[2013] Note to Self- Change the Locks

by Heather Balog

  “I hate this show, by the way,” I remarked as I kissed both of them on the tops of their heads. “Where are their parents?”

  “Shhh!” Jim waved me away. “This is the critical part!”

  I shook my head. “You’re nuts. Good night, my Livie. Jim, have her in bed no later than seven-thirty. I don’t want to deal with the fall out when she doesn’t get enough sleep…”

  “Blah, blah, blah,” Jim remarked, imitating me talking with his hand. Olivia dissolved into a fit of giggles. He smirked at me. “Will you stop worrying? I know what to do with her. I’m not new here.” He waved me away with his hand. “Go! Peddle your bestselling novel so you can buy me something pretty.”

  “You really are batty. For a guy who hates kids, you seem to like her a lot,” I laughed, closing the door behind me.

  I clicked my minivan open with the key fob and slid into the front seat. With a flick of a few buttons, I was able to exit the garage and warm my seat at the same time. It was like a dream vehicle. Okay, so it wasn’t the Lamborghini I dreamt of as a kid and part of me still couldn’t believe I was a minivan driving mom. But, it was the most practical vehicle I could imagine for our lifestyle. Besides, juice stains came out better with this cross between a carpet and astroturf material that they used on these car seats.

  When you have a kid, you make sacrifices. Like moving out of your city apartment, and buying a three bedroom house on a dead end street in suburbia where the most exciting thing you experience on a daily basis is the mail arriving.

  We just got a letter, we just got a letter…oh dear God, make it stop. You really need contact with adults. And Jim doesn’t count as an adult.

  Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the nearly deserted bookstore parking lot and I realized I had spent the entire car ride listening to Elmo songs. And even more embarrassing, I had been singing along.

  I pulled into a parking space, cut the engine and leaned my head on the wheel for a second. I needed to get out more, and not just to these book signings. What I needed was a real date with flowers and wine.

  Stop, Elizabeth! Get out of the damn car and hawk your book. Jim’s voice reverberated in my head. So you can buy me something pretty. I smiled to myself.

  Thank God for Jim. Last year he moved three blocks away from me with his very sexy new partner, Matt. He met Matt at a book signing party in the city. I was fifteen months pregnant (or so I felt), and Jim had been there to hold my hand. It was an unveiling of “Up and Coming Young Writers” and Matt had recently published his debut novel about a man who hid his sexuality from his wife. It was semi-autobiographical.

  It was love (or lust) at first sight for the two and they’ve had a whirlwind romance ever since, wanting to settle down and actually have a family of their own. Which is why Jim was now a stone’s throw away and available to babysit at a moment’s notice.

  Jim had been a God send because Olivia’s real father wasn’t readily available to help out. Austin, who was supposed to have weekend visits with Olivia once a month, proved to be really flaky about them. I believe he had not actually picked her up since Fourth of July.

  I understood he was busy, but his interest in his child had waned considerably when he realized she wasn’t a boy and she definitely couldn’t give a rat’s ass about baseball. He gave her a “Cooper” jersey for her birthday (twenty sizes to big) and was upset that she had not been impressed. She wanted a Lalaloopsy doll. Ever since then, he’s been avoiding her, making it difficult for me to make a work schedule. Jim was a lifesaver on more than one occasion.

  I stepped from the car and with a click of the remote, the back door slid open. As much as I had protested this minivan, I found some of its features to be thrilling. Yes, I definitely needed to get out more often.

  I leaned in to retrieve my box of books when I felt hands around my waist, pulling me backward and spinning me around. I dropped the box of books in shock, nearly crushing my foot in the process.

  “Hello, love,” Simon chirped, planting a kiss on my forehead.

  I swatted at him. “You big jerk. You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days sneaking up on me like that.”

  “You think you’d be used to it by now.” Simon reached down. “You weren’t really going to carry this box of books were you?” He hoisted the fifty pound box up on his shoulder as I pressed the button to close the sliding door.

  “Sure, why not?” I remarked, pulling my bag over my shoulder.

  Simon eyed me. “You know why not. The doctor told you no heavy lifting.”

  “I know, I know,” I grumbled as we approached the entrance to the store. “But what am I supposed to do when my knight in shining armor is late?”

  “Hey, hey, hey! You know I was meeting that big shot CEO that wants to hire me to train his company softball team!” Simon appeared hurt.

  “I know, dear. I’m just teasing.”

  Simon had been working night and day at his new job as personal trainer/ nutritionist, but he made a point to be at every one of my book signings. And every little recital and play Olivia had performed in, thus far. Which, fortunately, had not been many. One could only take so many renditions of nursery rhymes sung out of tune by a group of toddlers.

  Simon swung the door open and allowed me to pass. The store manager rushed to great us. “Elizabeth! How lovely to see you again! And Mr. Collingsworth! It’s a pleasure!”

  I smiled gratefully. This particular book store was so pleased to have a real live author in its midst that I had been invited for book signings at least half a dozen times. I was on a first name basis with the staff.

  “Thanks, Ron. Where are we setting up?”

  “The usual spot,” Ron said as he led the way to the back of the store, near the coffee counter.

  I made a face at Simon. “Coffee makes me nauseous,” I hissed into his ear.

  Simon rolled his eyes, but called out to Ron. “Um, Ron? Could we possibly set my wife up closer to the front?”

  Ron turned and looked at Simon quizzically. “I don’t understand? I thought she liked it by the coffee counter?”

  It was true. I usually did like the coffee counter. Besides loving the coffee smell, I found that something about the scent of coffee made women want to buy more books. This isn’t based on actually research mind you, just my observations.

  “Well, she does usually,” Simon remarked sheepishly. “But you see,” he enthusiastically patted my abdomen with his free hand. “We’re expecting our second child in a few months and she’s not quite out of that nauseous stage yet.”

  I grimaced at Simon’s announcement. We were not planning on broadcasting the pregnancy news quite yet, but hey, if it got me away from the vomit inducing coffee smell, I’d tell everyone I have six year old panties on. Not panties of a six year old, just panties that are six years old…oh never mind.

  Ron smiled. No, beamed actually. “That’s fantastic news. Of course! I’ll go see if Susan can set you up near the front counter!”

  Ron shuffled away and Simon grinned.

  “Better?”

  I nodded. “Thanks. You’re the best husband ever.”

  “You know it. Anything for my little wifey.”

  “Oh good,” I remarked as we headed toward the table Ron that was setting up. “You can give me a foot massage when we get home.” Simon groaned meekly as I added, “And paint my toenails, too.”

  Enjoyed “Note to Self: Change the Locks”? Then you’ll love the Amy Maxwell Series.

  Meet Amy Maxwell. She has four kids, a useless husband and crusted applesauce on her yoga pants that haven’t seen the inside of a gym in over a decade. She’s convinced her teenage daughter is up to no good, her ten year old can’t stop chattering in her ear and her oldest son has befriended a teenaged boy twice his age who is a tad bit strange. And don’t even get her started on having a toddler when you’re in your late thirties. She just can’t keep up. Forget tired; she’s exhausted and feeling unfulfilled, dissatisfied and l
ike a disappointment to everyone; her kids, her parents and most of all, herself.

  To relieve her stress, Amy finds herself fantasizing about everything from the pool boy next door to finding out that her daughter was switched at birth. She can’t help her thoughts, but she figures, if they’re in her head, they can’t hurt anyone else, right? When Jason, a very sexy forty something year old single father moves in across the street, Amy finds her fantasy world has gone into overdrive. When Amy and her 13 year old daughter, Allie, stumble upon the body of their neighbor, shot to death in her living room, Amy finds herself thrown together with Jason in the most unpredictable way. Amy finds herself bumbling around Jason, trying desperately to stop her fantasies and her underlying attraction towards him as this who done it mystery slowly unfolds. And Amy soon realizes, nobody is who she thinks they are…even Amy herself.

  Excerpt from “The 8 Mistakes of Amy Maxwell”

  They say that when you are dying, your life flashes before your eyes. Call me a cynic, but I always thought that was a bunch of malarkey. Now that my life is actually flashing before my eyes and I’m looking back, I’m inclined to believe it.

  I guess I should have seen it coming. There were signs along the way; indicators that something was amiss. I mean, I had suspicions, of course, but I dismissed them. Because sometimes, I live in my own little fantasy world and it’s difficult for me to see what’s real and what’s imagined. But this time, I was right. I was really right.

  If I think about it, I’ve made about eight mistakes. Oh, no…not in my lifetime. Please, if I counted up all those mistakes, well, we’d be here much longer than three-hundred some odd pages allows. I’m talking about the eight mistakes that led me to this point, right here, right now. Hog tied to a chair on a desolate mountaintop in a deserted cabin.

  I can just see my sister Beth rolling her eyes, “Oh please, Amy…you are so melodramatic…” No, I am not being dramatic. Got news for you Bethie, this is real. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to die. All because of my eight mistakes.

  It all started back in September, the day of my six year old son’s birthday party.

  “Roger,” I call out to my husband in a hushed tone, gently poking him with my left foot. No answer. “Roger!” I repeat, this time with firmness, using my “I’m getting rather annoyed with you” voice that I usually reserve for the children. Still, I get no response from Roger.

  At this point, I’m not sure why I’m whispering. Evan is done with his nap and is happily banging away on his xylophone a foot away from where his father’s head is lolling off the couch. Roger doesn’t even flinch. My heart skips a beat as I examine Roger’s chest and realize that I don’t see the usual rise and fall. I drop my laundry basket.

  “Roger!” I shout as I urgently shake him. But it is to no avail. He doesn’t budge. I feel for a pulse, finding none. I let out a bloodcurdling scream and my other three children race into the room.

  “Mommy, what’s wrong?” asks Lexie, concern crossing her face.

  “It’s your father!” I manage to squeak out. “He’s… dead!”

  “Did you check his pulse?” inquires thirteen year old Allie in a matter of fact tone. She clutches her cell phone in her hand and it is, as usual, attached to her ear.

  “Yes! He has no pulse!” I cry out. “Hang up and call 911!”

  Rolling her eyes, she mutters resentfully, “Kaitlyn, I’ll have to call you back. My dad is dead.” She ends her phone call and dials 911, while the other children sob quietly at their father’s feet. We wait for what seems like hours, but in reality, it is only ten minutes.

  The ambulance arrives and the twenty-one year old, very hot, very muscular paramedic, who looks suspiciously like the neighbor’s pool boy, Raul, climbs out of the rig. He is wearing uniform pants that accentuate his sculpted gluteus maximus and a wife beater tee that displays his rippling tanned biceps. I sharply suck in my breath as he edges past me to get through the front door. Once inside the house, he kneels next to the couch and examines Roger. After a moment, he gazes up at me with his pensive chocolate brown eyes and shakes his head grimly. “I’m so sorry ma’am, but he’s gone.”

  “He had a good life,” I sob as Raul wraps his muscular forearms around my shoulders and draws me closer to his body. “It was probably all the pork roll, egg and cheese sandwiches he ate! What am I going to do now! I’m all alone!” I wail as I bury my face in Raul’s sprawling chest. I inhale deeply and discover that he smells like sun tan oil and coconut. I start to quiver.

  “It’s ok,” he murmurs in my ear. “You can use the life insurance money to hire a nanny for the kids and come live with me. I have a beach house in Bermuda and a ski chalet in Swiss Alps…”

  “Oh Raul,” I moan. “I can’t do that. I must take care of my husband’s affairs and funeral…”

  “No need, darling,” Raul explains. “It’s been taken care of.” I blink and see that Roger’s body is no longer on the couch. The children are gone and the house is neat and tidy. Raul scoops me into his arms and lifts my face to kiss me….

  Roger snorts loudly, interrupting my daydream. His right arm and leg are precariously hanging off the couch.

  Why can’t he put his whole body on the couch instead of dangling all over the place like a floppy fish? I smile to myself as I imagine Roger as a trout, his flaccid fish body and puckering fish lips.

  Sighing heavily and shifting the overflowing basket of laundry to my other hip, I lean over, intending to tap him on the shoulder. Only I don’t end up being as gentle as I planned. I trip, lose my footing, and punch my sleeping husband in the face. (In my defense, his leg shouldn’t have been blocking my path.)

  “Ouch!” Roger yelps as he bolts upright. He rubs his cheek and gawks at me as if I have just shot him in the chest at point blank range. “Jesus Christ, Aim!” Evan begins to wail at his father’s obvious overreaction, so I drop my laundry basket and scoop up the crying two year old child.

  I glower at Roger, annoyed that he has startled our son. “I’m sorry! I tripped over your damn foot for God’s sake. There’s no reason to shout…” I start bouncing Evan up and down on my hip to quiet his screeches. Once this kid gets going, it could be hours before he calms down. I swear he needs Ritalin already.

  “Oh, please,” Roger retorts while struggling to stand. This proves to be quite difficult as the couch is pretty lumpy from the kids jumping on it and using the cushions to smack each other in the head. Roger falls into the abyss several times in his attempts to get up. I purse my lips together to prevent myself from laughing at him. He scowls at me as he finally gets to his feet. “Was this like when your hand ’just slipped’ and you punched me in the nose the other night?”

  I feel my face turn bright red as I recall Friday night at the movie theater. For the first time in ages, we were actually on a date. During the previews, I made the unfortunate mistake of glancing lovingly at my husband as he adoringly ogled the hot young blonde thing in daisy dukes who was leaning over the seat in search of her wayward cell phone.

  I swear I had only meant to swat at him, but I ended up cold cocking him right in the nose, resulting in an immediate gush of blood. The blonde bimbo gasped and sympathetically offered Roger tissues that were tucked in her bra (which he accepted with that annoying goofy grin of his). As she brushed her fake boobs against his body and pinched the bridge of his nose, she pointed out that she was a nurse, but I insisted we leave the movie theater immediately to get him home. I don’t think I called her a slut, but Roger swears I did. It was one of the many things we fought about on the way home from the first non-animated movie we were going to see in about eight and a half years.

  After Roger handed the shocked babysitter a twenty (I don’t think she was expecting us so soon, as she was cozy on the aforementioned lumpy couch with her tongue rammed down her heavily pierced boyfriend’s throat), he stomped off to bed and refused to discuss the incident any more.

  I admit, I’m extremely jealous at times, not to men
tion, unfortunately klutzy. But who can blame me, really? I’m incredibly self-conscious of my flabby post baby belly, jiggly arms, dimpled legs and pancake boobs, as most mothers are. I breastfed all four of my kids until they were at least nine months old, making sure I ate the proper amount of calories during pregnancy and breastfeeding. The ice cream floats and hefty portions of my meals were necessary to ensure their healthy futures. They also made up for the lack of coffee and wine. I have sacrificed heavily over the last fourteen plus years in my perpetual state of baby rearing. The least my husband could do was not gawk at twenty-one year olds with asses so tight you could bounce a quarter off of them. But, I digress.

  “Once again, it was an accident and I apologize for that,” I inform Roger as I retrieve my laundry basket. Skillfully tucking both the baby and the basket under my arms, I head up the stairs. “Everyone will be here in less than an hour so if you could please make sure that Colton comes inside and at least washes his face…” My voice trails off as I hear Roger groan.

  During his nap, he has apparently forgotten about our son’s sixth birthday party taking place at our house this afternoon. I have single handedly cleaned the entire house from top to bottom (as best as one possibly can as four kids mess it up in your wake), sent the invitations, hung the decorations, ordered the food, and commissioned the pony, clown and bounce house. I put together goodie bags, assured my neurotic neighbor that there would be no peanut products served and that all the food was gluten free. I made a frickin’ piñata, for cripes sake. And Roger has the nerve to groan when I ask him to make sure his son’s face is clean?

  Fighting the urge to make a snarky comment as I leave my husband in the living room, I stomp up the stairs and into Evan’s room, dump the laundry basket on his bedroom floor and Evan onto his changing table. He fights me as I attempt to pull his drool soaked tee-shirt over his head. “No!” His muffled protests fall upon deaf ears.