A Bump in the Road

by Maureen Lipinski

  We jumped up and cheered and Sam let out a snort. “What is wrong with you people? Hel-lo, that cat has serious problems. He is so freaking annoying. Aren’t you like totally embarrassed to be associated with him?” she said, turning to me.

  “Not really. I’ve been associated with you for seventeen years. I’ll get used to it.”

  “You’re such a loser. Just like your cat,” she said, and stomped off, wrenching the boa from Butterscotch, who looked confused that his latest present wasn’t gratefully accepted.

  I turned to Jake, who looked positively thrilled.

  “This. Is. So. Awesome. That cat can stay,” he said.

  1:00 A.M.

  Finally, back at our apartment, gay cat and all, I opened my computer and checked my blog’s comments. I yelled to Jake in the bedroom, “Wifey1025 offered to drive you to work tomorrow if your car isn’t fixed yet.”

  “Thanks. Tell her I prefer to get hacked into little pieces next week instead of this week.”

  “Will do,” I told him as I walked into the bedroom. I jumped into our fluffy marshmallow bed and snuggled underneath the comforter. “How great does it feel to get in bed?” I asked him, my face buried in a pillow.

  “Pretty damn good,” he said, and stretched his arms over his head.

  “I know, but Jake?” I poked him in his ribs.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m kinda hungry again,” I said, and smiled at him.

  “Jesus, we just ate a few hours ago.” He flipped on the television.

  “I know, but it’s the hangover. I’ve gone from extreme nausea to ravenous hunger pains. My body is finally ready to accept food. There’s all that leftover pizza my mom gave us.”

  “OK, fine,” he said as he casually turned off the television. He slowly sat up in bed. “The deep-dish slices are mine!” he yelled as he scrambled out of bed and nearly trucked over Butterscotch lying in the doorjamb.

  “NOT COOL!” I yelled as I chased after him.

  He got to the kitchen first and yanked out the pizza box so forcefully the leftover slices slid out onto the floor.

  “Nice going,” I laughed.

  He looked at me and shrugged. “Ten-second rule?”

  We both paused and smirked at each other before diving onto the floor and trying to salvage the slices not covered in cat hair. We leaned against the kitchen cabinets and silently munched on the cold pizza.

  “Leftover pizza is nothing short of amazing,” I mumbled as I wiped pizza sauce off my mouth.

  “I’ll show you amazing.” Jake smiled wickedly at me as he took the pizza crust from my hand.

  “Kitchen floor? I don’t think so. When’s the last time we actually cleaned this thing? Actually, have we ever cleaned this floor?” I said as I tried to grab the crust back.

  “Probably not. Who cares? Let’s have fun.”

  “Well . . . what the hell,” I said, and allowed him to pull me closer.

  We didn’t get back to bed until almost two in the morning. I’m sure I’ll be exhausted tomorrow and find cat hair and dust in some very interesting places, but as Jake said, “Who cares?” We haven’t even been married a year—we’re still newlyweds. We can have sex on the kitchen floor until the crack of dawn while eating leftovers, right? By my calculations we only have a few more years to do things like that, so we might as well take advantage.

  Monday, April 23

  As I feared, getting out of bed this morning was quite difficult. Newlyweds or not, four hours of sleep after a weekend in Vegas isn’t a good idea. I slunk into Signature Events forty-five minutes late due to a steaming-cup-of-coffee/new-white-blouse debacle. Apparently, even though I have the high and mighty title of Event Director and regularly plan black-tie events with healthy six-figure budgets, I still have difficulty getting out the door without spilling something on myself.

  I kept my head down as I tiptoed into my office, careful not to make my keys jangle as I set them in my purse. I threw off my coat and shoved it under my desk; no time to walk over to the coat rack and hang it up.

  I sat down at my desk and Mule Face immediately walked in. I looked up with my best I have been here for an hour already, can I help you? smile.

  “Don’t worry. Christina’s not here yet,” Mule Face said, licking strawberry Pop-Tart frosting off her chubby index finger.

  “Oh, um, er, OK.” I stared at her, waiting for whatever bomb she obviously had in her arsenal.

  She took another bite of her Pop-Tart and the whole thing crumbled and fell to the floor. “Damn it!” She looked down and shrugged her shoulders at the pastry and jam mess sprinkling the carpet of my office. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you Carolyn Wittenberg came in on Friday when you were off.” She smiled, revealing the frighteningly large cosmetic veneers that inspired her moniker.

  So screwed. I knew it immediately. So, so screwed.

  “Carolyn? Really? I wonder what she wanted.”

  “She was wearing these fabulous shoes, but she came in with the bitchiest attitude, like usual. Anyhoo, she and Christina were talking so loud, I couldn’t help but hear them.”

  Right. I’m sure her coffee cup pressed against the door helped.

  “And?”

  “Carolyn said something about needing some extra help this year with their Women’s Board Gala since they have two new cochairs. I think she wants to hire us.” I saw a few strawberry seeds stuck between her front teeth.

  “What a shame. Don’t you usually assist with their events?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got Isabel Castle’s sweet sixteen party in two months. I’m swamped.” She continued to smile at me. “I wonder who Christina will assign?” She tapped her finger against her cheek.

  “I don’t know, Annie. I’m sure we’ll find out soon.” I turned away from her and started to type an e-mail, hoping she would leave and make someone else miserable.

  “Don’t worry. I doubt she’ll give it to you. It’s a huge project and she’ll want someone with well-developed attention to detail.”

  “What does—”

  “Just kidding!” She turned on her heel but stopped quickly. “I almost forgot. Here.” She shoved a Mary Kay catalog at me. “Our new spring line is fabulous.”

  “I’m sure it is, but I told you I’m pretty happy with the makeup I use.”

  “We all could use a little fine-tuning!”

  Yeah, especially her, the overweight hag whose ex-boyfriend was in jail for credit-card fraud.

  “You might be interested in our complexion-smoothing mask. It’s made out of pure cucumber extract with pomegranate seeds—wonderful for exfoliation. Just take a gander at it and let me know if there’s anything you’d like to order. Feel free to link to it on your blog.”

  “I’ll let you know,” I said, and threw the catalog on a corner of my desk. I swear, she should give up pushing makeup and sell drugs instead. She’d probably make more money, which would allow her to buy more sweaters with cats knitted on them.

  “You know, I didn’t enjoy your last blog entry. I think Reba is a really good show.”

  “Oh, well. It’s just my opinion. I’m sure a lot of people enjoy Reba.”

  “When are you going to write about work?”

  “I’ve already told you—never.”

  “Why not?”

  Hmmm . . . I wasn’t sure how to answer her question. I couldn’t really say, “Because there’s no way I could write about work without ranting about your Prince Valiant haircut.”

  So I said, “I try to keep my personal and professional lives separate,” in the same manner as Lindsay Lohan or Britney Spears whining about intrusive paparazzi.

  “Well, I think you should do a whole entry about how bitchy Isabel Castle’s mom is.”

  “Yeah, right. I’d like to keep my job, thanks.”

  “Well, maybe you should try coming in on time once in a while, then.” She smiled sweetly and lumbered off to raid the vending machine for Snickers.

  I hacked through my e-mai
ls by lunchtime—most of them were pointless ones people cc’d me on. One of the e-mails was from Reese, who sent me more pictures of Grace. I looked at them for the required ten seconds, sent back an e-mail proclaiming how cute they were, how we should get together for lunch soon, and then deleted the e-mail. I love Reese to death but I don’t need to see a virtual slideshow of pictures of her kid every other week. I mean, Grace is a cute kid and all, but I don’t need to see Grace at one month! Grace at two months! Grace at three months! Grace at Halloween! Grace with a flower next to her face!

  Jake and I wouldn’t have room for furniture if I framed all of the pictures Reese gives me.

  Christina finally came in around lunchtime. She breezed past my office, juggling her cell phone and a new Prada bag I drooled over in InStyle last week. I swear she has to be prostituting herself on the side to afford all of her clothes. The first time I met her, I felt like she was the prom queen and I was the nerd trying to befriend her. Like I should send her a note: Will you be my friend? Circle yes or no.

  “Clare, are you free to meet in an hour?” Christina called through my office wall.

  “Sure.”

  I spent the next hour coming up with lame excuses why I couldn’t work on the Gala. I already have a trip planned for that weekend! I’m taking a sabbatical to India! I don’t like being humiliated!

  I walked into Christina’s office and sat down for our meeting. She started, “Before I forget, I have a meeting tomorrow around three and I may or may not come back to the office afterward.”

  Knowing this was code for her leaving early, I smiled and nodded, looking forward to spending my afternoon at Banana Republic.

  “I’m glad you’re smiling. You might not be in a few minutes. On Friday I met with Carolyn Wittenberg, the president of the Women’s Board of Chicago Samaritan Hospital. They would like to hire us to do their annual fundraiser black-tie Gala. I told them we’d be thrilled to work on their event and you’d be a wonderful contributor. What do you think?” She looked at me critically.

  “Doesn’t Annie usually assist with their events?” Last-ditch life-line.

  “Yes, but she’s swamped with Isabel Castle’s sweet sixteen party. I know, I know. They are bitches from the deepest level of hell. But we have to do it. I know you’ll be a consummate professional.”

  “Of course.” I smiled, but I felt my face turning crimson.

  “Thanks, Clare. Round of drinks on me next happy hour.”

  “Sure,” I said, and recalled the Women’s Board’s spring luncheon when Mule Face washed eighty centerpieces in her dishwasher. At the time, I was overjoyed.

  Karma, she is a bitch.

  As an event planner, I’m somewhat used to odd requests and wealthy, picky clients. But the Women’s Board is a particularly demanding group. Planning this event means fitful, sleepless nights spent dreaming about incorrect invitation assembly, and smiling while being called incompetent because the luncheon napkins aren’t the correct shade of hunter green.

  I paused a moment before getting up to leave, desperately hoping Christina was going to say, “Gotcha! You should’ve seen the pathetic look on your face! April Fool’s!” She just smiled apologetically, completely aware of the firing squad she placed me in front of, the same smile a sales clerk gives right before she cuts up a credit card.

  “Oh, and Clare,” Christina called out as I walked to my office, “they’re coming in two weeks from now to meet, so that’ll be when you can get the ball rolling.”

  “Sure thing,” I called back.

  “And, like I always say: ‘Please don’t publicly bitch about this on the Internet.’ ”

  “Like I always respond: ‘As long as you keep the fridge stocked with Diet Coke and don’t tell anyone how I used to lust after that dorky graphic designer, we’re cool.’ ”

  “Well, he was really strange. He used to wear argyle sweater vests, for chrissakes.”

  “I’m logging on to the Internet now.”

  “OK, fine. I’ll shut up.”

  The only bright spot of the day was Julie’s e-mail, wanting to set up a shopping trip for next Saturday. I love Julie. Most days, I would still sell my left boob to go back to college, when I lived with her and Reese. To go back to the days when waking up earlier than noon felt like medieval torture. The days when a hundred bucks in my bank account made me feel like a millionaire. The days when we were all still friends. I’m sure someday they’ll get over all of that shit that went down at my bachelorette party and be friends again.

  Scratch that: Do not mention Reese during shopping trip.

  Thursday, April 26

  Reese responded to my e-mail complimenting Grace’s pictures and invited me over for lunch this afternoon. Around noon, I ducked out of the office and drove to the most expensive part of town. As I pulled up to Reese’s gorgeous, enormous house, I once again felt like her friend from the wrong side of the tracks. I parked my Ford next to her Mercedes in the driveway and reminded myself of the emotional price Reese pays for every inch of her square footage and felt better about my 1,200-square-foot apartment. It seems like for every extra dollar Matt brings in, he and Reese grow another inch away from each other.

  I walked up to the doorstep and rang the doorbell. After waiting for several minutes, I checked my watch to make sure I had the right time.

  Suddenly, the door was flung open and Reese put a finger to her lips and whispered, “Didn’t you see the sign?”

  I looked up and saw the PLEASE KNOCK! SLEEPING BABY! sign for the first time.

  “No, sorry, I—”

  “Shhhh!” she interrupted, motioning for me to come inside.

  “Sorry. I hope I didn’t wake her.” I felt like I was back in high school, in my friend’s basement, getting wasted at a slumber party and being yelled at for being the loud drunk.

  “It’s OK. Come into the kitchen where we can talk normally.” We walked inside, through her enormous house, past the Oriental rugs, past her cherished signed and framed photo of George W. Bush I will never stop laughing at, and into her beautiful kitchen, complete with sub-zero fridge and granite countertops.

  She whirled around when we reached the kitchen island and gave me a bear hug. “Tell me everything about your trip! The food, the drinks, the gambling, the sex!” She arched one eyebrow into a tiny V.

  “Oh my God! It was amazing. All of it, the—” I stopped when I heard what sounded like a goat being murdered coming from the baby monitor and looked in Reese’s direction with alarm, but she was already halfway up the stairs to retrieve Grace.

  I heard her on the monitor as she went into Grace’s room. “How’s Mommy’s big girl? Did you just want to come and see Auntie Clare? You just wanted a girls’ day, didn’t you? Uh-oh! I think somebody has a poopy diaper! What a good poo-poo for such a big girl!”

  I struggled between laughter and wanting to stab my ears with something sharp.

  Reese came down the stairs holding Grace. “Say hello to Auntie Clare!”

  Grace took one look at me and started wailing.

  My entire life, I’ve had this effect on babies. For whatever reason, they scream when they see me. Which is just fine, because I want to scream when I see them, too. Sam once told me, “Babies cry around you because they have a sixth sense and know you are a total loser.”

  Reese quickly whipped out her boob and shoved it in Grace’s mouth and the screaming stopped. This is another thing that confuses me about having children. Why is it OK for a woman, just because she has a child, to suddenly feel it is appropriate to start pulling out her boob publicly? (Although, I think it’s somewhat hypocritical to be grossed out by Reese breast-feeding since she caught more than a few glimpses of my girls during college spring breaks.)

  “So anyway, it was the best trip ever,” I finished, keeping my gaze well above nipple level.

  “That’s awesome, Clare. So what else has been going on?”

  “Well, same old stuff. Working and doing the Gala like I told
you, ordering takeout, suffering through hangovers. Nothing special.”

  “Well, you look amazing. Where did you get those pants?”

  “Banana Republic. Fifty percent off,” I said proudly.

  “You always look so well put together. These days, I’m lucky if my pants are zipped.”

  “Not true. You always look hot.”

  “Well, still. I wish I could look as great as you do all the time.” Right. Reese’s wardrobe puts Posh Spice’s to shame. “Oh! I almost forgot! I have something for you. It’s on the countertop.”

  “What? Reese, you didn’t have to get me anything.”

  “Don’t be silly, I saw it and thought of you. Go get it.”

  I walked over and grabbed a lavender-wrapped box. Inside lay a beautiful pair of gold-wire earrings adorned with green beads. “Reese, these are beautiful. You really didn’t have to get me anything.”

  “I know. I just wanted to get you something because you’ve been such a good friend and I know I’ve been preoccupied with Grace. It’s my way of saying thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I hugged her tightly—well, as tightly as I could with her boob exposed.

  “So, any particularly good hangovers lately besides Vegas?” she said.

  “Well, I went out with Julie two weekends ago, so that one was a doozy.”

  “I read about it. Sounds like you guys had fun.” Long pause. “Looked like fun from the pictures. God, I haven’t been out in ages. We should plan to go out sometime soon,” Reese said.

  I nodded and smiled, knowing it would probably never happen.

  “How’s Julie?” she asked, and adjusted Grace.

  “Great. Same Julie. Having fun, living life. You know.”

  She smiled, then her face hardened. “When is she going to grow up? I’m serious. I’m concerned about her. Life isn’t one big frat party. We’re not in college anymore.” She looked at me.