A Bump in the Road

by Maureen Lipinski

  I’m so lucky. I get to spend the weekend with old farts and a bunch of kids.

  And Marianne.

  I got out of the car cautiously, like an animal testing its surroundings. One of the stick children spotted us and ran over to the old people.

  “SOME WEIRD PEOPLE ARE HERE!”

  Marianne saw us and ran over.

  “Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Grandalski!”

  “Marianne, it’s still Finnegan.”

  She tittered. “Oh, you modern girls! I just don’t know what to do with you! You know, in my day, there wasn’t such a thing as a stay-at-home mom or a stay-at-home wife. You were just a wife and a mother. Your family was your priority, you know. Not your career, you know.”

  Another “In My Day” story. She forgets she’s the same age as my mother, the bra-burning, protest-attending, card-carrying member of NOW.

  “Er, uh, yeah! Hello to you, too. Where’s Natalie?”

  “Oh, she’s lying down in the cabin. She has terrible morning sickness. You know, her pregnancy is considered high-risk.”

  Yeah, probably because she could stand to lose a couple hundred pounds.

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Yes, dear. I’ve really had to be there for her lately. You know, since her own relationship with her mother is not so strong. She’s really become the daughter I’ve never had.”

  “Where’s Doug again?” Jake asked.

  “On a business trip,” she said.

  Right. He probably just wanted a weekend away from his wife. I’m sticking to my theory that when Doug proposed he was either (a) severely wasted, or (b) a contestant on an unaired reality show.

  We made our way past the children accosting each other with lumber, who are apparently all Jake’s third cousins or something, and over to the old people. After a quick hello, I settled down into a folding soccer chair and within sixty seconds a gross beetle thing landed on my boob. I screamed and jumped up, frantically trying to bat it off my chest. Jake came over and knocked it off. All the little kids, watching me very intently, exploded in laughter because I yelled, “Get it off! Get it off! It’s on my BOOB!” while flailing around as though on fire.

  I decided five minutes of nature was enough and Marianne showed me the way to our cabin.

  I pushed the door open and immediately saw Natalie inside, sprawled out on the couch, moaning.

  “Well, hi! How are you? How are you feeling?”

  “Oh, hello, Clare.” She didn’t look thrilled to see me.

  “How’s my sweet girl doing?” Marianne asked.

  “Horrible. I have excruciating gas pains.”

  Jake walked in behind us. “So, is this our place? Hey, Natalie,” he said.

  She responded by farting.

  “Yes, it is,” I said, a little too quickly.

  There was a long awkward pause as we all stood there, shoulder-to-shoulder in the tiny space, silent except for Natalie’s ass.

  “Well, we should go,” Jake said, and practically shoved me out the door.

  Marianne followed us out and a thought suddenly occurred to me.

  “Marianne, where are we supposed to sleep? I saw the futon and the loft with the air mattress but what about us?”

  Her mouth twitched. “Well, the table and benches fold into a bed.”

  Yes, the table and benches MacGyver their way into a bed. A bed I am expected to sleep in with a six-three man for two nights. It is such bullshit. The futon was supposed to be ours and that bitch Natalie is sprawled out on it like a princess while Jake and I sleep on a table. She wasn’t even supposed to come this weekend but Jake’s brother had to torture all of us by going out of town knowing his fat pregnant wife can’t possibly be alone for more than an hour.

  “Maybe Natalie could sleep on it since there’s two of us?” I suggested.

  Marianne looked surprised. “Clare, she’s preparing for childbirth. She needs some space.”

  I should’ve slept in the car like a homeless person.

  Jake did the polite thing and joined the old people around the campfire while I leaned against the RV and tried to block out what I was hearing—something about how Pat Robertson and the 700 Club are so inspiring. I looked around at the other campsites, located surprisingly close to ours. I thought this was supposed to be a quiet, relaxing time in the woods, not hanging out with our family and the weirdos next to us.

  After an hour, I decided it was time to go pass out. Natalie was already asleep, snoring lightly. I fiddled with the bed/table/bench until I got it somewhat flat.

  And so here I am, lying on an incline, listening to Frank’s erotic dreams and Natalie’s occasional farts.

  Saturday, May 12

  Oh, thank sweet Jesus. Carrie is coming today. At least I’ll have someone here who won’t try to convince me hiking is really peaceful or sleeping in the open air is refreshing.

  9:30 A.M.

  Me: “Where is she? You said they’d be here in the morning.”

  Jake: “Relax. Patrick and I have a noon tee time. They’ll be here.”

  9:45 A.M.

  Me: “Maybe they’re lost. I could call them if this horrible phone would get a signal.”

  10:05 A.M.

  Me: “Let me try your phone. Ah! Praise the Lord! I think you have some juice. NO! Fuck. I just lost it.”

  11:01 A.M.

  Me: “Where. The. Hell. Are. They. Your mother is trying to convince me to go to some Amish cheese shop with her. I need someone NORMAL to hang out with.”

  11:20 A.M.

  They’re here!

  2:00 P.M.

  I love Carrie.

  When she and Patrick arrived, I raced over to their car before it even came to a standstill. I saw their looks of slight alarm behind their sunglasses. I’m sure I’d be afraid, too, if some crazed woman wearing lotion-smudged sweatpants threw herself in front of my car.

  “Hi! Hi! Hi!” I spurted, waving vigorously.

  Patrick rolled down his window and poked his head out. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Screw you,” I said.

  Carrie got out of the passenger side and pushed her sunglasses back onto her head, fanning out her perfectly highlighted hair.

  “Hey, Clare. Looks like you’ve been having fun.”

  “You have no idea. I’m dying here! Thank the dear Lord that you guys are here. You won’t believe the things I’ve seen!”

  “Hey, everybody! It’s some of them city folk we’ve been hearing about!” Jake yelled across the campsite in a fake twang. He walked over and bear-hugged Carrie. “How’s my favorite girl?”

  “Fab. I think you should be asking your wife that question.”

  “Whatever, you have no—Whoa!” I shrieked.

  All three of their heads snapped in unison to look at me.

  “What is THAT?” I grabbed Carrie’s left hand and nearly went blind from the sunbeams coming off of the giant diamond.

  A smile appeared on her face. “Just last night.”

  “Congratulations!” Jake slapped Patrick on the back. “Welcome to the family. Let’s get you guys settled in so we can hear the details.” He grabbed their bags and headed over toward the throng of campers.

  After Patrick and Carrie got settled in, the guys left to make their tee time and Carrie and I found some lawn chairs and started leafing through all of the trashy tabloid magazines I brought.

  “So, where’s Natalie?” Carrie asked me while picking up a copy of InTouch.

  “Locked away in the cabin farting.”

  “Ew. Natalie.” She wrinkled her nose.

  Seriously. I love her.

  “Hey, girls! Do you two want to come antiquing with us in town?” Marianne asked.

  “No thanks,” we both answered quickly.

  “So what’s new, Aunt Marianne?” Carrie asked.

  “Oh, you know. Spending time with Natalie and looking forward to our first grandchild. I’ve also joined a book club.”

  “You know, if you
ever want something new to read, Clare’s a great writer.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Her Web site is hilarious. You should really check it out. It’s really popular, too. How many hits do you get every day?”

  “I don’t know. It’s never the same.”

  “How many on average?”

  “Something like twenty thousand.”

  “See, Aunt Marianne? Twenty thousand people read it every day.”

  “You know me, I don’t have time to check my e-mail. I’m just so busy, busy. You know who is also very popular?”

  “Who?” Carrie asked, rolling her eyes slightly at me.

  “My friend Sally’s daughter Amanda. She writes columns for our church bulletin. She is such a good writer. You should call her sometime and get some writing tips.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said, not looking up from my magazine.

  “Are you girls sure you don’t want to go antiquing with us?”

  “Positive,” Carrie said.

  As soon as Marianne was gone I said, “Thanks for trying.”

  “No problem. Don’t let her get under your skin. It’s not worth it. She’ll be in the nuthouse in a few years anyway.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here. Jake doesn’t understand why his mother makes me want to drink myself to death sometimes.” As soon as I said it, I got very sad again when I realized I’m going to spend the next nine months dealing with my mother-in-law without the aid of any intoxicants.

  “No problem. I feel your pain. Marianne asked me last week after my photography exhibition why I take pictures of boring things like the sky and clouds instead of babies dressed as flowers like that Anne Geddes.”

  “Nice. So what are we doing tonight? We should probably make plans so we don’t get roped into corn husking or something of the sort.”

  “I already know what we’re doing tonight and it doesn’t involve any cranapple martinis this time,” Carrie said, and smiled at me. She flung her magazine on the ground and laid her head back.

  “Oh, uh. Good. I mean, what?” I said, suddenly uncomfortable.

  “We’re going to this bar about five minutes up the road. Patrick and I passed it on the way here. It’s practically in the middle of a cornfield. It’s one of those places without a name or address, just neon beer signs in the window.”

  “Huh? You want to go to some weird bar?”

  “Of course! It will be a blast. We can get drunk off of two-dollar beers with all of the alky locals.”

  “Oh, um, yeah.” I shifted in my chair and thought, How the hell am I going to get out of this one?

  She opened her eyes, assuming my hesitation meant ambivalence. “Fine, stay here and sing campfire songs with the mosquitoes while the three of us hang out in the air-conditioning.”

  “I’ll probably have to be designated driver since it’s my turn.” Yes! I found a loophole!

  “Whatever. That’s fine. Too bad for you, though.”

  “Yeah, gee, too bad,” I said. Looking back, I’m surprised she didn’t bust me right there with how horribly I delivered the line. I should’ve just snapped my fingers and added an “Aw shucks.”

  But Carrie just looked down at her hand and said, “My ring is amazing.”

  Sunday, May 13

  We left to go out around nine last night. Despite my fears the entire place would stare and the music would stop with a loud riiipppp when we walked in the door, no one even looked up when we entered. In fact, there were only two other people there, and they looked too hammered to even lift their heads up.

  “What do you want?” Jake asked.

  “Diet Coke.”

  He signaled to the bartender.

  “A Diet Coke and a Bud Light bottle.”

  The bartender shook his head and wiped the sweat dripping off his forehead. “No glass in here. Cans only.”

  Jake looked at me and shrugged.

  “A can is fine,” he said to the bartender.

  “What are you guys getting?” I asked Carrie and Patrick.

  “Three vodka shots please,” Carrie said to the bartender.

  An hour later, they were all pretty buzzed. By ten thirty, the bar became as packed as a gun show in Alabama. Someone unplugged the jukebox and a DJ started playing.

  The DJ got on the microphone. “All right fel-las! It’s Saturday night and you know why you’re here, dontcha?”

  A loud cheer erupted from all of the men. I swear I heard a “Yee-haw.”

  “It’s time for our world-famous THONG CONTEST!”

  I prayed, Oh, God, please, please tell me I heard that wrong.

  No, I didn’t.

  In fact, the DJ passed around a hat for donations to give to the lucky winner, and asked for volunteers.

  I practically had to sit on Carrie so she didn’t run up to be a contestant, although she would’ve won hands-down. The four girls who volunteered looked like they were straight out of a Jerry Springer panel. And not one of them came in under three hundred pounds.

  The DJ started the music and Sisqó’s “Thong Song” came on.

  “Contestants, show your stuff!!” he shouted, pumping his fist in the air.

  “Those chicks could be wearing shorts and they’d qualify as thongs in those asses!” Carrie hissed at me.

  All four girls started simultaneously wiggling around on the dance floor, unbuttoning their Jordache jeans and lifting up their T-shirts. One girl decided she had to be crowned “thong bitch” (as she told her friend), and went for the gold and took all of her clothes off. I realized I’d hit a new low as I sat there, drinking my Diet Coke, watching a naked fat chick hump a peanut-shell-covered floor.

  Carrie, of course, egged the girl on. “Go for it, girl! Aw-huh, that’s right! Work that shit!”

  Naked Fat Girl won the contest and she was presented with the money in the hat, which totaled fourteen dollars.

  “Can you believe that girl did a porn show for fourteen bucks?” I asked Jake.

  “Clare, that girl would’ve done that for a quarter,” he answered.

  “I wonder what she would’ve done if you gave her a Snickers?” Carrie asked.

  Twenty minutes after the porn show, the DJ put on the song “Black Betty.”

  “You know what to do!” he shouted.

  I thought: No, what? No, seriously, what? Please don’t take your clothes off, portly biker man. Everybody, keep your clothes on. I am sober, people. Please don’t do this to me.

  Everyone except us jumped on the bar and started line-dancing, or at least, I think it was supposed to be a line-dance but it really just looked like a bunch of drunks hopping around on one foot. We all sat at our table and obligingly clapped along and cheered when it was finished, thinking the show was over. Oh, no, the DJ played that song every half hour, which made it somewhat difficult to get a drink since we were afraid to put our fingers on the bar, lest they get separated from our hands by the heel of a cowboy boot.

  Eight thousand cans of Bud Light and a few more shots later, it was time to leave. We did realize at some point that the “no glass ever” rule was one we’d recommend they keep since we witnessed three fights by the end of the night. One I think was over cigarettes or something. All I know is the skinny guy beat the shit out of the fat guy and made his girlfriend cry.

  Oh, and the thong contest winner had sex with some guy in the bathroom while I was peeing but I was too exhausted to care.

  We made our way back to the campground. Carrie and Patrick immediately went to their cabin to pass out while Jake and I decided to stay up for one more beer. Fueled by the massive quantity of alcohol Jake consumed and the fact we couldn’t fool around in the cabin, we started making out. The klassy surroundings inspired us and we wound up doing it in our car. Yep, I have become a broad who goes camping, watches naked chicks compete in thong contests, and gets it on in the backseat of a used Ford Taurus.

  I am officially pregnant white trash.

  Tuesday, May 15

  The ca
mping weekend thankfully behind me, I posted pictures from the hillbilly bar on my blog. The overwhelming favorite is the one of the thong contest winner licking Jake’s face. Wifey1025 said she’s jealous.

  I’m moving from one extreme demographic to the other today and attending the first Gala meeting with the entire committee at one of their estates. I’ve tried to dress up, wearing my best suit and shoes, and twisted my hair into a knot. I pray they stare at my chipped manicure instead of my eyebrows, which I forgot to pluck last night.

  2:30 P.M.

  The meeting did not go well at all. After I arrived twenty minutes late due to extremely poor Internet map directions, I tried to quickly smooth my frizzed updo into submission but it was to no avail; strange wiry hairs kept poking out of the sides, giving me a Medusa-like appearance.

  I booked it to the front door of the gaudiest house I’d ever seen. Easily ten thousand square feet of real estate, giant round pillars evoking a Taj Mahal feeling, accessorized with two seven-foot-tall Adonis statues. I tried not to stare at Adonis’s giant marble penis as I rang the doorbell.

  A woman in a maid’s uniform answered the door and silently led me through the gold-embossed foyer to an opulent living room, where ten Women’s Board ladies sat.

  “. . . and then we will have Asian lanterns—” Carolyn looked at me with disgust and abruptly stopped while all of the other nine perfectly coiffed heads turned to stare at me. “Clare. So good of you to make it. Thanks for coming.” She shot me a look of death.

  My eyes spastically darted around the room as I desperately searched for a place to sit until Jessica smiled and waved me over to share the ottoman she perched on. “Thanks,” I whispered to her, and she gave me an amused smile.

  Carolyn’s ice-blue eyes narrowed as she waved me away with a dismissive motion of her pale white hand. “This, ladies, is Clare Finnegan. She’s from Signature Events and will be helping us to make this event a great success.” She smiled tightly at me. “Assuming, of course, she arrives on time.”

  The other ladies tittered as I turned three shades of crimson.