A Bump in the Road

by Maureen Lipinski

  As if on cue, the doorbell rings and Jake and I look fearfully at each other, although not surprised since his parents know we get home from work around five thirty. We take a deep breath, look at each other, and open the door with huge smiles.

  5:43 P.M.

  Marianne (surveying the guest room we spent the better part of the week decorating and cleaning): “I see you took it to heart when I said you shouldn’t go out of your way for us!”

  6:07 P.M.

  Jake: “So, we thought we’d take you guys out to dinner tonight.”

  Frank: “Sounds great. Where do you want to go?”

  Marianne (turns to me): “You know, you’re going to have to learn how to cook sooner or later {tinkling laugh}. You don’t want to eat out every night when the baby comes, now do you?”

  All three look at me. So, I look at Jake and say, “That’s true. You should learn how to make dinner.”

  7:18 P.M. Interior restaurant.

  I down another glass of lemonade, desperately hoping to catch a raging sugar buzz if nothing else. I look down at my shoes and a little sigh escapes from my mouth. Excellent planning to wear my new Manolo Blahnik Mary Janes I bought off eBay because while sticks and stones and snide remarks may break my bones, no one can take my shoes from me. I’d fallen in love with them ever since the urban shoe myth episode of Sex and the City and stumbled across them on eBay for half price. It was truly a gift sent directly from the heavens above.

  7:49 P.M.

  Marianne: “Have you two looked at houses yet?”

  Jake and I stare at her.

  Marianne: “Houses?”

  Again, she is met with what the fuck looks.

  Frank: “Are you planning to move after the baby is born, Jake?”

  Jake: “No.”

  Marianne: “You might want to consider it. You only have two bedrooms. You’ll need one for the nursery and you’ll need at least one more bedroom for your overnight guests.”

  Me: “We aren’t planning on having any overnight guests right after the baby is born.”

  Problem solved.

  Marianne: “Don’t be silly. Of course, I will come and stay with you two for a few weeks after the baby is born to help you get adjusted to being new parents.”

  Simultaneous looks of fear and shock pass over our faces.

  Me: “Thanks for the offer, but we’d like to keep it just us after he comes.”

  Marianne: “Well, OK. I just thought you might need some help.”

  Frank: “Where are you going to put the litterbox?”

  Ah, yes. The litterbox. That is currently in the guest bedroom. The litterbox we temporarily moved to our bathroom while Frank and Marianne are staying with us, even though I was completely fine with telling them they had to leave the door open in case Butterscotch needed to come in and take a crap. The litterbox we will have to find a permanent place for after the baby comes. The litterbox Butterscotch only occasionally uses, depending upon if he feels content with the attention he received that week.

  Jake: “We’ll figure it out.”

  Marianne: “I think children should be raised with a yard to play in, with—”

  Jake: “Mom, we can’t afford a house here. We don’t have half a million dollars.”

  Marianne: “You could always move closer to—”

  Me: “NO!”

  All three turn to look at me.

  Me: “Um, I mean, we like our neighborhood.”

  Marianne: “Well, Natalie and Doug’s house is really coming along. She is such a great decorator and all of her furniture is restored antiques from the 1920s. She had all of her curtains custom-made and . . .”

  Fade to black as Marianne drones on and on about Natalie and Doug’s house and how “amazing” everything in it is. Of course it is amazing—you can practically build a house using expired Wal-Mart coupons out there.

  Saturday, 1:28 P.M. Cubs game.

  Jake: “Dad, want another beer?”

  I give him a look of death, as I want more than anything an ice-cold beer to wash down my pride after hearing a lecture from Marianne on the importance of watching my weight during pregnancy. After she watched me scarf down a foot-long hot dog. Not to mention the fact that, seemingly overnight, my butt doubled in size.

  Mark sends me a text message to look for him in the bleachers. I crane my neck to spot him but can’t make out anyone specific among the mass of wasted people wearing Cubs shirts, so I call him.

  Me: “Hey! Where are you? Wave.”

  Mark: “HEY, CLARE! HOW’S IT GOING?”

  Me: “Fine. You sound like you’re having a good time.”

  Mark: “WHAT? OH, YEAH! I’M HAMMERED.”

  Me: “Yep.”

  Mark: “WHERE’S HOTTIE JULIE?”

  Me: “Not here. I’m here with Jake’s parents.”

  Mark: “IS YOUR STICK-UP-THE-ASS MOTHER-IN-LAW WITH YOU? SHE’S A REAL BITCH.”

  Me: “Um, gotta go.”

  Marianne: “Who was that?”

  Me: “My brother, Mark. Why?”

  Marianne: “I heard the end of the conversation but I didn’t catch who it was.”

  Me: “Oh. Um. Yeah. He’s pretty drunk.”

  Marianne: “Does he have a drinking problem?”

  Me: “No. He’s twenty-two and at a Cubs game.”

  Marianne: “Binge drinking is a slippery slope, you know.”

  Me: “Thanks for the tip. So, Marianne, how are Carrie and Patrick’s wedding plans coming along?”

  Marianne: “Just fine, dear. I think it’s going to be a beautiful wedding. Very large. They’re planning on inviting all of the relatives, since they are so family-oriented and wouldn’t want to leave anyone out.”

  Me: “We would’ve loved to invite everyone, too, but you know how expensive it would’ve been.”

  Marianne: “Yes, I know. You mentioned it. However, it was such a shame some family members were left out for the sake of money.”

  Me: “Yeah, a real shame.”

  Marianne: “What do you think you’ll wear to the wedding?”

  Me: “I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to see what fits after he’s here.”

  Marianne (after surveying my waist): “You’ll probably have to buy something new.”

  10:02 P.M. Interior apartment.

  The news comes on and Jake quickly reaches for the remote but it is too late. The lead story is about a roadside bomb exploding in Iraq.

  Marianne: “I just don’t know why it is only the negative circumstances constantly reported about Iraq. We have done so much good in that country with freeing the Iraqi people and removing Saddam from power but we never hear news stories praising those efforts. I am so sick of this media.”

  Jake: “Look! The Three Stooges is on.”

  Sunday, 11:31 A.M. Brunch.

  Marianne: “Clare, I saw this book the other day at the bookstore and thought of you. Here it is: You Can Do It! How to Be a Stay-At-Home-Mom on a Tight Budget.”

  Me: “Thanks, but I’m going back to work.”

  Marianne: “I just want you to make sure you’re making an educated decision on all of this day care nonsense.”

  Jake: “Uh, Mom, we already figured all of that out.”

  Marianne: “I know, honey. I just feel very strongly that a child is best with his mother rather than at a day care center. A child is best raised by his parents.”

  Jake: “Mom, this isn’t open for discussion.”

  Marianne: “Well, Natalie stays home with Ash Leigh every day and she is already so far ahead of other kids her age. I can’t imagine leaving such a young child at a day care center with people you barely know. I can’t imagine trusting—”

  Frank: “Lay off, Marianne.”

  Random Woman with Horrible Timing But Very Good Taste: “Hey! Are you Clare Finnegan? Who has the blog?”

  12:59 P.M. Exterior apartment.

  Frank and Marianne’s car is loaded and they are getting ready to get in the car and get the fu
ck out.

  Me: “Thanks for coming.”

  Frank: “Thanks for having us.”

  Jake: “Anytime.”

  Marianne: “Now, remember, be sure to call us right when you go into labor so I can be there when he’s born!”

  Me: “Thanks, but like I said, it’s just going to be Jake and me.”

  Marianne: “Oh. Is your mom going to be there?”

  Me: “I’m not sure yet. Probably.”

  Looks of shock and dismay.

  Jake: “Talk to you soon!”

  We sighed as we waved good-bye to the Grandalskis. Once they were firmly out of sight, Jake turned to me and grabbed my hand. “I have a surprise for you,” he said, then disappeared into the bedroom.

  “What is it?” I called after him.

  “Here,” he said proudly as he held out a tiny package wrapped in tissue paper.

  I took the three-inch-by-four-inch square from him and gingerly peeled back the paper.

  “Perfect!” I exclaimed as I held up the miniature Cubs jersey. “When did you get this?” I asked him, incredulous.

  “At the game. When you were in the bathroom. You made it easy since you went like twice each inning.” He grinned down at me.

  “This is great. Skeletor will be a Cubs fan from birth.” I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around his waist.

  “Well, then he’d better get used to lots of disappointment,” Jake laughed as he patted my back.

  “Oh, I’m sure he will be. I’m going to be his mom, remember? Disappointment all over the place.”

  “Don’t say that. You’re going to be a great mom. And if not, don’t worry. I came out fine and my mother’s pretty off her rocker,” Jake said.

  “That’s true,” I laughed into his shirt. I looked up at him. “You’re probably going to win a Father of the Year award. You know that, right?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’ll settle for not screwing up.”

  “We will. But we’ll get each other’s backs. We’ll cover for each other.” I released him and sat on the couch.

  “Like in tag-team wrestling?” Jake said, and sat down next to me.

  “Sure, if that analogy works for you.”

  “Great. I want to be Andre the Giant. Who do you want to be?”

  “I don’t know. That’s not the point. I—”

  “You have to pick.”

  “I don’t even know any of their names, and frankly, I’m somewhat embarrassed that you do,” I said.

  “Fine. I’ll pick for you. You have to be Hillbilly Jim.”

  “Why am I a hillbilly?”

  “Because you had sex in the backseat of a used Ford Taurus.”

  “With you, remember?” I jumped up and put my hands out. “I don’t want to be a hillbilly. I want to be someone else.”

  “No. It’s decided. You’re Hillbilly Jim and I’m Andre the Giant.”

  “Damn it. This sucks,” I said as I sat back down on the couch and crossed my arms over my chest.

  Tuesday, September 18

  Further building on the tag-team wrestling analogy, Jake and I banded together and started to tackle the task of clearing the crap out of the guest room/future nursery/Butterscotch’s current litterbox.

  We started by clearing out everything from the bottom of the closet, and came across a pile of what appeared to be very sparkly clothes covered in cat hair. It was several of my long-lost pieces of clothing. I immediately jumped up (which is getting more and more difficult to do these days seeing as how my ass is now growing a baby) and hugged all of my beautiful, formerly missing pieces.

  Apparently, Butterscotch has been hoarding the clothes he finds particularly attractive and building a little nest. In college, I used to hide my favorite articles of clothing when I went to class since Julie was notorious for “borrowing” the skirt or shirt or whatever I was planning on wearing myself. Never once did I think I would have to hide my clothes from my cat. But at least he has good taste, especially in lingerie.

  Thursday, September 20

  I gave most of the clothes Butterscotch stole to Sam. As I looked through them, I realized sequined tube tops, low-cut camisoles, and a velvet-and-leather bustier are probably not realistic fashion choices at this point since I don’t see myself clubbing anytime soon.

  So, Sam reaps the benefits of the life choices I’ve sown.

  I’m embarrassed to say I’m a little depressed. It was like packing up my youth into a garbage bag and handing it over to my sister with all those good times still ahead of her. I mean, it’s not like I actually want to go to a club or even bar-hopping, but it’s still a little sad to have total confirmation those days are most likely squarely behind me.

  As is the case these days, when my personal life takes a dip, my work life seems to dovetail. The invitations for the Flynn wedding arrived this morning and when I opened the box, I discovered “Flynn” was spelled “Flan,” as in the Mexican custard dessert. Although flan is quite delicious and I found the misspelling slightly humorous, I sincerely doubted the WASPy Flynns would feel the same way. So, I called the stationer and screamed and ranted until they agreed to have them all reprinted and overnighted by next week.

  Mule Face, of course, said, “Didn’t you get a proof ahead of time? This kind of stuff always seems to happen to your events. It never happens to mine.” Then, “Mmmm. Flan,” in a Homer Simpson voice, and proceeded to buy four Snickers bars from the vending machine and wolf them down.

  I found this deeply disturbing since there were none left for me.

  Friday, September 21

  With the wedding invitations in the process of being reprinted, I sat at my desk this morning and checked the news on my computer, when a window indicating a new e-mail popped up. I clicked away from the Web site and opened the e-mail. It was from Sam, one of those chain forwards with twenty questions you’re supposed to answer about yourself and send back. I scrolled through the e-mail with no intention of filling it out, partly due to the fact forwards are Sam’s primary method of communication with me. A few weeks ago, I’d e-mailed her to ask her what she was planning on getting our mom for her birthday and she replied with a chain letter forward I was supposed to pass on to ten people or suffer horrible luck for all of eternity. I didn’t send it. Because I am a rebel.

  I almost deleted the e-mail, but my name caught my eye. It was the answer to the question “What person do you most admire and why?” She answered, “My sister, Clare. She’s a cool big sister and I def. want to be like her.” A few tears actually pricked in my eyes as I read, “cool big sister” again. I thought, She loves me. She looks up to me. She wants to hang out together and read magazines and get manicures.

  I immediately picked up the phone and dialed her cell phone since I knew she was off from school. She answered on the fourth ring, right before it went to voicemail.

  “Hi, Clare,” she said in a singsong voice.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “No-thing.” Singsong voice again.

  “I just saw this forward you sent me.”

  “Oh,” pause, “Leah just sent it to me.” I could hear the trill of her instant messenger in the background.

  “So, you admire me, huh?”

  “What? Oh, yeah. Whatever. I mean, most everyone else put their sisters down, so I figured I’d just do whatever and just changed the name to yours.”

  “Oh. Well, it was really cool to read it.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Whatever, Clare. I have to go, I’m talking to my friend.”

  “OK, talk to you later.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  Tuesday, September 25

  I spent the weekend moping around, complaining to Jake that Sam and I will never be close, we’ll never have a good relationship, we’ll never have a sisterly bond, and we’ll never understand each other. I used this to justify a massive consumption of double-chocolate frosted brownies. Also, was for the baby.

  As I shuffled home from work yesterday, down th
e hallway to our apartment, already dooming myself to another depressive evening, I stopped as I walked past our new neighbor’s door. A giant banner plastered there proclaimed, CHAMPAGNE WAYNE IS BACK!

  I relayed this to Jake. Immediately, we were curious. Who was Champagne Wayne? An alcoholic? Man just out of prison? Just another addition to our already freaky building?

  Today, we actually met Champagne Wayne. Just how I pictured him: spiky hair coming dangerously close to an ’80s mullet (excuse me, bi-level), leather pants, open purple silky shirt, and about forty pounds of gold chains. His eyes lit up when he saw us in the hallway.

  “Hey there, neighbors!”

  We were momentarily stunned, since none of our other neighbors have ever spoken to us.

  “Hi,” we replied in unison.

  “I’m Champagne Wayne, your new neighbor,” he said.

  “We figured, from your sign,” Jake said.

  He ran his hands through his spiky almost-mullet and outstretched his arms, smiling. “I had to let everyone know I’m back!”

  “Back from what?” I asked.

  “From prison.”

  I looked at Jake with an I told you so look.

  “The prison of being married to my bitch-ass ex-wife! Oh, sorry,” he said, glancing at me. “I got myself a divorce and now Champagne Wayne is back! I’m having a party this weekend. You guys should come!”

  We looked at him, trying to rein in our looks of no fucking way.

  “We’ll try,” Jake said.

  We made our escape into our apartment. We barely got the door closed before busting out in laughter.

  “Can you believe that guy?” I asked, gasping for breath.

  “Love the chains! And the chest hair!” Jake said, his face turning as purple as Champagne Wayne’s shirt.

  “Like we need another weirdo around here,” I said.

  “Oh, honey, pot meet kettle,” he said, and kissed me.

  Wednesday, September 26

  I think I’ve discovered why Champagne Wayne’s bitch-ass ex-wife left him: because he never sleeps!