amos has gotten pretty good at following directions, but should there be a minor lapse then adding a Thomas sticker to the mix would only add an extra touch of boyish charm.

Of course, Amos geeked out about his Thomas sticker book, and I’m delighted to report that he hasn’t figured out yet that the stickers peel off the pages and can be reaffixed elsewhere.

Looking back, of course, I can see the clues very clearly. First, that horrid stench of rot, which I attributed to a dead animal decomposing under the house. Then there was the general musty smell, which I blamed on the super-cheap rug we bought at the magical, mysterious, once -a-month Dreamweavers sale.  Their stuff is gorgeous, but who knows where it comes from? Then came the cloud of sewage gas, blamed on the insufficiently capped toilet pipe during our homemade bathroom remodel.

Ladies, let me tell you this, a triple whammy of stomach-turning smells over a tw0-month period warrants further investigation. Pronto.

Earlier this week when the washing machine started draining, I heard splashing noises coming from under the house. Worrisome. Last night my husband finally crawled under the house for a look. He emerged 5 minutes later covered in sewage of the worst kind and shaking his head. “It’s bad,” he said.

The main sewer pipe had a quarter-size hole in it, and any time we turned on a sink or washed the dishes or flushed the toilet, stuff just spilled right out on the ground. It was muddy down there, with the worst kind of mud imaginable.

The mood turned grim. I didn’t know how bad it was under the house (and had zero interest in checking it out for myself), but I imagined the worst. Being swallowed in the middle of the night by a giant cesspool lurking beneath the floorboards. My son waking up covered in black mold. A house in need of bulldozing, financial ruin, homelessness. I like to prepare myself for the worst-case scenario. Plus, it’s difficult to feel upbeat when you’re too scared to flush your toilet so instead you cower in the corner of your backyard, praying your neighbors don’t spy you peeing in the mulch pile.

We halted all fluid and fiber intake and started calling plumbers. I am delighted, elated, over-the-moon happy to report that Buck, the best plumber in the universe, has already shimmied into the bowels of our home and replaced the faulty pipe. Furthermore, it turns out that the amount of sludge down there wasn’t nearly as terrifying as first suspected and can be cleaned right up. Buck says a few other pipes need to be cleaned or replaced altogether, but he didn’t seem scared or appalled or worried about it. And he didn’t charge too much, either. I love Buck.

Amos slept through the entire disaster and this morning noticed not a thing out of the ordinary. I was so pleased last night that he hasn’t yet shown the slightest interest in potty training. Sometimes things work out for the best.

My dad and his wife arrive this afternoon for a 5-day visit, which will be so much more enjoyable with running water. Happy ending!

Yes, I’m fully aware that I have a tendency to overreact and hover a bit when it comes to Amos. But (writing in a whining voice) I really was worried that he might bump his little sweet head falling out of the crib. I’ve worked through it thanks to kind words and how-tos from fellow mommy bloggers, and I suppose I can admit that perhaps I was being a bit overprotective.

Unlike Leigh, Cathy and Cindy, those supportive ladies who felt my pain and metaphorically held my hand through the ordeal, my buddy Walt took a different tack.

Walt: “I saw that picture. The bed is, like, 4 inches off the ground. He’d have a better chance of hurting himself if he just stood up and then fell down.” Guffaws. Hilarity. Ha ha ha.

But he’s right. I’m over it. Amos will be fine. Thanks everybody!

It’s incredibly rare that my husband and I have a day without the baby, but when we do we’re never romantic or adventurous about it. When Amos goes to his grandparents’ house, the paint brushes and power tools come out. Rodney took Amos to Conway Sunday morning, and by the time Rodney got back I had the edging painted in Amos’ bedroom. When we first moved in a little over a year ago we went with a pale blue, which I thought would be calming. But instead it felt arctic and gloomy, certainly not fitting for so zesty a character as my Amos. So I spent Sunday giving it a fresh coating of granny smith apple green. Just thinking of the color makes my mouth water, it’s that tangy. But it looks fab. I’ll post photos soon, just not now because I’ve temporarily misplaced the camera.

Rodney had loftier goals for Sunday. He had to finish gutting the closet and half-bath in preparation for combining those two rooms into one fantastic, luxurious second full bath for our house. I know most people around here have at least two bathrooms already and may not appreciate them, but I’ve never had more than one in my adult life and can hardly fathom such an indulgence.

There were some touch-and-go moments. The first was when I put the first slash of green on the wall and panicked, thinking it was too Grinch-like and Amos would never be able to sleep again because of his walls’ florescent qualities. The other came halfway through when I started cussing and begging Rodney to let me hire painters to finish because even though I was doing my best there were drips everywhere and smears on the floor and my back hurt and the apocalypse was surely here.  I am such a baby about these things. Rodney was calm and reassuring, then he put on those silencing earmuffs and got out a big, loud power saw and went to work in the other room. I don’t blame him.

We did have an actual catastrophe when Rodney nicked a pipe and water started spewing everywhere, just like it does on sitcoms. I simply cannot understand why Rodney never freaks out. Surely that would be the appropriate time, right? But he didn’t. He just turned the water off to the house (who even knows how to do that?), then went off to Kraftco in search of silicone tape. He had to crawl under the house to get everything back in order, but he didn’t seem upset about it at all. It amazes me.

Anyway, Amos came home Monday to a brand new room, which he completely didn’t notice. But it looks a zillion times better, so it was worth the trouble. Our bathroom to be is an empty, non-leaking shell, all ready for the plumbers to come do their magic. Not sure when that will happen, but surely within the next year there will be some action. It’s all very exciting. The toilet is still sitting in the middle of our bedroom, but we’re all still fine with that. I may start using it as a planter soon.

As soon as the camera is located I’ll post photos of the new green room. Compliments welcome, no complaints please. I’m not painting it again.

Behold:

Just got home from Walmart with a 6-foot inflatable Santa, two metallic light-up trees and a few new boxes of lights to add to our already healthy collection. Do you hear that, Clark Griswold? I sort of want to take the Santa back and get the big inflatable tree with Santa climbing up it in his panties because a dog has pulled his pants down. But our yard will probably be tacky enough without it, plus it costs $23 more. Anyone have an opinion?

Our west Little Rock adventure was great fun tonight, the Christmas spirit is clearly here. We started things off with a harried dinner at Dixie Cafe, which we picked because we thought Amos would like the meatloaf but we were wrong. It was okay though, good spirits carried us through Sams, and we even managed to stay genuinely jolly through the Walmart experience. Has that ever even happened? I know this is the last year we can bring Amos along with us while we buy his Christmas presents. I am genuinely thankful for this nice little perk.

Hey, did anyone notice the clever typo in my post line? It was an accident I decided to keep and embrace, it being the season and all.

Last night we drove around looking for Christmas lights. Amos likes them, and I think he actually enjoyed listening to his dork-out parents in the front seat singing Christmas carols. I fully understand he won’t enjoy these performances forever, so Rodney and I belt it out with relish while we can. Amos likes the lights a lot, but he seems most transfixed by those electrical balloon-type glowy figures of Santa or Snoopy, the ones that stand about 5 feet tall and deflate during the day. I must have one of these fantastically tacky, over-the-top wonderful displays, for Amos but for myself, too. Who doesn’t like a good show?

The neighbors on our street are putting on the dog with wreaths and icicle twinklers and all kinds of garlands and such, so this weekend Rodney and I are going to see what we can do to add to the spirit. “Christmas Vacation” antics guaranteed. So far all I know is that white lights are staying in the box, we’re going full-color. I’ll keep you posted on our progress.