The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag 00 - Skeletons in the Closet

neighborhood which we can barely afford. I’ve become adept at dime stretching.
    Our house is furnished in classic hand-me-down style. The sofa and loveseat—new once upon a time, but after ten years of constant kiddie torment, not to mention a six-foot, almost two-hundred pound man flopping down on them on a regular basis—fall into the category of “seen better days”. The end tables were rejects from Neil’s parents—the corporate attorneys—and I stumbled across the entertainment center during a garage sale hop. Literally tripped over the darn thing.
    I love garage sales. Where else can one find almost new stuff at an unbelievable bargain? Neil and the boys hate garage sales, or more accurately, they hate going to garage sales with me, since I pick through everything until I find a bargain. The need for frugality runs in my Scottish blood. Neil calls me Uncle Scrooge, but he usually doesn’t complain since my thriftiness afforded him the big screen TV and DVR.
    Neil, already on his second beer, kept his gaze glued to a football game when I sashayed down the hall in my black dress. I stood in front of the TV and twirled in a circle, always a sure fire way of getting a man’s attention.
    “Whatcha think?” I asked.
    “Nice.” Neil craned his neck around me to see the score.
    “Aren’t you recording this game?”
    “Yeah, but I thought I could catch a few plays while you finished getting ready.”
    “Well, I’m ready.”
    Neil stood and stretched before clicking off the set. He actually looked at me this time and smiled. “You know we’re already late….”
    I glared at him as I recognized his let’s fool around tone. Honestly, I love that Neil always wants to fool around with me, but I’d spent way too much time in dress-up mode to forgo the public appearance.
    He shrugged and gave me a quick kiss. “Worth a shot.”
    Neil corralled the boys down the hall and into their jackets while I retrieved the bottle of wine from the refrigerator and my purse from the half-moon table in the hall. We’d been invited to a soirée (seriously, the invitation actually said soirée ) at the home of our new neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Douglass J. Kline. The Kline’s house—one of the larger ones in our development—stood sentinel at the top of the cul-de-sac on almost half an acre. It was also one of the newest homes in the area, and I was dying to get a look at the place up close. We’d been on nodding terms with the previous owners, but we’d never been invited inside the vast estate.
    The November night was cool, especially for my thin Southern blood, and the crisp air stung my nostrils with the smell of fallen leaves. Kenny and Josh ran ahead of us along the sidewalk, heralding our impending arrival with the thunder only little boy feet can produce and shouts of “Eat dirt, Scumbag!”
    Precious, aren’t they?
    “Boys, simmer down!” I called out while Neil wore his proud papa expression. Neil never worried about making a good impression. Why should he? With his perpetual tan, intelligent hazel eyes, not to mention a physique to rival Michelangelo’s David, Neil defines classically handsome. As a navy SEAL, he’d served his country for over a decade and was currently well respected in the community as an employee of Intel.
    I always fret about making a good impression. I’m five-six in heels and have a build that Neil calls statuesque and I call fat. I’m a domestic engineer, also known as a stay-at-home mom. My family and my house are my career. I’m sure in some areas of the country this is still perfectly acceptable, but in Tax-a-chusetts, dual income is the norm.
    Every light blazed in the downstairs portion of the house, and soft music filtered through the din of voices. Cars lined the circular drive, and a few distinguished-looking men staked out the front porch, seated comfortably in Hampton Bay wicker. I waved as I recognized Sam Cavanaugh from next door and got a nod of acknowledgement in return. A podiatrist in his early fifties, Sam drove a metallic blue BMW from the golf course to the office. I think he liked to pretend to be James Bond, when in truth he was more like Lyle Lovett with love handles. Whatever gets him through another day of looking at people’s feet.
    The boys waited at the bottom of the stairs for us, eyes wide and mouths agog. I hoped I didn’t look quite as star-struck by the finery. Nothing says ‘bumpkin’ like a little drool on the chin.
    Neil extended his