And I miss those damn boxers.
Now it’s Saturday night, and I’m ready to burst, and thinking about my next move. Liam and I have met up with Jenn, Andy, Kate, and Dawn in the basement of a Mexican restaurant in Silverlake, ready to see “Chico’s Angels,” an episode of Charlie’s Angels performed by a group of Latin drag queens who have turned it into a musical.
It’s sentences like that that make me glad I live in Los Angeles.
The five of us girls have settled into our seats, and Liam has gone to get us drinks.
Which means I only have a few more moments to talk.
Which means I need to have everyone give me advice quickly.
“Okay, Kate, you’re first. Why no?”
“Because you think you’re just going to have a lovely one-night stand. And then nine years later, there he is, causing you to accidentally sleep with him and mess up your wedding plans.”
Dawn shakes her head. “I disagree with you on two counts,” she says to Kate. “First of all, Charlie already knows he’s a dog. She just needs to satisfy her libido.” Dawn turns to me. “Flip ’em over. Turn ’im out.”
“Word,” Jenn says jokingly.
“Stop that,” Dawn tells her sternly.
“All right. I’m leaning toward Dawn’s argument. Andy: your rebuttal.”
“Wait,” Kate says to me, then turns to Dawn. “What was the other thing you disagree with me about?”
“You accidentally hit your car. You don’t accidentally sleep with someone,” Dawn says.
“Treat him like a cold,” Andy says. “Don’t touch his hands, lips, or any part of his anatomy, and you won’t get infected. Seriously, think about how many women he’s been with. You don’t want him bringing anything home to Mama.”
“Home to Mama?!” Dawn says. “When did all you white folks start trying to sound like you got street cred?”
Jenn shakes her head at Andy. “Oh, now see, I completely disagree. I have a total married crush on Liam. I think she should go for it.”
“He’s totally out of her league,” Andy points out with a snap in her voice.
“Women go out with men who are out of their league all the time. Look at Rob and me,” Jenn counters.
“Wait a minute,” I say, ignoring the obvious barb from my sister to stare at my very pregnant cousin. “You have a crush on Liam?” I ask, trying not to sound shocked.
“No,” Jenn says with a don’t-be-such-a-silly tone in her voice. “I have a married crush on Liam. It’s not a crush—I’m almost nine months pregnant, a crush would be beyond delusional—it’s a married crush.”
“I see,” I say, confused about the semantics. “So what exactly is a married crush?”
“A married crush is when you think the person is amazing, and you wish you had met them ten years ago, when you were both single, but who you don’t have a real crush on, because you’re married and you’re with the person you’re supposed to be with, so you’ve stopped having crushes.”
“So you’re saying if you had met Liam ten years ago, you would have dated him?” I ask, sort of surprised that my happily married cousin could ever have carnal thoughts about another man.
“Of course not, he would have been totally out of my league,” she self-deprecates. “That’s the other advantage of married crushes. I could flirt with Justin Timberlake and happily think to myself, ‘Oh, if only I’d met him ten years ago, I could totally get him into my bed tonight.’ ”
I squint my eyes together. “Justin Timberlake was a teenager ten years ago. . . .”
“Now you’re missing the bigger picture.”
Fair enough. Fascinated, I continue my line of questioning. “But if you had dated Liam, wouldn’t that mean you wouldn’t have ended up with Rob?”
“No. Rob’s my soul mate. Liam would have been a fun diversion, though. I mean, you should totally tap that if you get the opportunity.”
Andy and I stare at her. “I’m sorry,” Andy says dryly. “Did you just say ‘tap that’?”
Jenn nods her head. “I’m trying to sound more hip. Wanted to know how it sounded when I said it aloud.” She looks at us. “No, right?”
I widen my eyes and shake my head no vigorously.
Liam suddenly appears with a tray of multicolored margaritas. “Okay, we’ve got a virgin strawberry for Jenn; a plain margarita, double tequila, for Dawn; a regular strawberry margarita for Kate; peach margarita for Charlie; and a water for Andy.”
“Why didn’t you get me a glass of wine?” Kate asks.
Liam visibly winces. “At the risk of being a cad, I thought we’d go a different way. A magnum is the perfect size for champagne, but not for three dollar bottles of red.”
“A man after my own heart,” Dawn says, taking her drink.
“Oh shit!” Kate says, seeing someone, then covering her face and scrunching into our group to hide. “Jack is here!”
Naturally, everyone but Liam cranes their necks to look and ask, “Where?”
“Don’t look!” Kate commands.
Kate’s command is blocked with, “Yeah, right.” / “Oh, he looks good.” / “Not gonna happen my friend.”
Liam stands in front of Kate to block her from Jack’s view. “Who is Jack, and why are we avoiding him?” he whispers.
“My ex.” / “The love of her life.” / “The guy who’s going to blow up her wedding.”
At this, Jack pops his head over Liam’s shoulder. “Kate?” he says happily. “What are you doing here?”
Kate stands up. “What am I doing here? I told you I was going to a girl’s night. . . .” She pushes past Liam to get to Jack. “What are you doing here?”
Jack shrugs innocently. “It’s a Saturday night. I thought I’d take in a show.”
“A drag show?” Kate asks him suspiciously.
“I’m trying to see more off-Broadway stuff.”
“Oh my God! What did you think was going to happen? That we’d just run into each other, and sleep together again?” Kate says angrily as Jack puts his arm around her waist. “This relationship is over. It’s not working. I’m getting married. . . .”
And, without the slightest hesitation, Jack kisses her. Kate kisses back, but keeps talking. “Seriously, the wedding is in December. And we have to just make a clean break of this.”
“You’re right,” Jack says confidently. “Let’s go have a drink upstairs, and we’ll talk.”
Kate turns to us, and actually seems to believe her own words as she whispers, “I’m just going to have one drink, and break up. And then I’ll be right back.”
We all wave and say good-bye, and she’s gone.
Liam, still standing, observes the entire scene without commenting. Finally, he turns to us and asks, “Is she coming back?”
“No,” we all say in bored unison.
“But isn’t she getting married?” he asks.
“No,” we all answer.
Dawn puts out her hand to Liam. “Sweetie, I’ll take her drink.”
The lights dim, and Liam takes a seat next to me. Liam smiles at me, and I smile back.
Ohhhh . . . I hate that I like him so much. Why can’t he be overweight? Or balding? Or a lawyer or something?
Two male actresses come onto the stage, pretending to be prostitutes. One is wearing a pink frilly penoir set. My mind wanders to whether or not Liam likes that look in lingerie. Perhaps he would prefer the bright red matching bra and panties worn by the other drag queen. Perhaps if I wore something like that one evening, walking around in my own house as though this is what I’m most comfortable wearing, I’ll bet I could get him to think—
“Oh shit, I’m sopping wet.”
I turn to Jenn, who instinctively crosses her legs, and throws her sweater over her lap.
I look over, startled. “What?” I whisper.
“My Goddamn water broke,” Jenn whispers back. “I’m sopping wet. I gotta go to the hospital.”
Just then, the woman sitting in front of Je
nn jumps up from her seat. “Oh, my God! There’s some kind of flood!” she yells, trying to lift her Jimmy Choos off the floor, and looking like a fifties housewife afraid of a mouse.
Jenn struggles to stand up from her seat. “Sorry. That’s me. Just a little amniotic fluid. . . .”
A woman shrieks (or was that one of the drag queens?) as everyone in the front row jumps out of their seats, and away from the puddle of fluid forming on the concrete floor beneath them.
Drag queen Kelly, fully dressed up in seventies layered hair and a pantsuit, runs over to Jenn. “Baby, how are you feeling? Have you been having contractions?”
“Yeah,” Jenn says, sighing. “But they were almost ten minutes apart, and not so painful. I thought maybe they were just Braxton Hicks, and since this was my last night out for a while, I figured I’d see the show and then see how far—” Jenn doubles over in pain. “Aaaaaarrrrrrggggghhhhhh . . . Son of a . . .”
“You drove yourself to the theater when you were in labor?” Andy asks, incredulous.
Jenn starts her Lamaze breathing—Hee-hee-hee—as she glares at Andy. “Don’t give me that judgmental tone! It was my last night out for eighteen years.”
Hee-hee-hee . . .
Drag queen Kelly and I each take one of Jenn’s arms, and lead her out of the basement. “How far apart are they now, baby?” Kelly asks as we slowly walk up the steps.
“About six minutes.”
“First baby?” she asks.
“Third.”
Kelly looks past Jenn to me. “The third always comes quick. You need to get her to the hospital now.”
The next twenty minutes were a blur. I drove Jenn’s car (with her in it) to Cedars Sinai, Andy followed me in her car, and Liam followed me in my car. En route, Jenn used her cell to call her husband Rob. “Hi, it’s me,” she says into the phone softly. “I just wanted you to know that I’m . . .”
I can tell a contraction is hitting again, because Jenn lifts her butt off the passenger’s seat and winces. But she doesn’t make a noise, other than to take a deep breath. She keeps the phone to her ear, and acts like nothing is wrong. “I’m in labor.”
Jenn listens to an earful on her phone. “Well, neither of the boys came out until week forty-two. I just assumed this one would also be yanked out late. . . .” Jenn takes a deep breath. “Okay, dear. You were right. I was wrong. Meanwhile, I think it would be prudent for you to get on the next flight available so that you can see your daughter being born. . . .”
Jenn is silent again as Rob continues to talk on the phone. Finally, she says, with preternatural calm, “Charlie is with me, she’ll relieve the babysitter once you get here. Meanwhile, I need you to quit panicking, and get on a plane.” And then Jenn’s voice suddenly harshens. “Rob. I’m in labor. This is not the time to be fucking with me. I’m a urologist. I know how to make bad things happen to men.” She smiles. “Good. I’ll see you then.”
And she hangs up.
“Rob’s in San Francisco this weekend, isn’t he?” I ask wearily.
“Yes. And I told him to go because neither of the boys ever came out on time. I made a mistake, but he’ll be here in time. Meanwhile, would you speed it up a little? I would like to get the epidural in the parking lot on the way in.”
The next hour flew by. Andy and Liam were right behind us, and we all stayed with Jenn while she got checked in, weighed, moved to a room, and, most important, given her epidural.
“Oh, that feels so much better,” Jenn says from her hospital bed once the epidural had totally kicked in. “I’m telling you, Dr. John Bonica should be sainted.”
“Who?” I ask.
“The guy who invented the epidural. Oh, wow. Look at the screen,” Jenn says cheerfully. “I’m having another contraction.”
I turn to see the screen line rapidly climbing, which I guess indicates a contraction. Jenn isn’t in the least bit of pain. It makes me wonder why my mother always talks about how many hours she was in excruciating labor. Looks to me like all you do is sit in your bed, and eat Popsicles.
Andy takes Jenn’s hand. “Can I get you anything?” she asks, her voice dripping with concern.
“Another orange Popsicle would be great,” Jenn says cheerfully. “They’re in the refrigerator to the left of the nursing station.” As Andy leaves, Jenn turns to us. “I’m out of pain, I’m only five centimeters dilated.” She puts her hands up behind her head. “Ah . . . what could be more relaxing than this?”
“Mommy!” Alex, Jenn’s four-year-old, yells as he and his three-year-old brother Sean tear into the hospital room.
“Don’t get near Mommy!” Jenn yells. “Mommy has a big needle in her back, and if you get near it, Mommy will be very, very angry.”
“Darling!” my aunt Julia says, suddenly appearing behind the boys.
“Mom!” Jenn says, bolting upright in her bed. “What are you doing here?”
“Preparing to revel in the wonder of childbirth,” Aunt Julia says cheerfully, placing an iPod and a speaker system onto Jenn’s nightstand. “I was reading all about how important it is psychologically for the baby to hear the laughter of family members as she emerges.”
Julia turns on the iPod to play the sounds of Enya just as Alex finds the hospital remote, points it at the TV, turns it on, then immediately changes the station to Cartoon Network.
“Alex, what did Mommy say about you using electronic devices before me?” Jenn asks him sternly.
“That I’m smarter, and I always figure them out first,” Alex answers without turning his head away from the TV.
“And that you’re the dumbest one in your own house because you can’t set the clock on the VCR,” Sean adds as he tries to climb into the bed with Jenn.
“Honey, there’s a tube here, and if you knock it out—”
Andy walks in, not yet noticing the chaos of the room. “They didn’t have orange Popsicles, so I got you a grape.”
“Popsicles!” Sean yells, turning to his mother, and giving her the most cherubic look ever. “Please Mommy, can I have a treat?”
“Honey, I love you, but you need to get off the bed,” Jenn says urgently. “Mom, why aren’t they with the babysitter?”
“Rob called to tell me you were in labor, and needed me to relieve her. I just assumed you wanted me to come here with the boys.” Julia puts her hand over her heart, and nearly cries, “My baby’s having a baby.”
And we hear machine gunfire from the TV.
Jenn kicks into Mommy gear, and gets her take-charge voice on. “Alex, turn off the TV. Sean, yes, you may have a treat, but only if you get off this bed right now. Mom, the boys should be in bed asleep. They can meet their new sister in the morning after all the blood and poop are cleaned up.”
“There’s poop?” Andy asks, shocked.
Jenn points to her. “I’ll give you a book to read. Meanwhile, everybody out.”
“I’m not leaving my daughter here by herself,” Julia insists.
“I’m not by myself, Mother,” Jenn quips. “There are nurses all over the floor.”
“But what about having the whole village here to experience the wonder of the new generation?”
“Mom, to be blunt, I have a rule about childbirth: unless you were there for the conception, you can’t be here for the birth. Which technically means only Sean can be here, and he needs to go home and go to sleep. So, as much as I love you all, you need to go.”
Thirty
Motherhood is a thankless job.
“Bown-chicka-wow-wow,” I hear from the backseat of my car.
Nineteen seventies porn music. Swell. I turn around to look at Alex in his booster seat in the back. “Where did you hear that?”
“Daddy and I heard it in a movie this week,” Alex tells me. “Bown-chicka-wow-wow.”
Before I can look too horrified, Liam enlightens me from the driver’s seat, “It’s from the Alvin and the Chipmunks movie a few years ago.” He cheerfully yells back to the boys, “Who wants ice cre
am?”
“Me!” they both yell excitedly.
“Um . . . I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Jenn said to take them straight home, and put them to bed.”
“So that’s one ‘no’ ”—Liam says, pretending to count—“and three ‘yes’es.”
The boys cheer loudly in the backseat. I shrug. “Okay, but let’s make it quick.”
Liam drives us to a Cold Stone Creamery near the hospital. The moment we are within running distance, the boys take off for inside the store. I quickly follow them. When I open the door, they are pressed against the glass case of ice cream, and talking at about a decibel 10. “I want the blue one with sprinkles on top!” Alex yells.
“Alex, keep your voice down,” I say nervously. “You don’t want to bother the other customers.”
“I want chocolate!” Sean yells, flapping his arms up and down excitedly. “With M&Ms mixed in.”
“Ssh,” I admonish. “Guys, seriously.”
“I don’t want my sprinkles mixed in!” Alex tells Liam and me urgently. “I want them on top!”
“But I don’t want mine on top!” Sean insists to us with equal intensity. “I want mine mixed in!”
“Okay,” I whisper. “But everyone needs to take it down a notch. Inside voices. There are grown-ups we don’t know here.”
Liam laughs. “Honey, if the other customers are bothered by kids getting excited, they should be in a bar, not an ice-cream store. What are you having?”
“Do they have anything with Marlboros mixed in?” I mutter to him.
Liam laughs. Rubs my back. “Large Sweet Cream with Oreos, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, surprised.
When did I order that in his presence? And how the hell did he remember it?
When picking a man, the man who automatically orders you the large ice cream is the keeper.
We order our ice creams (Liam gets all of us larges) and take our ice cream to a little table outside. As the boys dig into their ice cream, Liam asks them, “So, do you go to school?”
Misery Loves Cabernet Page 26
