Confessions of a Domestic Failure

Emily smiled. “Ashley? The floor is all yours.”


I stood up and felt myself get a little dizzy. My two glasses of champagne had gone right to my head. I used Kimmie’s shoulder for balance. She laughed into her glass.

Once upright, I cleared my throat. “Everyone. Emily.” I turned to face my host. “I’m not like all of you. I don’t bake. Not anything very edible, anyway. I can’t crochet my own baby clothes. I’d rather order pizza than make anything.” I looked up and saw that everyone was staring at me, most with jaws dropped, but nothing was going to stop me now. “My house is always a mess and I’m genuinely surprised that a family of possums hasn’t moved in.” I paused, trying to find my words. My eyes met Emily’s.

“I’m not like you. You’re perfect, Emily. I’ve always wanted to be the kind of mom you are and I’ll never be that. You make organic gluten-free apple butternut squash scones. I eat peanut butter off of a spoon in my underwear on the couch while my baby naps. You recycle old clothes into keepsake quilts. I sometimes buy new pants to avoid doing laundry. You make the most beautiful crafts out of mason jars and buttons. I don’t know where my passport is.”

I heard someone giggle.

“Point is, I know I shouldn’t win tomorrow, because before me is a group of women—” I turned to Kimmie “—not you, Kimmie. You’re just as messy as I am. Women who inspire me and make me feel insanely jealous and inadequate. I want to raise my glass to all of you.”

I thrust my wineglass in the air, sending a stream of chardonnay directly into my face.

“Ow!” I screamed as the liquid burned my eyes.

Emily jumped up and put a napkin to my face, helping me back into my seat.

I blinked my eyes until everything came into focus.

Emily began to speak. “That was...quite the speech, Ashley, I—”

“I HATE MY HUSBAND,” said a voice to my left.

It was Serena Hossfield, mother of four and bake-sale fundraising expert. Emily and I both stared.

She stood up, suddenly shy. “I mean, I love him, but I hate him at the same time. He doesn’t understand my life at all. He pretends to take a crap and plays on his phone for hours at a time.”

Other moms nodded enthusiastically and murmured. I exhaled sharply. Was this happening?

“I HATE CRAFTS!” a petite mousy brunette shouted, standing up. Tanya Gregory, mom of three. I’d recognize that face anywhere. She’d practically flooded the portal with photos of her creations: keepsake boxes, scrapbooking ideas and shadow boxes.

“I HATE THEM!” she screamed again. Her eyes were wide and wild. She took a long drink of the brown liquid on the rocks in her glass. “I only do them because they make me feel better than other moms who can’t. It’s my gift and my curse. But deep down, I’d like to douse my craft room and set it ablaze.”

From her seat, Emily tried to regain control of the rapidly spiraling room. “Okay, okay, everyone,” she said, pushing down with her hands.

“Breastfeeding sucks!” shouted a tall woman with a black bob next to Janice. She stood up. Her sweater dress accentuated her slim build.

“I hated every minute of it, but my doula convinced me my baby would be a dumb-ass if I didn’t do it. That’s crazy. My nephew was breastfed for two years and he’s the slowest kid I know.”

Emily stood up. “That’s quite enough, everyone. I know our lives aren’t easy but...” Her voice trailed off and she stared at the empty seat directly across from hers. The one meant for her husband.

“You know what? Screw this.” Emily threw her napkin down on the table and everyone stared at her like they would a mother who had finally snapped.

Emily picked up her drink. “I’m tired of being little miss perfect. Life is freaking hard sometimes. It’s hard. Kids don’t listen. Husbands act like jackasses and I do EVERYTHING! I do everything! I’m tired of making organic quinoa cakes when I just want to order a pizza. I love chocolate cake. I love gluten. I LOVE GLUTEN.” Emily gestured toward her lower half.

Everyone cheered.

“To gluten!” she said, raising her wineglass. We all raised ours with her.

Emily put her other hand on the table and leaned forward. “Who wants to get crazy?”

Everyone hooted. Emily smiled. “Lorenzo! We’re gonna need more wine!”





Friday, March 8, 6 A.M.

I woke up with a splitting headache. I put my hands on my head, trying to quell the throbbing coming from within my brain.

Opening my eyes, I noticed that I wasn’t in my bed. I wasn’t inside. I was lying in a pool chair next to the hot tub. Beside me was Janice, hunched over on a beach towel propped up against a table. I scanned the crime scene. Among the bottles, bags of chips, empty pizza boxes and wet bikinis were passed-out moms. Then I noticed Emily. She was fast asleep, curled up on a pile of robes under a patio table.

I sat up. Kimmie was on the next beach chair over.

I pushed her shoulder. “Kimmie. Kimmie, wake up.” She grumbled and struggled to open her eyes.

“Kimmie, what time is it? Aren’t we taping today?”

Kimmie’s eyes flew open. She jumped up with the strength of a dozen toddlers. “You have got to be kidding me! I need my injections!” And with that she gathered her shoes and ran toward the main house.

“Emily! Emily!” I could see Anna running across the lawn toward us with her trademark clipboard in hand.

When she finally reached us, Anna stopped dead in her tracks, trying to take in the carnage.

“What. Happened. Here?” she whispered.

I stood up and wobbled a bit. “We got a little...um, wild last night after dinner.”

“I can see that,” Anna said through her teeth.

Anna stomped over to Emily and gently prodded her shoulder. “Emily. EMILY.”

Emily woke up with a start and tried to rise, hitting her head on the bottom of the table.

“Oh, my, what time is it?” Emily said, rubbing her eyes.

“We’re an hour from taping. The set is ready and the whole crew is here.”

“No, no, no, no, no.” Emily crawled out from under the table and wrapped a towel around herself. “Anna, why didn’t you wake me earlier?”

“I couldn’t find you! Hurry, you need to go to wardrobe. We don’t have time for a rehearsal.”

Emily stood up and faced the group of exhausted, half-sleeping, hungover women in various states of dress.

“Everyone! Wake up! We’re going live in an hour! Go get dressed! Meet me in the main lobby in half an hour for makeup! Chop-chop!” she said, clapping her hands.

Women began to move, sliding off patio chairs and coming out from under tables. It was like a zombie invasion.

Emily and Anna were about to scurry off. I grabbed Emily by the arm.

“Emily, I’m so sorry, I—”

Emily raised a hand. “Ashley. Best. Night. Ever.” She ran off and I stood there smiling.

It was showtime.

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