“We can’t?”
“Oh, Clare,” she laughed, “of course not. Babies need space and a lawn.”
“I’ll let you know.” I’ll let you know when I’m going to kick your ass, I should’ve said.
“When’s your last day at work?”
“Well, my due date is in January, so sometime around then.”
“I know being a career girl is important to you, but you’ll see being a mom is the best, most rewarding job of all.”
“I’m sure. I’m still going to be a career girl, though.”
“You’re still going to work? Really?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, my. Well. How does Jake feel about having strangers raise his child?” I wanted to reach across the phone line and strangle her but I figured giving birth in prison would suck so I handed the phone back to Jake and let him deal with the psycho Donna Reed. I figure I have the rest of my life to hear about how selfish I am and how I’m permanently damaging my child by placing it in day care.
Besides, the lasagna was on its way back up.
1:00 A.M.
Despite not keeping an ounce of dinner in my stomach, tonight was pretty successful. I feel so much better now that my mom knows about the baby. Hearing her tell me it’s OK, that I can do it, makes me feel like I can. Just like when she told me I could make the track team in eighth grade despite a bit of a weight problem. But she told me I could. And I did.
My mom’s reaction was also a confirmation that despite not being planned, it is in fact supposed to be a happy time. I’m thinking I’ll experience more of those “warm and fuzzy” feelings once I stop harfing up every shred of food I put into my body.
Monday, June 18
I woke up this morning still feeling relieved that we told everyone the news last night. Although I make it a point to deal with Jake’s parents as little as possible, I’m glad we told them and my parents. We’re now finally out in the open. Out of the closet, to use Mark’s words. It feels so much more real now that our families know, and especially now that my mom knows. At times, I’d felt like it wasn’t really happening since she wasn’t a part of it.
Despite the fact that our inner circle knows now, I’m not planning on telling anyone else for a while. Which has its negatives and positives. Positives being we can keep it our own special secret for a while, no hate e-mails from jen2485 and I don’t have to deal with Mule Face checking my legs for spider veins just yet. Negatives being what happened today:
I dragged my sorry ass to the grocery store this afternoon in an effort to find something remotely appealing for dinner. I picked up a can of chicken noodle soup, debating whether or not my stomach and gestating embryo would allow me to keep it down. Just as my body reacted with a big fat “NO!” and my stomach heaved, a very nice woman dressed in a gorgeous cashmere shell approached me.
“Are you Clare? From the Internet?” she asked, smiling at me.
I froze, can of soup in hand, stomach in knots, cold sweat pouring down my face.
“Uh-huh.” I nodded, afraid if I opened my mouth any further I’d decorate her lovely top with the contents of my lunch.
“My friends and I are big fans of your blog.”
I nodded again, unable to meet her eyes.
“Where do you get all of your story ideas?”
I slowly raised my head and straightened my shoulders. Instantly, my stomach twisted again and I gagged, still holding the can of soup. Thankfully, nothing came out, but the nice woman hurried away pretty quickly.
So, in recap, a very well-dressed, professional-looking woman complimented my writing skills today and I responded by dry heaving while holding an aluminum can. Since the Internet doesn’t know I’m pregnant, I’m sure she told all of her friends I’m some anorexic heroin addict.
Thursday, June 21
The vomiting didn’t stop last night until I fell asleep. I even woke up twice in the middle of the night to puke. I feel like I’m going to puke the baby right up.
I planned on keeping a low profile at work today: work on the last-minute details for the Gala this weekend and avoid Mule Face at all costs. However, as I walked to my office, Mule Face’s head caught my eye. I looked and saw a beautiful sight: Mule Face now has a mullet. Seriously.
I think she asked for layers in the front and long in the back but it wound up looking all business in the front and party in the back. She said her hairstylist called it a “bi-level.” The worst part is, she walked around the office all day and asked people if they liked her new look. Um, yeah, if she’s planning on attending a monster truck rally/demolition derby this weekend, very appropriate. Every time I look at her, I picture her wearing acid-washed denim and standing next to a Camaro. Or vacationing with the Grandalskis at Lake Park Campgrounds.
I must take a picture of her hair and send it to Carrie. Maybe she can make an avant-garde mullet collage art project for the nursery.
Saturday, June 23
It’s here. Gala day.
I asked the baby if I could take a day off from puking, just one day, and it responded by making me heave up my breakfast.
Bad news: I won’t be able to take the edge off with a few drinks.
Good news: After tonight, Carolyn Wittenberg, Jessica Greene, Betsy Fallon, and Tony G. of Tony G. Productions will all be in the past.
Bad news: My breakfast of corn flakes is all over the bathroom.
Good news: I wrote an awesome blog entry on corn flakes, thus again avoiding the whole “Hey World, I’m Pregnant” essay.
11:00 A.M.
I arrived at the hotel to begin setting up the silent auction and to crack the whip on the florist, linen rental company, and all the other vendors. Tony G. greeted me and looked me up and down and smirked while lifting an eyebrow. “Nice look,” he said, and made a little tiff sound. What an asshole. I didn’t need a reminder that no concealer will cover my dark circles, my hair was pissed off it rained so it decided to expand one thousand times the normal size, and the casual, yet professional outfit consisting of black capris and black flats I planned on wearing was crumpled up on my bathroom floor with bits of puked-up corn flakes all over it.
“Everything going OK?” I responded brightly, thinking of exactly which very sharp object I wanted to drill into his skull.
“We-ell, it’s a good thing you’re here. Things are already a blur. There’s no room for my dancers to change, the dance floor isn’t going to be big enough with those extra tables, and the acoustics are all wrong due to the ceiling draping,” he said as we walked toward the ballroom.
I opened the doors to the ballroom and silently scanned the room, which looked amazing. The florists assembled Zen garden centerpieces with giant bamboo and palm leaves, surrounded by bonsai trees and red paper parasols hung from the ceiling. Custom lighting made each centerpiece look ablaze. Across the dance floor, a spotlight displayed the sponsor logos and Asian symbols. I stood back for a moment and enjoyed the sight of everything coming together. It was the moment when everything became sort of worth it.
It was more like half a moment, though, because Tony G. snapped his fingers. “Hello? Earth to the little lady. What are we going to do about my problems?”
“The dancers can change in the hospitality suite—room 1482. We can move the tables back a foot or two off of the dance floor. We can’t do anything about the acoustics, but I’m sure you’re such a phenomenal professional that you can work around it.” He seemed pleased and left to go find someone else to harass.
I saw Jessica over by the silent auction display and walked over.
“Need any help?” I asked.
“Oh, God! Thank God you’re here! We can’t find the airline package, the bid sheets are out of sequence, and none of the committee has shown up to help!” she said.
“Relax. I’ll take care of everything. The airline package is in the accordion file and I’ll reorder the bid sheets.”
“You’re a lifesaver. Listen, I have a hair appointment this aft
ernoon, so . . .” She paused, waiting for me to jump in.
“Of course, of course. You go get beautiful and I’ll take care of this.”
“You’re the best!” she called over her shoulder. Tony G. jumped out of the way as she rushed out.
3:00 P.M.
The auction display is up, the bid sheets successfully reordered, and Tony G. silent. Since I offered the hospitality suite to the dancers, I changed in the bathroom, which I found appropriate due to the amount of time I spend in the bathroom these days. I threw my hair into a clip and tried to apply some eye shadow but exhaustion began to creep in and the desire to look attractive quickly waned.
6:00 P.M.
Guests are beginning to arrive, because rich or not, these people always want to squeeze every dollar out of a five-hundred-dollar ticket. Jessica and her husband, Robert, were among the first here. She looks stunning in a silk Asian-inspired black dress with delicate embroidery and a plunging neckline framed by loosely waved hair. Betsy Fallon is wearing a bright red strapless dress that belies her personality, and Carolyn Wittenberg is sporting a blue taffeta-and-sequin dress accessorized with many, many carats of diamonds.
I’m sitting back and watching the rest of the crowd as the room fills. A woman with enormous breasts is wearing such a low-cut dress, I thought her nipple was going to pop out when she adjusted her earring. I’ve also seen some of the best face-lifts, brow-lifts, and second wives that money can buy.
A few minutes ago, I longingly stared at Carolyn Wittenberg’s red wine, until she caught me staring and looked slightly alarmed, probably because it looked like I was staring at her cleavage.
6:30 P.M.
I’m so tired I don’t care anymore. I already look like trash so I figure I might as well act like it and snooze in a stall in the bathroom. I can’t imagine if someone walked in on me. They’d probably think I’m a crack whore who OD’d or something.
7:00 P.M.
My nap was wonderful. The silent auction table is running smoothly. The rest should be easy.
2:00 A.M.
Easy, my ass. Just after seven, the Junior Volunteers arrived and tried to appear eager for their assignments, although all they really wanted was a contraband drink from the bar.
“Hi, girls! Thanks so much for coming. I’m Clare, as some of you know, and if you need anything, I’m your gal.”
The five teenagers flatly stared at me. Casey Nolan (daughter of William Nolan, net worth $200 million) flicked her hair back. “Um, just want to let you know, my dad wants to dance with me so I won’t be able to help for very long.”
“Sure, you can take a break, but it would be great if you could help out as much as possible.”
“Whatever,” she whispered to Renee Kirkowski (daughter of Leslie and Rick, net worth $80 million).
“Casey and Renee, you get table one. Donna and Taylor, table two, and Paige . . .” I looked at Paige Bronstein (daughter of Steve and Laura, net worth $110 million). “You can float between the two.” Poor Paige. She obviously wasn’t in the inner circle.
“What school do you go to?” Paige asked me when the other girls left, gingerly touching her thick, coarse curly hair and adjusting her glasses.
“Well, I went to St. Mary’s for high school but that was a good ten years ago.”
“Ten years ago?” she asked, tugging at her dress.
“Why? How old do you think I am?”
“Like a senior, probably,” she said.
Ha! It’s probably good my stomach isn’t showing yet. I wouldn’t want to give the impression I’m some knocked-up teenager. It might slightly affect my credibility.
The cocktail hour ended at seven o’clock when waiters rang dinner bells and asked people to take their seats. I pushed past a throng of geisha girls holding silver trays of Singapore slings and mandarin martinis and mouthed, “Everything OK?”
“I’m sweating my balls off in this costume,” one of them whispered back in a thick New York accent.
After the salmon salad with wasabi vinaigrette, Tony G.’s dancers came out and performed the dorky fan routine. It went smoothly until one of them tripped and almost ended up in Carolyn Wittenberg’s lap.
The Chinese dragon and drums whipped through the room after the beef course. Everyone seemed to love it but that could be attributed to the approximately nine thousand drinks everyone had already consumed.
After dinner, Tony G.’s band started playing and I was able to slip my shoes off discreetly for a moment before I jumped up to close the silent auction. The Junior Volunteers were supposed to help close the auction and run the checkout process but I saw Casey Nolan and Renee Kirkowski downing cosmopolitans so I didn’t think they’d be much help.
I looked around the dance floor and saw Betsy and Jessica dancing with their husbands to Tony G.’s rendition of Earth, Wind & Fire. Jessica had her hands in the air and was bopping around while Betsy kept her feet firmly planted to the ground and swayed from side to side. Carolyn Wittenberg and her husband were doing a routine that very closely resembled the Robot.
The pang of a full bladder hit me and I hightailed it to the bathroom and almost trucked over an old lady wearing close to a million dollars in diamonds. I waited for Casey Nolan to finish puking up cosmos before I could feel the sweet relief. I think I even let out an audible sigh, which probably caused Casey to think I was masturbating in the stall or something.
I picked my tired, nauseous, pregnant ass up and went over to the silent auction and sat down. People drifted out of the ballroom and began to check out and I started taking credit cards and giving out the prizes. Jessica and her husband appeared.
“This is her! This is Clare. Clare, meet my husband, Robert.” Robert extended his hand and I warmly shook it as I noticed Jessica swaying.
“Nice to meet you. Great job tonight,” he said, his bleached teeth glittering.
“Thanks.”
“Oh! I almost forgot!” She turned to a beautiful couple in their twenties. “This is my sister Rachael Flynn and her fiancé, Ben Shepard. Isn’t it great?”
“Yeah, sure!”
“I know! We’ll have so much fun. It’ll be like the Gala all over again. We can go to lunch and everything, right?”
“Right!” I had no clue what she was talking about.
“Gotta go! We’ll talk Monday!” Jessica popped off, grabbing her husband’s arm for balance.
Rachael leaned forward. “You did such a great job tonight. I know you’ll make my wedding so special.” I nodded and Rachael and Ben walked off, mouthing the words to Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration.”
My immediate reaction was: Hi? Hello? Her wedding? Seriously. I’m sure to be nine months pregnant at this wedding. Because I am just THAT lucky.
Carolyn Wittenberg was the last person to check out. “Hello, Clare,” she said as she puffed on a cigarette and blew smoke in my face.
“You won number eight, right?”
“Correct.”
“Well, we have your credit card on file, so just sign here.” She scribbled on the paper, swiftly grabbed her prize envelope, and walked away, a blaze of navy blue taffeta and diamonds. I looked down at the bid sheet and started laughing. What a drunken idiot. She signed “Gala” instead of her name on the credit card receipt. That kind of made the whole night worth it.
After I arrived home, my feet resembled two wooden blocks, visibly throbbing. I poured myself a half glass of wine and lay down on the couch, happy Jake was out with his friend Bill-I-Still-Live-at-Home-with-My-Parents-and-Smoke-Pot-Every-Day-at-4:20.
The night was a success—I didn’t slit Tony G.’s throat, Jessica and Betsy had a fabulously drunken time, I didn’t pee or vomit on myself, and the event raised $650,000. I took a sip of the Merlot and closed my eyes. I thanked the dear Lord I was done with the Gala, with Carolyn Wittenberg, Jessica Greene, and Betsy Fallon.
Until . . . Oh, shit. I forgot.
Assuming Jessica and her sister weren’t on drugs, they want me to
plan her wedding. I so don’t have the strength to do a wedding. Bride crying because the flowers are wrong, the mother screaming at the band, the drunk groomsmen, the wasted bridesmaids, the incompetent waiters, the sobbing father, and me in the middle, trying to keep the evening flowing. Oh, and add in a shitload of money, which means expectations. And one unborn fetus. New thought: What if it is after the baby’s born? New set of fears: What if Christina makes me work the event while I’m on maternity leave? How will I manage that? What if I’ve just had the baby and my boobs are huge? What if I’m fat and don’t have anything to wear? What if Jake burns down the apartment while watching the child?
Monday, June 25
I’m still exhausted from the Gala and hoped today would be quiet. But no. So much for any downtime.
Today I suffered through what was officially the world’s most pointless and boring staff meeting. By the end of it, I was flicking my Bic rollerball pen in between my fingers, thinking that spending an afternoon in the ER getting a writing utensil removed from my eye socket would be much more enjoyable.
I overslept and came into the meeting after it had already started. Christina gave me an evil look as I slid next to her. I mouthed an apology and sat down in my chair, which made a loud crack sound as I settled in. Jan, Christina’s boss, stopped talking and looked directly at me before continuing to drone on about how we were already over on our printing budget.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mule Face hide a smile. She was wearing a purple polyester pantsuit that screamed Jaclyn Smith Plus Size Collection from Kmart. I glanced around the table at everyone, confirming by expressions they were all bored as hell already. I pulled out my budget and pretended to stare at it while playing a fun game of Check Out the Other Employees. Half of the staff works in another office across town, a fact for which I am eternally grateful since they are all kind of weird freaks.
I did a quick survey: Donna’s tortoise-shell hair clip in the shape of a cat? Check.
A Bump in the Road Page 11
