A Bump in the Road

by Maureen Lipinski

  The man has been throwing parties nonstop since he moved in. At all hours of the night and into dawn we hear the thumping of old-school early ’90s rap music, people cheering during drinking games, and women shrieking. I don’t mind a neighbor who likes to throw a party every now and then, but I do mind when the party lasts for four straight days. And when I can’t attend because I’m pregnant.

  Neither he nor any of his attendees presumably have jobs, because the fun doesn’t usually end until around four thirty in the morning, or at least that’s when they usually pass out or lose the ability to speak.

  As I was leaving for work today, I saw a trio of scantily clad women with hair matted to their faces and mascara running down their cheeks trying to sneak out of the building so they wouldn’t have to do the Walk of Shame past people who actually work for a living. (Edited to add: Maybe they do work for a living. As hookers.)

  Tomorrow, I have a 7:30 A.M. breakfast meeting with Irene and Rachael. Sorry, Champagne Wayne, the party’s over.

  12:30 A.M.

  OH. MY. GOD. How many times do they need to hear “Baby Got Back”? Jesus, people, it’s a fun song but this is the seventh time you’ve played it in the last two hours.

  That’s it. I’ve finally had enough. I have a meeting in seven fucking hours and I haven’t slept at all.

  12:35 A.M.

  I made Jake go over to kick some ass.

  I didn’t hear him knock, but I did hear the music turn down a few notches and some muffled voices through the wall. Within a few moments, there was a loud cheer and the music came back on full force.

  “. . . you can do side bends or sit-ups, but please don’t lose that butt . . .”

  12:45 A.M.

  Jake still isn’t back.

  1:15 A.M.

  Oh my God, they’ve killed him. They’ve knocked him unconscious, he’s lying on the floor and bleeding and they’re just stepping over him as they do Jell-O shots. Or maybe they kidnapped him and are using him as bait so I’ll come over and they’ll have us both. Then they can perform weird religious rituals on us.

  Champagne Wayne doesn’t seem like the violent/religious freak type, but one never knows.

  1:35 A.M.

  He. Is. So. Dead.

  I lay in bed for a few more minutes before finally deciding to rescue my husband. I made sure I had my cell phone in my hand and pounded on Champagne Wayne’s door, which was covered in glitter and streamers. A Very Drunk Man answered the door, swaying a bit. He squinted at me and attempted to focus on my face.

  “Es?” he asked, slobbering on my arm.

  Before I could even open my mouth, I saw Jake on Champagne Wayne’s couch, smoking a cigarette, sporting a cowboy hat, and drinking what appeared to be a Tom Collins. I shoved the Very Drunk Man aside and he stumbled backward, crashed into an end table, and slumped onto the floor. I stomped over to Jake and stood in front of him, arms crossed tightly against my chest. He looked up guiltily.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  I continued to stare at him. By then we’d attracted the attention of the entire party, who were crowded around us, praying something exciting would happen.

  “Let’s go” is all I said to him.

  He sheepishly removed the cowboy hat and tried to hand it to a drunk guy wearing an ABBA T-shirt and black jeans whom I recognized as Champagne Wayne.

  “Oh, no, buddy! That is yours! Cowboy Jake! You’ve got one helluva husband, Mrs. Jake.” He put his arm around Jake, who looked nervous.

  “Um, that’s OK. We really need to go to bed. Would you guys try and keep it down? My wife has an early meeting.”

  “Sure thing, partner!” He made a gun sign with his thumb and forefinger.

  We wordlessly walked out of the apartment, stepping over the Very Drunk Man who was not able to get up and passed out on the floor.

  “Clare, I’m sor—,” Jake began as soon as the door was closed.

  “Don’t!” I held up my hand to stop him. “I just want to sleep. We can talk tomorrow.”

  “No problem, partner,” he said.

  Thursday, September 27

  Jake called me at work today to apologize profusely again for being such a dumbass last night and promised to make it up to me by cooking me a special dinner tonight. Since I’m unaware of any dish he is able to make besides scrambled eggs, spaghetti, or hot dogs, it should be an interesting meal. With possibly all three things combined.

  His explanation of what happened last night was he didn’t want to be rude. Apparently, we don’t want to offend our neighbor who throws wild parties until the crack of dawn and has guests throw up in our hallway. I walked into my meeting with black circles under my eyes and puke on my kitten heels but at least Champagne Wayne wasn’t offended.

  To be honest, though, if I didn’t have an early meeting this morning or a baby gestating, I probably would’ve stayed and had a drink, too, so I can’t be too pissed off.

  6:00 P.M.

  I got home from work and the entire apartment smelled like bacon and sausage. I breathed in deeply and recognized the aroma of a “Jake’s special,” which is basically scrambled eggs with bacon and tomato and a side of sausage.

  “Hey!” Jake said, coming out of the kitchen carrying a glass of wine. “I figured you’d need this. Or you could just throw it at me.” He handed me the wine.

  “Like I’d waste good wine.” I took a sip of it as I followed him back into the kitchen. “Wifey 1025 offered to ‘take care of the problem’ with Champagne Wayne. I told her my husband is the bigger problem. I’d start looking over your shoulder.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you get that stuff on the list on the fridge while you were at the store?”

  “Yup. Look—I even got the paper towels on sale!” He proudly thrust a roll of paper towels in my face, pointing at the “buy four rolls, get 50¢ off” sticker.

  “Great, you got to use the coupon, right?”

  He looked at me, confused.

  “You took one of those coupons off and used it at the register, right?”

  He stared back at me.

  “Um, yeah,” he said. “That’s what I did.”

  I opened the freezer and four packages of frozen mixed vegetables whacked me on the head, one after another.

  Apparently, those were on sale as well.

  Friday, September 28

  As I got into the office this morning, late due to a serious crisis involving my hair, a round hair brush, a hair dryer, and permlike waving, my phone was already ringing. I silently prayed it wasn’t Christina calling from her conference and picked it up, trying to sound like I’d been there for an hour already.

  “This is Clare.”

  “Hi, Clare.”

  “Hey, Reese! What’s going on?”

  “Well, um, I . . .” Her voice cracked.

  “Are you OK?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she said, and cleared her throat.

  “Did something happen with Matt?”

  “Sort of. I told him.”

  “Told him what?”

  “About the baby. I told him that I’m pregnant.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, he didn’t say anything. He just stared at me and left. I told him and he left. Like I told him it was supposed to rain today. He just left.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “No.”

  “Reese, tell me exactly what happened.”

  “I just did.”

  “Be specific.”

  “I’ll try. I wasn’t planning on telling him this morning but I was just sitting there feeding Grace as he was packing up his laptop and I looked at him and he looked so cute and sweet and then I looked at Grace and she looked so happy in her high chair and it just came out. I just said, ‘I’m pregnant,’ and he stopped and stared at me. So I said it again but he still didn’t say anything. He just kept staring at me and he kind of dropped some stuff out of his hand and he said, ‘What?’ and just looked at me and pi
cked up his stuff. Then he gave me this really weird smile and said, ‘Oh. Great’ and patted me on my head and left. That was it. He just walked out the door and went to work. And that was it.”

  “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry, but maybe he was just surprised, you know? Maybe he didn’t know what to say. Maybe you should just give him some time and see what he says tonight when he comes home.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking. I’m sure he was just surprised.”

  “Of course he was. Just give him some time. It took you weeks to even tell him about the baby. You’ve had some time to process all of this, he’s had five minutes. Just give him some time, OK?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Now calm down and try not to worry. Don’t freak out until you know what exactly to freak out about.”

  “OK.”

  “Reese? Did you ever ask him about Leslie?”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure that’s the right decision?”

  “Yes. Please don’t ask me about it again.”

  “It’s going to be OK, I promise. I love you,” I said.

  “I know. Love you, too.”

  I hung up the phone, knowing I had no clue if it was going to be all right or not, but I didn’t know what else to say. I wanted to grab her bony arms and shake them and bring her out of the fog of denial.

  She called me later and told me Matt came home from work early, with a bouquet of lilies, and apologized for his reaction. I could still hear a catch in her voice but at least she sounded happier. Once again, I was at a loss for what to tell her, so I just told her again everything would be OK and I loved her.

  She said, “I love you, too. Everything’s going to be fine. Let’s talk about something else. Like the fabulous shower I’m going to throw you.”

  “What? Hell no. I don’t want a shower.”

  “Bullshit. You need one.”

  “No, I really don’t want one. Natalie’s baby shower was enough for at least ten years.”

  “I don’t want to hear it. It’s done.”

  “But—”

  “No. Don’t. You guys need stuff for the baby, don’t you?”

  Fuck. She had me there.

  Silence.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Crap.

  Tuesday, October 2

  Dear Mr. Skeletor:

  For the love of God, please let me sleep for longer than forty-five minutes at a time. The sooner you learn your mother needs sleep, the better off we’ll both be. This would also be a good time to train yourself to sleep until at least ten on the weekends. This whole dragging my sorry butt into work each day on only a few hours of sleep just ain’t working. So please, stop karate chopping my bladder all night long.

  I’m sorry we haven’t decided on a name for you and we’re still calling you Mr. Skeletor. But it’s much better than some of those names your father suggested. Trust me on this one. I promise we’ll think of one soon.

  Oh, and I’m sorry I ate at Chipotle the other day. Although, I think you owe me an apology, too. I’m not sure I can look some of my coworkers in the eye ever again. So, let’s just call it a truce, OK?

  I’d also like to remind you I’m cooking dinner for my parents this Friday night, so please, please, please, don’t make me puke or fart or make any other embarrassing bodily function while I’m cooking or while everyone is eating.

  Oh, and one last thing—I hear it’s pretty cozy in there and I hope you have a nice stay during the next thirteen weeks. However, I’d like to remind you that your lease expires at forty weeks, so keep that in mind when January rolls around, m’kay?

  Love,

  Mom

  Friday, October 5

  How is it Friday already? What was I thinking when, in the midst of a manic hormonal episode, I invited my parents over for dinner tonight? Friday seemed so far away when I told my mom to “Be there at seven” in the midst of surfing Rachael Ray recipes online. I found a great recipe for steak with goat cheese crumbles and balsamic vinaigrette, mashed potatoes, and steamed asparagus.

  My mom called yesterday to say they were coming at six thirty now since my dad had to see patients at the hospital later that night. Seeing as how I usually don’t get home until five thirty, it is going to be a challenge. But I am using a Rachael Ray thirty-minute-meals recipe so I should have everything ready. Maybe I’ll even have time left over to do some laundry before they arrive.

  5:45 P.M.

  Don’t panic. Don’t flip out. I’m sure the person whose car is totaled is very sorry they smashed into the other car and ruined everybody’s lives by turning Ogden Avenue into a parking lot.

  6:07 P.M.

  I’m finally home. I’ll be fine, right? I mean, I’m doing a thirty-minute meal, right? Time to get started.

  6:17 P.M.

  Why did we have to leave the potato peeler at the Grandalskis last Christmas when we made the sweet potato pie? It’s really hard to peel potatoes with a tiny paring knife. It’s also really hard to peel potatoes using a tiny paring knife when my finger is sliced open.

  6:28 P.M.

  Potatoes peeled and boiling on the stove. Asparagus steaming in steamer pot thingy we got as a wedding present. Steaks pan-seared and put in the oven. Pregnant lady sobbing hysterically.

  6:35 P.M.

  My parents are here. Jake pours glasses of wine as I longingly stare at a beer in the fridge.

  6:45 P.M.

  The oven is smoking. Holy shit!

  6:47 P.M.

  A pan was on fire. Parents and Jake came running to the kitchen as I threw the pan, steak and all, into the sink and turned on the faucet. My mom looked at me and said, “You put a nonstick pan under the broiler?” Oops. I’m sorry I almost incinerated everyone with my stupidity. Oh, well, we can still have the potatoes and asparagus.

  6:56 P.M.

  Fark. Asparagus stalks steamed for too long and are now stuck to each other to form one giant globular green mushy mess.

  7:15 P.M.

  Why aren’t the potatoes done yet? They’re still rock-hard and resemble Styrofoam.

  7:17 P.M.

  Maybe it would’ve been helpful if I had turned the stove on. That might’ve helped them cook faster.

  7:45 P.M.

  Potatoes are done. Seeing as how I set the steaks on fire and steamed the asparagus until it became oatmeal, looks like I’ll be serving the potatoes with some oriental-flavored ramen noodles, the only edible thing in our cabinets.

  7:54 P.M.

  Ramen noodles and mashed potatoes are on the table. Just as we all sat down to eat, my dad’s pager went off and he and my mom left so he could admit one of his patients into the hospital. They didn’t look too disappointed about missing my gourmet meal. I’m so not Rachael Ray.

  I was cheered, however, when several readers assured me they, too, had once put a nonstick pan in the oven, causing life-threatening emergency situations.

  Wednesday, October 10

  As if dragging Jake out of Champagne Wayne’s Party O’ Losers wasn’t the horrifying highlight of the month, I just read something that totally tops it.

  I read on Baby Chat about something called a Lotus Birth. Apparently it is when a baby’s umbilical cord isn’t cut at birth, but instead left intact and attached to the placenta until it detaches on its own several days or weeks later. These parents believe it is more natural and comforting to the baby. They carry the placenta around in a shoebox until it detaches.

  How freaky is that?

  What do these parents do when a visitor holds the baby? “Be careful not to touch the soft spot on his head; support his neck and . . . the placenta so it doesn’t fall on the floor”?

  To all pregnant women: I know pregnancy is emotional and difficult, but let’s try to keep it together, OK? Keep those thinking caps firmly in place, ladies.

  Friday, October 12

  After my venting about a Lotu
s Birth, I felt very high and mighty about being a calm, prepared, normal, and all-knowing pregnant woman who totally has her shit together. Yet today, I was knocked down off my proverbial high horse by that bitch Karma.

  As evidence, this is the e-mail I sent Julie tonight:

  I was wondering if you know where I left my dignity? Oh, really? You mean it just flew right out of my office when I wasn’t looking? Did it say where it was going? Because I’d really like to have it back. No? You’re sure?

  I thought today would be pretty easy. A Friday—not too much work to do coupled with looking forward to hanging out with Julie all weekend since Jake is in Vegas for some nerdy technology conference.

  I was so, so wrong.

  One of the first things I did this morning was e-mail Jake to see how his flight went. It went something like this:

  Hey! Just wanted to see how everything is going. Work’s boring as usual. I miss you already and can’t wait to see you! Call me as soon as you get a chance.

  Love you,

  Clare.

  Then I e-mailed Josh, this dude who’s selling us our new, pimped-out yet child-friendly SUV (Sadly not the convertible I wanted. I acquiesced when Jake pointed out the ass-freezing Chicago winter and the possibility of Mr. Skeletor getting launched, car seat and all, from the vehicle if God forbid there should ever be an accident.) to see when we could pick up our new car.

  Ten minutes later, Josh called.

  Josh: “So, Clare . . . I just got your e-mail.”

  Me: “Great. What do you think?”

  Josh: “Well, it’s certainly flattering.”