Not Ready for Mom Jeans

by Maureen Lipinski

  Friday, July 4

  The sadness is still almost a solid shell around me, but I’m not going to write about it, much like not believing in Tinkerbell will make fairies disappear.

  I instead choose to focus on the wonderful distractions of America’s Favorite Holiday.

  Jake and I took Sara to see fireworks tonight. After our experience, I can’t help but wonder: is Fourth of July the National Act Trashy Holiday?

  Is there a blast e-mail that goes out on July 3 reminding these people to launder their best wifebeater T-shirts, dust off their beanbag sets, and ice down the Milwaukee’s Best? Oh, and don’t forget your Confederate flag blanket!

  I guess it makes sense.

  Fireworks can be cool, but Question: why can’t people just be satisfied with like a sparkler or smoke bomb or something?

  Answer: because a smoke bomb or sparkler doesn’t involve risking one’s extremities.

  Why do people spend like a thousand bucks on fireworks that last for ten minutes? And they’re usually the kind of people who probably don’t have a thousand bucks to spend. I mean, it’s literally like burning your money. I should just offer to take these people’s money, light some newspaper on fire, and throw it on the ground and they’d be just as mesmerized.

  Also, the Fourth of July allows people to bring blankets and lie on them in grassy areas in the dark. Which, to teenagers, translates to a public acceptance of lying on top of one another while barely dressed, blankets only slightly covering God-knows-what their hands are doing.

  We had a group of sexually active teens on a blanket next to us. As Jake and I set our blanket down on the grass, I poked him in the ribs. “They’re emptying out their pop cans and filling them with cheap gin.”

  Jake shrugged and said, “You probably did the same thing in high school.”

  “True,” I said as I sat down and started getting Sara comfortable. I started to feed her a few spoonfuls of rice cereal when I poked Jake again as he was typing an e-mail on his BlackBerry. “They’re smoking weed now!”

  “This weed rocks!” said the girl with the lip ring and dragon tattoo on her lower back.

  “I know!” said the pregnant teenager, alternating between smoking tobacco and dope.

  “Just ignore them,” Jake said as he turned Sara away from the live version of the Jerry Springer Show.

  I looked down and Sara was craning her neck at them, her “Mr. Burns from The Simpsons” expression on her face. Her eyebrows were pulled way down in a sinister fashion and she drummed her fingers together underneath her chin.

  I didn’t think I’d have to talk to her about premarital sex so soon.

  Thankfully, the fireworks display started quickly and Sara was mesmerized by the blue, white, and red hues exploding in the sky. I thought we had suffered the worst until one of the hillbillies loudly asked, “If they can make fireworks in the shape of stars and circles and stuff, why can’t they make them in the shape of something cool? You know, like a dog or a naked chick or something?”

  Very philosophical question, indeed.

  “Do you think they’re related to Julie?” Jake asked with a smirk. I gave him looks of Death and threw a glow stick at him.

  “I’d rather be related to those people than your mother,” I said with a laugh.

  Slam dunk, Clare!

  Then, I nearly had a heart attack when I saw Greg off in the distance with some friends. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised to see him, as this fireworks show was the most popular in the city. But still. It was a bit jarring.

  Dressed in pressed khaki shorts and collared polo shirts, Greg, Nate, and Ethan stood around a picnic table covered in appetizers, bottles of wine, and champagne flutes. Tanned, fit, and well-rested, the crowd of friends around Greg raised their wineglasses and cheered.

  Surrounded by Milwaukee’s Best cans and wifebeater tank tops, I was very aware that my section so would not have been offered lifeboats on the Titanic. We were most definitely in steerage.

  And that tiny longing came back. To be over there, sans child. Or to at least suck the eight hours of sleep right out of their heads.

  As the fireworks ended, Sara (with her infinite sense of timing) had a massive diaper explosion.

  “EW!” the hillbillies on the blanket next to us gagged.

  Yes, ew. And I wasn’t totally grossed out when the girl wearing a white wifebeater T-shirt with no bra underneath screeched, “LARRY! I TELLED YOU! YOU CAN ONLY STICK IT IN MY BUTT! I CAN’T HAVE NO MORE KIDS!”

  Jake and I thought the excitement for the night was over when we got home, but some of our neighbors in the next building over decided that 2:00 a.m. was a reasonably appropriate time to set off an additional fireworks display, complete with drunken yelling.

  After Sara woke up and started screaming, I made Jake go outside and talk to them.

  According to him, it went something like this:

  Jake: Hi, guys, sorry to be a drag, but could you guys please stop it? It’s two a.m. and my six-month-old just woke up.

  Drunk Guy with Two Missing Teeth: Almosht done, go-in to bed now.

  Drunk Girl with Bad Spiral Perm: FUCK HIM! WE AIN’T DONE YET!

  Jake: Great, thanks.

  I wanted to call the police but concurred with Jake’s reasoning that being toothless and having a bad perm is punishment enough.

  Monday, July 7

  My very savvy readers overwhelmingly agreed with my assessment of Fourth of July as National Blow Off Your Hillbilly Hand Day. A few even posted similar stories, like CKLady, whose white-trash neighbor blew his hand off with an M-80 last year and his wife drove him to the hospital only after she and her friends set off the rest of the fireworks. Since the fireworks were illegal and they had paid good money for them and didn’t want them to go to waste, obviously.

  Jen2485, not surprisingly, wrote: U r so judgmental. there is nothing wrong with having an American flag decal on your car. R u not proud to be an American? Guess not since u don’t like 4th of July. U shuld just join the Taliban. Operation Enduring Freedom Rulez!

  I almost wrote her and said, U R an idiot. Love ya!

  But no amount of sarcasm can change my reality or extinguish the gloominess that’s beginning to form around me again.

  I just got off the phone with my mom.

  She sounds awful. Weak, tired, dazed. Sick. She sounds sick.

  Because she is.

  Friday, July 18

  Saving me from another evening of sobbing into a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and throwing DVD cases at the wall, Jake offered an idea tonight that brightened my mood.

  “Clare, come in here,” he called from our bedroom earlier tonight.

  “Wha?” I said, distracted.

  “Just come here,” he said, his voice raising.

  “Shhhhhh. You’ll wake up Sara,” I hissed.

  “Please come in here,” he said again.

  “Fine,” I said, and sighed loudly. I shuffled into the bedroom and put my hands on my hips. “What is so important? I’ll have you know that you just tore me away from Deep Impact.”

  He looked up from the laptop and squinted his eyes. “The asteroid movie?”

  “Correction: comet movie. Elijah Wood was just about to outrun the fiery wall of destruction on his ten-speed.”

  “Oh jeez, so-ory. Didn’t mean to make you miss that. What’s next? Showgirls?”

  I started to sit down on the bed but froze mid-squat. “Showgirls is a good movie.”

  “Seriously. Did you seriously just say that?” he said, and covered his eyes with his hand.

  “Give Elizabeth Berkley a break. It must’ve been hard to peak theatrically as a teenager on Saved by the Bell.” I flopped down next to him and hugged my pillow.

  “Fine. Jessie Spano aside, I thought only drag queens like Showgirls.”

  “OK, fine. You caught me. I’m secretly a gay man. Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

  “No, I wanted to show you this.” He swiveled our
laptop around on his lap and pointed to the screen.

  “Who’s buying a house?” I said as I studied the cute English Tudor with amazing cherry cabinets in the kitchen.

  “Well, I thought we might.”

  My adoration stopped. Cruel joke.

  “Jake. We can’t ever afford that house. You’re hilarious,” I said as I started to hoist myself up.

  He grabbed my wrist. “You don’t like it?”

  “I love it. Why are you torturing me by showing me houses we will never be able to afford?”

  “I think we might be able to afford something like this.” His finger tapped the computer screen.

  “Uh, OK,” I said, and rolled my eyes.

  “No, really. We might be able to do it, especially with my promotion. No matter—no matter what you end up deciding about work. Besides, we’ll have another kid at some …” He trailed off.

  My lips formed a thin smile. “Did you seriously just say another kid? Um, hi. Our daughter is like six months old. You’re thinking about another kid?”

  “Not tomorrow.” He shrugged.

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t even bring up the issue of having other kids.” The notion of another nine months of puking and then another three of zero sleep doesn’t exactly appeal to me right now.

  “OK, but what about the fact that we could have so much more space?”

  “I don’t know, it’s such a huge step. I mean, we’d have to pack up all our stuff, we’d have to find the right place, we’d have to—”

  “This one has a whirlpool tub,” he interrupted.

  “We should totally buy a house.”

  Monday, July 21

  Jake and I spent the weekend molesting our laptop while marveling over real estate. So, naturally, I planned on continuing the practice today.

  I stopped in the bathroom before I walked into my office this morning. As I stood at the sink, washing my hands, Mule Face trounced in, wearing what I’ve dubbed the “couch jacket” since it closely resembles the upholstery of my grandparents’ couch, and practically threw herself into a stall. Now, it’s embarrassing and uncomfortable enough to share a bathroom with coworkers. I always feel somewhat awkward when I see Christina in the bathroom, like it’s too personal or something. Of course, I had no problem regaling her with graphic details of Sara’s birth, but to be within twenty feet of her when I’m peeing? Awkward.

  Anyway, Mule Face is clearly sick today. Yes. It was not good. It was also not good when she started moaning and grunting. I mean, it’s bad enough that I had to be witness to her, um, issues, let alone with vocalization.

  I scurried out of the bathroom faster than Butterscotch to the gay pride parade.

  I regained my composure by drooling over real estate online. I quickly became bored with the houses we could actually afford and moved on to the houses we would never be able to afford unless Jake and I decide to peddle Internet porn. Of course, it was so much harder to go back to the “regular” houses after I’d seen houses with media rooms, lake views, and wine cellars.

  I didn’t have much time to dream about what I could afford with my porno empire, as I interviewed candidates for my assistant position this afternoon. Three interviews were scheduled, back-to-back. At first, I felt slightly guilty, as I wasn’t sure if I would choose to stay home with Sara in the near future and leave this assistant most likely working for Mule Face, but my cards are still firmly resting against my chest.

  The first candidate was a woman in her mid-fifties, a former stay-at-home mom who was looking to get back into the workforce. She seemed qualified for the position until she told me she’d have to leave by three o’clock every day to pick up her kids at school. Now, I’m a mom myself, but I no way expect my employer to let me off the hook a couple of hours early every day yet still pay me for full-time.

  The next was a recent college graduate, who continually interrupted me to ask ridiculous questions like, “Would I have to start right at eight thirty? Is that set in stone?” I took that to mean she would probably be hungover most days and not able to function until sometime after ten. Now, I was fresh out of college not too long ago, but I didn’t announce to my prospective employer I planned on getting trashed every night. I did, of course. I just didn’t tell them straight out. (I’m sure it was noted, though, since I spent a good part of Friday mornings chugging soda, wolfing down cheese and egg sandwiches, and running to the bathroom.)

  The final interview was a woman who seemed normal enough. She had a good résumé and excellent references. During the interview, I mentally hired her and she immediately organized my office, politely screened my calls, and became my new lunch buddy. I opened my mouth to ask a question about her previous position when Mule Face appeared at my door, holding a stack of saltine crackers and clutching her stomach.

  “Ooohhh, I still don’t feel well,” she said, and crammed three crackers into her mouth.

  “Er, uh, sorry to hear that,” I said, and shifted in my chair. “Annie, I’d like you to meet—”

  “Annie! Hi!” candidate number three said.

  “Oh my God! I had no idea you were interviewing for this position!” Mule Face turned to me. “We worked together about three years ago.” She turned back to Number Three and whispered, “You don’t want to work with Clare, she’s a drag.” Mule Face turned to me. “Kidding!”

  Kidding or not, I knew there was no way I was going to hire a personal friend of Mule Face. I can just picture their daily lunch sessions where they’d draw mean pictures of me and try to tape kick me signs on my back.

  “How’s Big D?” Number Three asked.

  “Oh, you know, the same. He’s been out of work now for a few months after his company got bought out, so I’ve really had to make up the extra money with my mail-order cosmetics.”

  “You must love having a cosmetics consultant in your office!” Number Three said, turning to me.

  “Clare? Not a chance! She’s never bought anything from me. I don’t know why, my cosmetics are amazing!”

  Yes. The oozing, scabby rash on your face was truly amazing, I thought.

  “You have to try our new sea kelp facial toner. It gets rid of all those fine lines!”

  Mule Face and Number Three chatted for another ten minutes until interrupted by my cell phone.

  I pulled my phone out of my bag and saw the number was Sara’s day-care. “Excuse me, I have to take this,” I said as I flipped my phone open. Mule Face and number three watched as my mouth dropped open and I hastily stood up after I closed my phone.

  “I have to leave. There’s an emergency at my daughter’s day-care!” I said as I shoved my planner into my bag and shut down my computer.

  “Is everything OK?” Mule Face asked.

  “Yes! Yes! I just have to go pick her up because … er … because.” I finished my sentence and ran out the door. I chose not to tell them that Sara’s day care had requested I pick her up because some kid bit her and she was hysterical.

  As I drove to pick up Sara, I kept calm about my assistant prospects by reasoning that I had another few weeks to find a candidate until I got an e-mail just now from Christina. She said I needed to hire someone as soon as possible thanks to our budget. And she didn’t seem too thrilled that I had to leave in the middle of the day just because some obnoxious kid went all T. rex on my daughter.

  So, great.

  Thursday, July 31

  Sky?

  Any candidates you’d like to drop upon me? Please?

  Because, if God listens to my repeated prayers, I’m going to be busier than the prophylactic vending machine during a porn convention. Since I think I’ve found my next client.

  Today, I met Julie at a wine bar in the city after work. Jake picked up Sara up from day-care and gave me a reprieve.

  I got there first, as Julie got hung up at the hospital due to a packed ER. The place was filled with stereotypical businessmen in pinstripe suits, Lincoln Park Trixies looking to pick up one of the afor
ementioned businessmen, and groups of drunken coworkers loudly bashing their bosses. After I had been standing awhile with my wine, two blondes fell off their bar stools and I was able to snag them since the blondes were too drunk to notice they were on the floor.

  I settled in and played with a cocktail napkin until I heard, “Sorry, I’m so late. Sorry!”

  I whirled around on my bar stool. “I’ve been waiting forever. I wasn’t sure if you were going to show.”

  Julie was still dressed in her hospital scrubs. Pale blue V-neck top with lavender and yellow swirls all over it, drawstring pants, and bright yellow Crocs. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Next drink’s on me.” Julie waved at the bartender and pointed to my drink. “Same,” she yelled across the bar. “So, what’s going on?” she said.

  “Nothing, but I think your outfit is attracting some attention,” I said, and pointed to a group of perfectly coiffed, anorexic-thin, bitchy women now staring at us.

  Julie looked down at her hospital scrubs and rolled her eyes. “Grow up! This isn’t high school,” she called over to the Sex and the City fembots. They quickly looked away, concentrating on catching the interest of the wasted businessmen at the next table.

  “Nice,” I said. “I think you look good. You could be the hot new nurse on ER who isn’t afraid to keep everyone in line.”

  “Always. God, this wine is good,” she said as she took a long sip.

  “Work busy?”

  “It’s a full moon tonight, which translates to a packed ER and exhausted Julie.”

  “I thought that was always just a myth.”

  “Nope. We get packed and the psych ward goes crazy. Pun intended. Labor and Delivery always gets slammed, too.”

  “Yeah, well, thank God it’s someone else in Labor and Delivery.”

  “You had the easiest delivery ever, get over it,” she said. “So anything new with Gregory?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. Haven’t talked to him since the kickoff. But I’m meeting with him again soon.”

  Julie rolled her eyes. “Have fun.” She paused and her expression changed. She narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re not thinking of …” She trailed off.