Why Wasn’t I Born Rich? (or, Is it Menopause? NO! It’s a Baby!)

Clemntine is BACK! You wanted to the second installment of The Great Redneck Room Swap of ‘07 and here you have it.

Why Wasn’t I Born Rich?

Because being poor has more comedic possibility. I’m sure that’s it.

When
we left our heroine, the living room looked like Santa’s sleigh had
tipped over and all the elves had thrown up there. The former playroom
was empty, but that was the extent of the redecorating. The adventure
continues…

Saturday
morning dawned bright and warm. Gadget Man went to get vitamin-rich,
whole grain tofu-frosted…who am I kidding? He went for donuts so the
kids could get all hopped up on sugar because nothing improves
children’s behavior quite like deep fried, sugar coated carb rings. I
went to Sherwin Williams because starting ALL OVER sounded like such a
smart plan in the overall let’s-get-this-painting-party-started sense.

At
Sherwin Williams, I was greeted by Eric. Eric was old enough to shave,
so I knew I had made a wise choice. I described the project, showed him
my lovely curtain and threw myself on his mercy. Nearly sqooshed the
poor boy. He showed me his recommendation for color, demonstrated
color-washing with paint and glaze and took me around the store helping
me gather all of the necessary supplies. In less than half an hour, I
was out of there with my confidence and my plan. I love Eric. I
big-red-puffy-heart Eric. I want to marry him and have his little paint
brush babies. But that would have to wait. I had painting to do.

When
I got home, we got started. We taped and then we painted. While the
paint was drying in preparation for the color wash, the older girls and
I emptied their room.

Oh. My. Lord.

I
won’t go into details here because this is a family-friendly
environment, but let me put it to you this way: Their room resembled a
thrift store on the wrong side of town, run by racoons. BLIND racoons.
Oh, the nastiness! And it was the worst kind of nastiness: Stealth
Nastiness. Upon cursory glance, the room would look reasonably tidy.
Oh, ho HO! That tidy façade was merely a ruse, my friends. Under the
beds, in the closets and in every spare (hidden) inch of space was the
most macabre assortment of wrappers, dirty clothes, cups, plates and
sliverware ever seen by human eyes. Think Montel Show during Sweeps
when they go to the house of the pathological pack rat. The only thing
missing was a bald, black former marine. NO. WAIT. I think he was in
there somewhere. GAH!!

At
7pm I began to apply the color wash over the freshly painted playroom
walls. I finished about 9 and, if I do say so myself, it looked GREAT!
I’m wondering where Eric would like to honeymoon and whether Gadget Man
would mind watching the kids while we’re gone.

I kid.

So, with the room painted a lovely shade of
colorwashed blue, I decided to reward myself. I vacuumed the empty room
and then went to the garage to bring in my favorite grown- up toy of
all time: The Hoover Steam Vac.

I’d
like to take a moment here and extol the virtues of the Hoover Steam
Vac. I’m a little bit addicted to carpet shampooing. I routinely (every
6 to 8 weeks or so) shampoo the high-traffic areas of our house. I have
the house divided into sections and I do one section a week. The hum of
the motor, the smell of the shampoo (heavy duty,
pet-stain-and-odor-removing, outdoor fresh scent thankyouverymuch), and
the sight of the grody gray dirty water that I pour down the sink in
the utility room while exulting in the knowledge that my family isn’t
living on that crud any more: sheer bliss. It’s my little piece of
heaven, people.

I
shampooed and went to bed, aching in ways I haven’t ached since I took
that dare on the band trip to the Rose Bowl in 1984. It was then that I
realized that I really should have been born rich. If I were rich, I’d
hire a decorator who would in turn hire painters who had some clue in
Hades what they were doing and we would all be on vacation in Cancun
drinking fruity things with umbrellas in them. In this version of my
life story, I’m also a stunning beauty who ROCKS the gold lame’.

I
woke up on Sunday just as poor and twice as sore. Mom and I went to Wal
Mart (if Wal Mart ain’t got it, I don’t need it, I always say) and
bought Baby Redneck a toddler bed. It’s a teensy little sleigh bed in
natural finished solid wood. I put the bed together, moved her toys and
clothes in and draped everything in Dora- ness. Dora bedspread, sheets,
couch, and wall hangings. It’s a shrine to an obnoxiously cheerful
5-year-old whose parents let her travel the world chaperoned by a
monkey with a shoe fetish. I’ve never been more proud.

Monday
was spent cleaning up the residual mess and restoring the Redneck
Domicile to it’s customary state of disarray. My next goal was to
redecorate WonderBoy’s room. He had requested silver walls with Hoover
vacuum cleaner posters. Mmmmkay. Planning and doing, as you may or may
not be aware, are to entirely different things.

The next week, in a feat of grace and acrobatics, I broke my left
big toe and cracked my right shin, which put the redecorating on hold.
The week I got the boot off (in October), I broke my right thumb.
Thumbs are handy things. I don’t take mine for granted any more. I got
the cast off my thumb in January (that’s just over 3 months, for those
of you keeping score at home) and to celebrate, I picked up a Target
brand pregnancy test (you celebrate your way, I’ll celebrate mine)
since I hadn’t had a visit from Aunt Flo since, like, Thanksgiving. I’d
had a couple of hot flashes (read: had to actively restrain myself from
removing my top in line at the grocery — who knew?), so I was pretty
sure The Change, it was a-comin’.

Sunday, January 27, 2008 was my 40th birthday. I got breakfast from
my children, a certificate for a day at the spa from my hubby, and a
"+" sign from God. No. Stinkin’. Way.

Yes way.

So, we
installed bunk beds in Baby Redneck’s room and performed a
Dora-exorcism. Now WonderBoy and Baby Redneck share a funky
denim-and-primary-colored room, and the smallest bedroom is awaiting a
fresh coat of paint and all the "stuff" that we Westerners think we
need in order to nurture our offspring. The bad news is that I had
gradually given away every last piece of baby equipment we owned. The
good news is that my sweet friends have blessed me with their
no-longer-needed baby gear and we are back in Baby Business. Again. For
the 5th time. At age 40. Don’t tell me God doesn’t have a sense of
humor.