Tracy’s hot pink Lee Press-on Nails that look like Middle East torture devices used to scratch out POWs’ corneas? Check.
Mary’s open-toed orthopedic wedge pumps worn with reinforced-toe pantyhose? Check. (Why does she think it looks attractive? Does she think we can’t tell she’s wearing stockings? Maybe she wears them to make her legs look tan? These are mysteries of the universe that sadly, I am unable to answer.)
Jan finished her tirade about the budget by making us all promise to cut our expenses. I’m sure using fewer Post-its will get us back on track. She turned to Christina and asked her to begin her presentation. Christina got up and passed out a bunch of packets regarding clean-up work to be done by our IT guys—who exist solely to laugh at us and make us feel stupid when we can’t access our e-mail.
Once Christina finished her presentation on our computer system, we all went around the table to report on our current projects like in kindergarten show-and-tell.
When it came to me, I reviewed how the Gala went and how I would be doing the Flynn-Shepard wedding. In a delusional moment, I briefly considered announcing my pregnancy, but chickened out. I finished my sentence and quickly looked to Mule Face to indicate that I was finished.
She smiled broadly and said, “Well, I do have something to tell everyone.”
I thought she was going to resign.
No such luck.
She threw her left hand out into the center of the table with a dramatic slap.
“I’m engaged!” she screamed.
We all made fakey congratulatory noises.
“Big D proposed last night! I went to the grocery store and when I got home, he had set up candles and flowers and was down on one knee!”
I think that is officially the worst proposal story I’ve ever heard. The grocery store? How romantic. Not to mention he proposed on a Sunday night. I took a look at the engagement ring and almost puked. It’s a heart-shaped diamond. It looks like it belongs to a three-year-old, along with her My Little Pony and Malibu Barbie collection.
I let the realization I’m going to spend the next several months of my life listening to Mule Face’s wedding discussions sink in and suddenly I didn’t feel so well, and this time it wasn’t due to my unborn fetus.
When the meeting ended, I quickly walked back to my office, eager to get back to some quiet respite. Mule Face planted herself right in front of me, waving a Bride magazine.
“Look at this wedding gown. Wouldn’t it look amazing on me?” She pointed to a model wearing a gorgeous silk form-fitting sheath that would show even the barest wisp of underwear, not to mention fat rolls.
“Yep!” I said brightly.
She beamed at me. “I knew you’d love it! You’ll have to help me pick everything out. I want to learn from all the mistakes you made while planning yours.” She waddled off, yanking her panties out of her crack as she walked away.
I wanted to chase her down and beat her over the head with her fifty-pound bridal magazine and tell her she was going to look like an overstuffed sausage casing if she wore that wedding gown.
Tuesday, June 26
Mule Face hasn’t shut up about her wedding for even a nanosecond. She’s spent the morning being oh-so-productive by talking to her florist, bridesmaid, and Big D, saying things like, “Ooohhhh, I love it. Oohhhhh pink hydrangeas are amazing. Ooohhhh, yeah.” She’s even been making sexual grunts and rolling her eyes back in her head as she says “Mmmmm.”
I swear, she could make a fortune as a phone sex operator.
When I walked past her desk, she looked weirdly at my midsection before getting up and waddling off to cram more Krispy Kremes into her pie hole. I know I can’t wait much longer to tell anyone at work, but I still can’t bear the thought of answering the asinine questions people will ask, like “Was it planned?” and “You’re so young! Are you worried about losing your freedom?” or “You do know that you’ll never sleep again, right?” and my personal favorite, “How bad do you want a glass of wine?” The answers: No, yes, in denial, and really freaking bad.
How do I bring it up? “Um, did you get that vendor contract yet? No? Hopefully it will come in soon. Why? Because I’m pregnant.” I’d love to send out a mass e-mail but I’m pretty sure that falls in the “unprofessional” category. At least I have a little bit of time before they start gossiping about my stretch marks and baby names. Now they just think I’ve become a fat-ass and gossip about my love handles and double chin. (Which Reese and Jake swear aren’t there but I think they’re lying because they don’t want me to cry like I did the other night when the Chinese takeout lady couldn’t understand my order over the phone.)
Thursday, June 28
I called Reese today and waited through four rings until someone picked up the phone.
Silence.
Me: “Hello? Hello?”
Silence
Me: “Reese?”
Silence
Me: “Anyone there?”
A high-pitched voice: “TYLER!”
I had no idea who the hell Tyler was so I looked at my cell phone, but sure enough it said REESE HOME.
Me: “Tyler? What?”
Tyler: “I had some Oreos.”
Me: “Um. Great. Do you know Reese?”
Tyler: “No.”
Me: “You don’t know who Reese is?”
Tyler: “My dog has a tail. Her name is Rudy.”
Me: “Are there any grown-ups there?”
Tyler: “NO!”
Me: “If you find a grown-up for me, I’ll buy you a pony.”
Tyler: “A purple one?”
Me: “Yes! A purple one.”
Tyler: “My mom—”
I heard muffled voices in the background and the sound of someone wrestling the phone out of Tyler’s vice grip.
Reese: “Hello?”
Me: “Reese—it’s me. Who the hell was that kid?”
Reese: “Clare! I’m so sorry. I was in the bathroom. He’s my friend Meredith’s boy. I met her at a new Mommy and Me class Grace and I are taking. We babysit one day a week for each other now.”
Me: “That kid is a brat.”
Reese: “Clare! He’s not a brat, he’s four. He’s perfectly sweet.”
I heard Tyler in the background, yelling “WHO’S A BRAT? THAT’S A BAD WORD.” I heard her yell, “Tyler! Don’t throw that down the stairs!” followed by another crash.
Reese: “You’re right. That kid’s a brat. God, I can’t wait until Meredith picks him up. So what’s going on with you?”
Me: “Not much. Just wanted to make sure you were OK. I haven’t heard from you that much lately.”
Reese: “Everything’s great!”
Me: “Are you sure, because . . .”
Reese: “Clare. I. Am. Fine.”
Me: “OK, OK. Just wanted to be sure. So, are you doing anything fun this weekend? Any big plans?”
Reese: “Besides cleaning the house and doing laundry? No.”
Me: “Well, Joel and Megan are having one of their famous parties on Saturday night and I was wondering if you and Matt want to come and be our dates.”
Reese: “I’d love to. In that fabulous house they just bought?”
Me: “Yep. Five thousand square feet prime for partying. No kids and every kind of booze you didn’t know existed. Oh, and they’re getting a band this year. We’ll probably just crash on the couch or floor or wherever.”
Reese: “Christ, I haven’t been to one of those since—well, you know. Before Grace. You’ll know what I’m talking about soon.”
Me: “Well, then we both need to get out. It’s settled—we’re all going Saturday!”
Reese: “Who’s going to be there?”
Me: “Julie can’t go, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Reese: “Oh, right. I don’t care, I was just wondering. I don’t know if Matt will want to go. He doesn’t like to go to parties anymore, but if we can find a babysitter we’ll come. It’s kind of short notice. I’ll have
to let you—”
Bang! The awful sound of glass shattering came from the other end of the phone.
Reese: “OH MY GOD! THE CRYSTAL! I have to go.”
After I hung up, I silently thanked Jake for talking me out of registering for Waterford crystal. The only things breakable in our place are hideous gifts from Marianne.
I know Reese and Matt probably won’t come on Saturday. I wonder if Reese will even tell him about the party. I doubt she has the energy to keep up the act of perfect happily married couple with a group of people who’ve known them since college.
Saturday, June 30
Ugh. It’s Fourth of July weekend. The fact I don’t look pregnant but merely fat and the temperature is ninety thousand degrees outside is not making me excited at all for Joel and Megan’s annual Fourth of July party/barbecue. Normally, I’d be putting on some new cute tank top or sundress and sandals, but now, in the alternate universe known as pregnancy, I’m searching for something that covers my spare tire/baby. Thankfully, I have many “tunic length” tanks from last season long enough to cover the blubber. The problem is the tanks are also “long and lean style” which makes me look “round and tubby,” but I figure most of our friends know about everything so I don’t have to worry about any misperceptions.
I really don’t want to go, but Jake would die since Joel and Megan’s Fourth of July parties are legendary. They usually last from around noon until dawn, when everyone passes out in various random positions. I’m pretty nervous about being one of the only sober people there. I’m slightly worried that the following will happen: (a) I will discover my husband is the most annoying drunk ever, (b) I will realize my friends are alcoholics and need to go to rehab, and (c) everyone will think, “Man, Clare really isn’t any fun when she’s sober.”
2:00 P.M.
Percentage of drunk people at the party: 20.
OK, I’m doing well. Things have started out fine. Jake’s “taking it slow” like he promised me by drinking only beer and refusing every Jell-O shot and mixed drink offered to him. Joel even tried to guilt him into taking a shot on account of the “former college roommate reunion,” but he turned it down. For now.
I got a text message on my phone this afternoon from Reese: Sorry. Can’t make it. Sitter fell through. Have drinks for me!
I’m so bummed. Even though I knew she probably wouldn’t make it, I still held out hope she’d show up, sans Matt, and we could hang out.
I’m already getting tired of sipping on soft drinks and stuffing my face with Chex mix. I realized I’d never really eaten anything at this party before, minus the lone hot dog crammed down the throat to prevent gnawing hunger at four in the morning and dry heaves at nine in the morning. I’ve already eaten two hot dogs, some potato salad, and coleslaw. And I can pretty much guarantee this pattern will continue.
5:30 P.M.
Percentage of drunk people at the party: 40.
I’ve definitely swapped drinking and smoking for gorging on food, but otherwise everything is going well. Jake left to join a poker game and I’ve sprawled out on a lawn chair with Megan. After she stopped laughing when I told her about the In-Law Camping Trip, I figured it was time for another pop. And maybe another hot dog.
I wish I could update my blog. Wifey1025 would surely offer to come over and keep me company.
8:00 P.M.
Percentage of drunk people: 65.
People are starting to annoy me now. Megan accidentally spilled part of her cranberry vodka on me, so it looks like my boob is lactating. A wonderful sign of things to come. Megan’s sister Jamie burped right in my face when she was telling me a story about how she never wants to have kids because she values her free time too much, and Jake keeps patting my blubber fat/baby in a weird drunken way. I think he’s trying to be attentive but it looks more like groping. Oh, and my hands are shaking slightly from the eight gallons of caffeine.
12:00 A.M.
Percentage of drunk people: 99.9 minus one pregnant/fat girl.
Megan showed me her ass because she thought it would cheer me up. I spent a good twenty minutes recounting a good Mule Face story to Joel, about the time when she coughed and farted and tried to cover it up, and he laughed so hysterically, I thought, Wow. I’m so funny. I’m a comedienne. People love my stories. I’m the funniest person here. I don’t even need alcohol! until I realized he was stoned and would’ve laughed at test patterns.
Joel and Jake have played “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” approximately one thousand times, singing along while decked out in sunglasses and hats, using their beer bottles as microphones. A routine I’ve seen many, many times. Joel’s sister Ava acted as their backup dancer, clapping her hands and twirling around unsteadily. If I hear everyone yell “Once more!” and “Fuck, yeah” and then “The south side of Chicago, is the baddest part of town . . .” one more time, I’m going to break a beer bottle and slit my wrist with the pieces.
“I’m having a baby! And I’m naming him Leroy!” Jake drunkenly yelled and everyone cheered, raising their drinks. “Isn’t my wife beautiful? She’s having a baby and it’s sexy!” Jake shouted and everyone cheered again. I looked over my shoulder for someone, anyone, who thought this was just as weird/annoying/freaky as me.
2:00 A.M.
Percentage of people passed out: 32 and soon to include one tubby/pregnant girl.
Jake and Joel concluded their show by singing most of the Blues Brothers greatest hits. It’s amazing how easily our friends are entertained. See, this is why I wanted to wait to have kids. I figured when we had kids, we’d spend our free time socializing with people who drink only a few cocktails and hold fancy dinner parties while debating politics and religion. A social life consisting of sophistication and intelligence. A social life with friends who drink only occasionally, so it wouldn’t be such a big deal to be the sober one. Oh, and friends who also have kids. But instead, I’m at a party listening to Joel and Jake make plans to start a new business of selling house plants shaped like private parts they plan to market to college kids. And they kept asking for my help and opinions, so I nodded enthusiastically and smiled from time to time. I mean please, someone has to have a good time, but it would be nice to have at least one other person here who isn’t drinking—like a parent, another pregnant lady, or a recovering alcoholic.
All in all, I’m pretty fucking proud of myself. I didn’t kill Jake, although it became abundantly clear we would’ve never made it past the second date if I were a devout Baptist/teetotaler, and I didn’t punch anyone in the face, even when begged to sing “Papa Don’t Preach” around one in the morning. They wanted to hear me sing “But I’m keepin’ my baby!” It was kind of frightening having a drunken mob of people try to persuade me to do something. I felt like the “good girl” being forced to play Seven Minutes in Heaven with the sketchy popular boy at a high school party in some crappy made-for-TV movie.
9:00 A.M.
Poke poke. Hmmm . . . I think he’s dead. He looks dead. Poke poke. I must wake him up. I’m starving.
9:06 A.M.
I slowly pried Jake’s left eyelid open and peered into his bloodshot eye. “Hlrjim” was all I got.
“I’m starving,” I said. He didn’t speak or even twitch. He looked dead.
“Jake?” I said, and he lifted his eyebrows up, eyes still closed. “Jake, wake up. I want to go home.”
“Too early,” he grumbled, then turned over and buried his face into the inflatable inner tube he was using as a pillow. I had no idea where the hell he got it until I remembered Joel and Megan’s neighbor has a pool. My baby daddy is an alcoholic thief.
“GET YOUR ASS UP RIGHT NOW AND FEED ME, YOU DRUNK!”
That finally made him sit up. Well, that coupled with a ninjalike poke to his flank.
“Fine,” he said. He got up and stumbled around while trying to put on his jeans. “Where the hell did this come from?” he asked, pointing to the inner tube.
“How the hell should I know? I went to bed w
hen you and Joel were firing up the deep fryer to see if you could batter and fry Doritos.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, and smiled to himself, fuzzily remembering his fry-cook creations. “I think we tried to fry up a pizza slice, too. It didn’t work.”
“DON’T CARE. NEED BACON.”
“Fine. You might have to drive, though. I think I’m still a little drunk.”
I’ve now become not only the sober driver, but morning-after designated driver.
Wednesday, July 4
“Kill me. Please. Just kill me. Put me out of my misery,” I moaned to Julie this morning. She came over to hang out with me since her apartment building is being fumigated for “water beetles,” which is just a nice term for “cockroaches.”
“Morning sickness still kicking your ass?” she asked from her bed on the floor, head covered in an ice pack.
“It’s not just kicking my ass, it’s freaking owning me. I thought pregnancy was a natural, organic bodily experience, not one my body seems to reject with every cell inside it,” I said as I lay down on the couch and buried my face in a pillow. The cat hair on the pillow made my stomach turn and I tossed it across the room, narrowly missing Julie’s head.
“Watch it! I feel like shit, too, remember?” She leaned over and glared at me.
“Yes, but you feel like shit because you were out until three o’clock last night, drinking and dancing your butt off. Wanna know what I did last night? Went to bed at ten P.M. Now I ask you, how is that grounds to feel like someone is sticking a knife in my head and punching me in the stomach?” I sat up and looked at Julie, awaiting her response.
She shrugged and moaned again. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“Well, you know where the bathroom is. Trust me, it’s gotten plenty of action these days. I’m just thrilled I didn’t puke at Joel and Megan’s party. You should’ve come, it was a blast.”
“Would’ve loved to. Had to work, remember?”
A Bump in the Road Page 12