Not Ready for Mom Jeans

by Maureen Lipinski

  “Hey!” I waved to her.

  “I’m so fucking sorry. My shitty flatiron shorted out on me,” Julie yelled across the bar, startling the seven people quietly sipping drinks. She pulled off her coat as she walked toward me, and again, the seven people seemed rattled, since all of them were dressed in cold-weather-appropriate gear, like turtlenecks, sweaters, and scarves. With very little cleavage.

  Meanwhile, Julie was dressed in a tight long-sleeved black dress with fishnet tights and knee-high boots. With very much cleavage.

  By self-admission, her trailer park roots run deep.

  “What’s going on?” Julie said as she walked over to me, red hair tangled around her shoulders. “Hey, I’m Julie,” she said to Jane.

  Jane seemed slightly disturbed. “Oh, hello.” She looked at me. “Julie as in Julie from your blog?”

  I nodded and picked up the wine list again.

  “Good to meet you! You look”—Jane stopped and looked Julie up and down—“great.”

  “Thanks, so do you,” Julie said sweetly.

  Recognizing the calm before the proverbial Julie Shitstorm, I thrust the wine list in front of her.

  “Order,” I said. I turned to Jane. “So what time am I supposed to do this thing?” I said as I waved around to the empty tables.

  Jane looked at her watch. “Right now. But get a glass of wine first.” She looked around the empty bar and back to me. “We’ve got time.”

  Right.

  After Jane walked off to test the microphone, Julie sat down next to me. “What? Did she not like my outfit or something?” She leaned forward and her massive boobs rested on the bar.

  “Forget her. Listen. There was supposed to be other bloggers here, but it’s just me! I can’t go up there and read some lame entries to like four people.” I leaned forward and gripped her arm.

  “Relax, drama queen. Just have a few free drinks, get up there and read your shit, and then we’ll bail.” Julie rolled her eyes. She glanced around the room. “Let’s go to a normal bar next.”

  I smiled. “Normal like how?”

  “Normal like I can dance on the tables and no one will give a shit. Bars should be loud, with drunks puking their guts out, not quiet and studious,” Julie said, and signaled to the bartender. “Two glasses of Pinot Noir.”

  “What if they boo me offstage?” I mused as the bartender set two glasses of wine down in front of us.

  “There’s like two people here. You probably won’t even be able to hear it. Speaking of which, why are there only two people here?” Julie whipped her head around, nearly smacking me across the face with her bright red hair extensions.

  I shrugged as I watched Jane get ready to introduce me, to send me out as a sheep amongst the wolves. “No idea,” I said to Julie as I shuffled the papers with my printed-out blog posts in my hand.

  Maybe I could just go up there and read from the newspaper. People might want to hear the news, right?

  “No, really. You have so many readers. How many hits you up to these days?” she asked as she pulled a tube of lip gloss out of her purse.

  I shrugged. “Same as always. About twenty thousand, I think.”

  Julie shook her head and laughed.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing. No offense or anything, but it’s still just weird that so many people read your blog.” She squinted across the dark bar at a guy wearing a black turtleneck and gray skinny jeans.

  “No kidding. I started it because I had that lowly assistant job and answering the phones didn’t exactly entertain me all day long. I thought it would be hilarious to write about my obnoxious coworkers and new martini recipes.” I fidgeted with the silver bracelet on my arm, pinching it on my forearm until it left an indentation.

  “And, for whatever reason, people started reading and now thousands of them read about your life.” She grabbed her wineglass and downed the liquid in a quick gulp.

  “If you would’ve told me in college that I’d have thousands of people reading stories about my kid’s diaper rashes and my husband’s hate for the cable company …” I stopped and shrugged. “Guess there’s still a lot of bored people at work.” I picked up my drink.

  Yet I brought the wineglass just a wee bit too fast to my lips, and it clinked against my front teeth.

  Which, of course, led me to jerk my head back.

  Which, of course, led the red wine to splash down the front of my shirt.

  Which led my Dignity to leave the bar and go down the street for a smoke break.

  “Thanks for coming, everyone. We have a special guest in the house tonight. Her name is Clare Finnegan, of the popular blog Am I Making Myself Clare, and she’s here to read a few of her entries tonight. So please give her a warm welcome,” Jane said from the stage.

  I remained frozen on my bar stool, still holding the wineglass, red wine soaking into my shirt and pants.

  “Go,” Julie said, and took the wineglass out of my hand. She gave me a little shove forward on the shoulder. “Now.”

  My hand still in the air, I said, “But I—”

  She shook her head. “Go up there. Read. It’ll give me something to do while I’m stuck in this shithole.”

  I slowly got up, walked toward the microphone, and stepped onstage, red wine stain and all. I felt all of the people in the bar freeze as they watched the stained, freaked-out girl walk toward the stage. I stood up and was nearly blinded by the spotlight. I leaned into the microphone and glanced over at Julie, who waved her hand at me.

  “Uh, hi, everyone. I’m Clare. I have a blog. On the Internet. Of which I am going to read you some materials publicly,” I said.

  Yeah, so that’s pretty much how that went.

  Jane, despite being very gracious and insisting that I wasn’t The Worst Person to Ever Speak in Public Ever, didn’t seem too excited when I offered to come back anytime.

  I figured I’d tortured everyone enough, and Julie and I walked down the street to another bar.

  “That one guy, with the balding head, kind of laughed at one point,” Julie offered as we settled into a booth at a sports bar.

  “Thanks, but don’t even try to make me feel better. Let’s just pretend it never happened, OK?” I muttered as I took off my coat. I glanced down at the red wine stain still covering my shirt and pants. “Can’t wait for the comments on my blog.”

  “Do I look like I’ve gained weight?” Julie asked me later as we sipped on a couple of beers.

  “No,” I lied. “You look great.”

  “Thanks for being a liar, but my love handles aren’t looking so hot these days. Ah, well, what am I going to do? My love affair with food isn’t ending anytime soon.” She sighed as she adjusted her boobs and fiddled with her silver earrings.

  “And it shouldn’t. You’ve never had a problem finding a guy and besides, you always look hot,” I said as I took a swig of my drink.

  “You’re the one who looks hot, and you’re the one who had a child living inside of you.” She pointedly looked me up and down and rolled her eyes.

  “I wish. My body is still all messed up—spare tire, stretch marks, and varicose veins, not to mention flabby boobs. It’s like pregnancy is nature’s birth control—you end up so hideous no one wants to have sex with you until desperation sets in. Look at my pants!” I shrieked as I pointed to my jeans. “These are four sizes bigger than normal. And they’re ugly, since I refuse to buy cute fat pants. It’s so depressing!”

  “Oh, please, you look great,” she insisted.

  “You should see these black pants I had to wear the other day. I call them Miss Pig—,” I started to say.

  “I’m sorry, I hate to interrupt, but are you Clare, from the Internet?” A cute blond girl with enormous brown eyes stood at our table.

  Oh no! The witch hunt has begun already! They’re probably going to show me a petition titled “Clare Should Never Leave Her House Again.”

  Or maybe I can just say, Clare? Who’s Clare? My name is J
enipher. Or something.

  “Yep, she is. She’s like a famous Internet Rock Star,” Julie said proudly before I could catch her eye.

  The blond girl signaled to a brunette at the bar and nodded her head. “I’m Beth. My friends and I all love your blog. It saves me from killing myself at work every day,” she said as she turned back to our booth.

  “Thanks,” I said, wondering if they’d yet heard I wouldn’t soon be teaching Public Speaking 101.

  “We came to hear you speak tonight, the event you talked about on your blog, but the address you posted was for the grocery store down the street,” Beth said as her brunette friend joined her.

  Suddenly I realized just how handy typos can be. Huzzah!

  “Oh no!” I said as I clapped my hand on the table. “So that’s why no one was there!” I turned toward Julie, who shook her head.

  “Fucking unbelievable,” Julie muttered.

  “You didn’t miss much,” I said to Beth and her friend. I gestured toward the red wine stain. “Seriously.”

  Despite feeling guilty about the address typo, I praised the heavens for my Get Out of Jail Free Thanks to Poor Proofreading Skills card.

  “Sit,” Julie said, and waved her hand around the booth.

  “No thanks, we’re just about to leave. This is Heidi,” Beth said. She pointed to her brunette friend.

  “I loved your recent entry on who you would cast in a remake of St. Elmo’s Fire. Colin Farrell in the Rob Lowe role would be perfect,” Heidi said.

  “I think so, too,” Julie chimed in.

  “And I love the entries about your cat Butterscotch. Is he still gay?” Heidi asked.

  “I think so. He’s obsessed with the new season of Project Runway. He purrs every time it’s on,” I said, and shrugged. Last year, my cat declared his sexuality when he became obsessed with frilly pink Barbie clothes and anything with sequins or faux fur. As much as we’ve tried otherwise, he also prefers his hot pink collar with “Princess” spelled out in rhinestones.

  “Do you guys want a tequila shot?” Beth asked.

  “No, that’s—,” I started to say.

  “Love one, thanks!” Julie interrupted, and Beth signaled to the bartender, who began pouring the amber-colored liquid of death into shot glasses.

  After Beth and Heidi left to go to another bar, Julie pursed her lips and folded her hands on the table. “So, did I tell you I think I’m finally ready to have a boyfriend?”

  I paused, my drink frozen in midair. “What?”

  She nodded. “Yep. I think I want a boyfriend.” She said it as though a guy would magically appear next to her if she sounded firm enough.

  “You?” It came out way harsher than I thought. “I mean—”

  She waved her arm around. “I know what you meant. And yes. Me. But just a boyfriend though, those kid things sound like a lot of work.”

  “Er, great.” I took a sip of my drink and set it down. “Anyone in particular?”

  “Mark.” She saw my head start to vehemently shake. “Calm down. I was kidding. No, there’s no one in particular. I’ll keep you posted if there is.”

  “Well, here’s to hot men,” I said, and lifted my drink in the air as a passing guy flashed me a thumbs-up.

  “Not you. You’re not hot,” Julie muttered at Thumbs-Up Guy. We clinked glasses and set the barware down. “So, are you ready to leave?”

  “Sure, where are we going?” I grabbed my purse and straightened my wine-stained clothes.

  “There’s a drag show down the street. One of my coworkers told me it’s hysterical.” She stood up, adjusted her outfit, and fluffed her hair. “Move,” she ordered a group of college students drinking Miller Lite in front of us.

  I laughed and shook my head. “Sounds great.”

  And it was, although after a while all of the drag queens all ran together in a mix of platform heels, eyeliner, and glittery hairspray. At the end, Julie got onstage and sang a rendition of “Hot Child, Summer in the City” while I clapped along and cheered from the audience.

  At four in the morning I posted this on my blog: Yeahiosyu!!!!!

  When I finally got the courage this morning to open my eyes in Julie’s apartment, I looked over at Julie on the couch, sleeping in her skirt, boots, and a T-shirt, and poked her. “Are you dead?” I whispered, my voice sounding like an eighty-year-old woman.

  “I hope so,” she croaked.

  “Why did we stay out so late? More important, why did I think I could party like I used to?” I moaned and threw my blanket over my head, which only caused immediate feelings of suffocation, so I flung it off and panted.

  “No shit, Mom,” Julie mumbled.

  “This is why I don’t go out anymore. So I can be in bed by eight and wake up not feeling like a corpse,” I moaned.

  “Sounds thrilling. You guys get the Early Bird Special at Denny’s, too?” Julie croaked.

  I rolled over and saw my wallet lying next to me on the floor. “I didn’t order anything off the Home Shopping Network, did I?” I whispered to Julie, terrified. I’ve been known to decide I need hideous jewelry and animal-print lampshades after a couple glasses of wine. This is why I will never move to Las Vegas—twenty-four-hour stores with nothing but sequins and faux fur. Apparently, I have the taste of a mobster’s girlfriend when drinking. Or my cat.

  “I don’t think so, but I guess you’ll just have to wait two weeks and see if any packages arrive.”

  “Jake will kill me if I ordered something after a few drinks again.” I threw my hands up and covered my face.

  “Yeah, what was it you ordered after that one New Year’s Eve when you did all those car bombs?” Julie laughed.

  “A zebra-print sheet set complete with matching duvet,” I mumbled into my fingers.

  Despite my raging headache, I couldn’t throw myself in my car fast enough to race home to see Sara. I walked in the door, immediately scooped her up out of her cradle swing, and kissed every inch of her head. She looked up at me and narrowed her eyes as if to say, Dude, you stink. What the hell did you do last night, Mom? Jake actually did say something of the sort.

  Later, I logged onto my blog to read my drunken posting. I cringed at the incoherent words and braced myself as I scrolled down to read the comments. Most were supportive, offering hangover remedies, but jen2485 posted: Clare, u r a drunk. How can u drink when you have a baby? What if u were drunk and dropped your precious Sara? U r a bad parent.

  Thanks. Just what I needed to see. I was cheered by wifey1025, though, who asked if I wanted her to come over and take care of me during my hangover (and no doubt tie me up and throw me in the trunk of her car). Wifey1025 is by far my favorite Internet stalker. She’s always quick with the wit and creative with her kidnapping methods.

  Tuesday, March 25

  Despite the lingering aftereffects of Saturday night, I made sure my shoes matched this morning and my Miss Piggy pants were free of baby vomit. I had a meeting with Greg and wanted to present myself as the professional and pulled-together woman I usually project, rather than how I looked last time: Clare Finnegan—Blind Date contestant.

  I didn’t even get the chance to turn on my computer before Mule Face appeared at my door this morning. She stood there silently, tapping her foot and shaking her head.

  “What?” I finally asked after ignoring her didn’t make her go the fuck away.

  “Someone had a good time on Saturday night,” she said, and smiled.

  “Oh yeah. I had fun.” I didn’t look up at her while pretending to organize blank paper on my desk.

  “You know, your posts have really gone downhill lately.” She stepped into my office and sat down.

  I stared at my phone and tried to will it to ring.

  “Two days ago you posted an entry about how you don’t like Precious Moments figurines. I mean, who DOESN’T love Precious Moments? You really missed the mark with that one. Then, you posted about some drag queens. You know what you should really write about?”


  I opened my file cabinet and began randomly picking up folders.

  “You should really write about the show Touched by an Angel. You could start a mass Internet campaign for the show to come back on the air!”

  I bent down and scratched my ankle.

  She sat and stared at me for a minute and finally got the hint and stood up when I didn’t make eye contact. “Just an idea!” she said. She turned to leave and stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot! Here!” She dropped a mail-order cosmetics catalog on my desk. “We have some great new stretch mark cream, if you’re interested.”

  “Still not interested,” I said, and pushed it back to her.

  “The commission would really help me buy this litter box furniture for my cat. You see, it looks like a regular houseplant, but it is really a litter box.” Mule Face pushed the catalog back toward me a bit, nearly knocking over my penholder.

  “I repeat: Not. Interested.” I remained very still and stared at her, like we were in a gunslinging duel. I learned this was the best way to deal with door-to-door salesmen, telemarketers, and Mule Face pushing her mail-order cosmetics line. I should know, she’s been at it for two years and I’ve remained victorious. (Good thing she’s not with me after I have a few drinks, because I would so buy the rhinestone-encrusted blush compact.)

  She caved first. “Cranky, cranky!” she said in a singsong voice as she left.

  Around noon, Greg arrived for our meeting. I smoothed my hair back and took a deep breath before I walked into the conference room.

  “Hey there,” I said warmly as I clutched my leather portfolio to my chest.

  “Hi, how are you?” Greg said, and stood up.

  “I’m good.” I stuck out my hand.

  Greg looked confused for a moment at the gesture but returned the handshake. “Good.”

  I nodded and offered him a chair.

  We sat down and I opened my folder. “So, I’ve been looking over the event specifics and everything looks pretty straightforward. We’ll be handling the invitations, registration, golf shirts, printed golf balls, foursome groupings, the lunch, and running everything on the day of. Right?” I looked up at him.

  “If you say so. Listen, I just got roped into this and I really have no idea what I’m doing.”