A Bump in the Road

by Maureen Lipinski

  WTF?

  Josh: “Clare?”

  Me: “I’m here. Josh, I really—”

  I stopped suddenly as I caught sight of my e-mail outbox, displaying the subject of the e-mail to Josh as “miss you!” Crap. I sent Jake’s e-mail to Josh instead. Outlook must’ve automatically filled out Josh’s e-mail address instead of Jake’s when I typed “J” in. I had just told our car salesman I miss him and can’t wait to see him.

  I awkwardly tried to explain what happened, but I’m pretty sure he still thinks I have the hots for him. What is also completely disgusting is he sounded somewhat into a fling with a pregnant lady. It’s too gross to even contemplate. So, I’m just going to forget about it and work on fine-tuning my list of baby items to include in my registry. I asked Julie to go with me since Jake’s out of town. I thought about asking Reese, but I didn’t want to bother her with my own, very insignificant issues considering her personal crises.

  Jake was pretty disappointed I picked this weekend to register. He claimed he wanted to help pick out everything for Skeletor, until I whipped out my PowerPoint presentation about why we should register for the expensive stroller (biggest reason: it’s awesome) versus a much more economical version, and his eyes started to glaze over. After ten minutes, he said, “OK, go ahead and register this weekend. I trust you. Pick whichever one of those go-kart things you want.”

  “Go-kart things?”

  “Strollers. You know what I mean.”

  10:00 P.M.

  Julie was supposed to come over after work. She was supposed to call me when her train got in so I could pick her up at the station. We were supposed to hang out and order a pizza.

  She called me at six and I grabbed my keys.

  “You here?” I answered.

  “Well, um, no.” She sounded a little drunk.

  “What?”

  “I went out for a few drinks after work, just for one drink, ya know. And my coworker insisted on buying everyone a shot of tequila. And then beautiful Hot Dr. Ben showed up—” I heard rustling in the background. “Here, I have one.”

  “Julie?”

  “What? Oh, Clare, sorry, I’m in the bathroom.” Calling me from the bathroom definitely meant she was drunk. “Anyway, he keeps buying me drinks. But I swear I’m leaving after the next round. Just one more drink and I’ll be on the next train so we can hang out.”

  Yeah right. I knew even if she did make it to the train station after another drink the odds of her getting on the right train were pretty slim and she could end up in Milwaukee.

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s Hot Dr. Ben, I understand. Just stay in the city tonight and come out tomorrow morning.”

  “No. I’ll be on the next train.”

  “Seriously, no. Stay tonight and get fabulously drunk and get some ass.”

  “Really?”

  “Hell yes! One of us should be doing something worthwhile.”

  “OK, I love you and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Use a condom!” I shouted into the phone before hanging up.

  It is probably best this way. In the old days, Julie would come out and we’d hang out all night, drinking wine and apple martinis and watching snippets of movies in between pouring more drinks and smoking cigarettes outside. Now, even though we’ve been friends for years, who wants to hang out with a sober pregnant lady or a mom, even a cool one? I know we’ll always be friends, but the thought of us no longer being as close breaks my heart. I’m going to banish those thoughts out of my head and be grateful Julie is giving up her weekend, most of it anyway, to hang out with me in the suburbs and help me register for baby stuff. If that doesn’t equate to friendship, I don’t know what does.

  I’m going to go flip on a movie and settle in with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

  Sunday, October 14

  Julie finally called from the train station around noon yesterday, dying from a hangover. Seeing as how I’d been up since seven due to the world’s fullest bladder, I was ready when she called. When I arrived five minutes later, I spotted her. She had her sunglasses on, Starbucks in hand, and was wearing a maroon sweat suit and gray T-shirt. Her hair was thrown carelessly into a loose knot on top of her head. She still had on shoulder-dusting sparkly earrings from last night. She opened the car door and sat down.

  “Hey.” She grimaced as she closed the door.

  “Wow. Good night?”

  “Oh my God. You don’t even understand. I am so motherfucking hungover right now but I don’t even care because last night I had the Best. Sex. Ever. Seriously.” She flipped off her sunglasses and stared at me with her bloodshot eyes. “Seriously,” she repeated. “I think I’m still a little drunk. And somewhat chafed. But I don’t care. It was so worth it.”

  “At least someone had a good night last night. I spent my evening sitting on my fat ass, eating gummi bears.”

  “God, I’m so sorry I bailed on you last night.” She leaned back and closed her eyes and slowly opened them. “I really wo—PULL OVER!” She sat straight up.

  “What?” I asked, nearly driving off the road.

  “Dunkin’ Donuts! Can we stop there? I’d sell my soul for a breakfast croissant right now.”

  After we stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts, I finally got Julie up the stairs to my place, her wincing all the way. She flopped down at the kitchen island and practically inhaled her sandwich, peppering the air with details about last night’s sexual escapade.

  “God, I can’t wait to see him again. He’s so perfect—totally hot, great body, athletic but not one of those meathead guys who works out all the time, white teeth but not plastic soap-opera-star white, amazing skills but not porn star–ish. I swear, he’s . . .” She trailed off.

  “He’s what?” I asked. I followed her gaze to the refrigerator, where last week I’d hung up a picture of Grace. I stayed quiet and waited for her response. I saw a look of sadness cross her face as her eyes softened but it passed quickly and she rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  “Anyway, it was amazing.”

  I wanted to bring up the Reese subject, but I knew better and just smiled.

  “So, are you ready to pick out some baby shit?” I asked her.

  She crumpled up her sandwich wrapper, jumped off the kitchen stool, and clapped her hands together. “Hell yeah, I am. Bring it on!”

  We arrived at the mouth of hell, a.k.a. Baby World, an hour later since we mutually deemed it necessary to arm ourselves with Icees. Julie and I paused and glanced at each other before we walked in. Immediately, we were assaulted in each of our sensory organs with all things baby—a vomitous mass of pink and blue clothing, sounds of screaming children, and the smells of overripe diapers.

  “Fuck this,” Julie said, and tried to turn around and bolt but I grabbed her jean jacket collar and hissed into her ear.

  “Leave me here alone and I’ll slit your throat.”

  Before she could respond, a perky salesgirl appeared.

  “Hi! I’m Kayla! Can I help you two with anything today?”

  We pasted smiles on our faces. “Sure, Kayla. I’m here to register today.”

  Kayla clapped her hands together. “CONGRATULATIONS! Oh my goodness! What a miracle! How overjoyed you must be!”

  Julie shot me a look that clearly said, this bitch is crazy.

  “Yeah, um, thanks. So, can I have one of those gun zapper things?”

  “Well, dear, we just need to get you all started. Follow me.” We walked past a somewhat frightening display of what were called Exersaucers but looked like spaceships for children. “OK. So. Will the father be joining you today?” She smiled at me and I wondered how many uppers she took before her shift.

  “No.”

  “No?” She frowned.

  “No.” I realized she thought I was some unwed crack whore. Judgmental bitch. “No, there is no father. Good thing the baby will have two mommies!” I elbowed Julie hard and she woke up and jerked.

  “What?”

  “Honey,
I was just saying how lucky our boy is to have two mommies.”

  Julie didn’t miss a beat. “Yep, honey!” She grabbed my hand while Kayla tried to cover her disgust.

  “OK, well, who should we put as the coregistrant?”

  Julie smiled and stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Jake.”

  After a few more comments from Julie about frozen sperm and turkey basters, Kayla released us on our own recognizance to go forth and register. Julie immediately ran over to the aisle containing breast pumps. She grabbed one off the shelf and put one of the cups on her boob. “Oh, baby, yeah. Right there, harder!” she yelled as though in the throes of an orgasm while a woman next to her gave her a dirty look. “Oh my God—look at this! Nipple cream! Is that for sex or something?” she shrieked in the loudest possible voice. She noticed the woman giving her looks of death. “What? Relax.”

  Not wanting to have to break up a fistfight in Baby World, I grabbed Julie’s sleeve and dragged her over to the high chairs.

  “OK. This is the one that is supposed to be good according to the Internet. What do you think?” I said, and pointed to one of the high chairs.

  “Looks good to me,” Julie said.

  We turned the corner and walked down the bouncy seat aisle.

  “What the hell are these?” she asked.

  “Um, they’re seats that bounce. They’re supposed to keep the baby quiet.”

  “Look, it vibrates!” Julie said, as she switched the display model on. “It’s like a massage chair for babies!”

  “That’s a must-have,” I said, zapping the bar code with my registry scanner gun. “Skeletor will need a good, relaxing massage after he realizes he has idiots for parents.”

  So we moved around, zapping things that looked good and rolling our eyes at things we deemed psychotically unnecessary. Like baby wipe warmers.

  “Who would buy this crap? Some people will buy anything,” I said.

  “Twenty-five-piece knife set.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Ron Popeil. Last year. Twenty-five-piece knife set,” Julie said.

  I thought she forgot about that. I have a soft spot for (read: uncontrollable need to buy) anything Ron Popeil is hawking on an infomercial. The rotisserie oven, the food dehydrator, name it and I’ll not only buy it but obsessively watch the infomercial every time it’s on. I ordered the Ron Popeil Automatic Pasta Maker five years ago, used it once, and quickly realized I had no desire to make my own pasta and shoved it in a drawer. But by God, every time that infomercial comes on, I say, “Jake, look at how cool it is!” Then he says, “We have the fucking thing, remember?”

  Last year I came home drunk and ordered the Ron Popeil twenty-five-piece knife set at three in the morning. I didn’t even remember doing it until the box showed up and I pretended it was a surprise gift for Jake.

  So, I guess I have no right to question why people buy useless crap, because if there was an infomercial hawking the wipes warmer, holy hot damn, I’d order four of ’em.

  We finally finished registering two hours later after taking the strategy to register for everything and I could tweak it later online. I think Julie registered for some gum at the checkout counter.

  We went back to my place and collapsed on the couch.

  “God, I can’t believe all of the crap you need for a small baby,” I said.

  “Well, hopefully you’ll get most of it at your shower.”

  “Uh-huh,” I murmured, suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Don’t worry, I’m going to throw you the best fucking shower ever. And I’ll kick the ass of anyone who doesn’t give you an expensive gift.”

  I thought, Oh, man. How am I going to tell her Reese is throwing me one, too? I was too drained to mention it.

  “Great. Sounds like a plan. What do you want for dinner?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Sushi.”

  “Sounds good to me. It’s a date.”

  We spent the rest of the night munching on goma ae, shrimp tempura rolls, and spring rolls while watching Wedding Crashers. At one point, I started to doze off but was jolted awake as Julie rehashed her sexual experiences from last night in graphic detail. There’s nothing like the words “rock-hard cock” to bring me back to earth. After the movie, we turned out the lights and talked more in the dark before we fell asleep, like we used to in college.

  All in all, it was a pretty great night, one of the best we’ve spent together. And not even a drop of vodka was involved.

  Monday, October 15

  Although my weekend with Julie was something I sorely needed, I woke up this morning with a spiny ball of dread I couldn’t wash away, no matter how many Diet Cokes I chugged. Ever since Saturday night, when Julie mentioned throwing me a shower, the level of my stomach acid increased tri-fold. The thing is, there’s no way they can each throw me a shower. For starters, I don’t have enough people to invite to split the guest list in half. I thought about it all weekend, which basically meant I shrieked, “WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?” the second Jake walked in the door from his trip. He’s the one that came up with the Final Solution: they have to do the shower together.

  Just the thought makes me want to crawl into the closet, give birth in there, and emerge six months later. I’m envisioning bloody chunks of hair flying everywhere, biting, chairs being used as weapons à la Jerry Springer, the works. With me in the middle throwing holy water on everyone. Pretty much my worst nightmare. But I’ve thought about it and they’re just going to have to deal because I love them both and they’re my two best friends and we’re all adults and their feud is childish and they should both just shut the fuck up and do it, OK?

  Yeah, something like that.

  I figured Reese would be the easier one to crack, seeing as how she’s all distracted with her own personal tragedies, so I started with her. After stalling at my desk and checking my messages for the thousandth time, I picked up the phone.

  “Hello?” she answered.

  “Hey! It’s me. How’s it going?”

  “Clare. Hi. Good.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, no, not really, but aren’t you supposed to answer that question with a positive?”

  “I guess. Have you asked Matt about the e-mails yet?”

  Silence.

  “Why not?” I asked, exasperated.

  “Because I’m scared of what he’ll say,” she finally said in a wavering voice.

  “I know, hon. But you have to ask him,” I said gently.

  “I know. I’ll figure it out. Anyway, what’s going on with you?” she asked, her voice perking up.

  “Well! I went and registered this weekend.”

  “Ooohhh! That’s great. I’ll have to look it up online later. I’m sure you picked out some wonderful things. Speaking of which, you need to pick a date for your shower.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” I could feel my face start to get hot and a bead of sweat dripped down my cleavage just as Skeletor gave me a swift kick. “Just hear me out and don’t say anything until I’m done, OK?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I know you and Julie don’t exactly care for each other these days but I’ve stayed out of it, even though it’s been really hard on me.” I stopped and gulped some water down, camel-style. “But I love both of you. And you both want to throw me a shower, which I am so, so grateful for. But I can’t have two separate ones, it’s not fair to my other friends or family. So, I’d like you guys to work together on this.”

  Silence.

  “I’m done now,” I said.

  “You know I love you,” she started out slowly, “but Clare, she’s such a bitch to me. She thinks I’m some 1950s housewife because I stay home with my child.”

  She was right; I couldn’t refute it.

  “I know. I’m sorry that you guys have your problems, but you do have something in common—me! We all used to be friends until you two declared war on each other for some reason and it
has sucked for me ever since. Please do this for me, Reese. It would mean so much.” There was another long pause and I threw in another “please” for good measure. I heard a huge sigh of exasperation.

  “Do you know what she said to me at your bachelorette party? She told me to go home and masturbate to Desperate Housewives since my husband clearly wasn’t fucking me.”

  “I’m so sorry she said that. You know how she is. She’s always been a little jealous of everything you had. I really do think she misses you.”

  “Right.”

  “Please, Reese. For me?”

  “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  “Oh, God, thank you so much!”

  “But this doesn’t mean I’m going to keep my mouth shut if she says anything to me. I just hope she can refrain from saying the F word at your shower.”

  “Fine. Just please don’t kill each other. I don’t have time to visit you both in jail on a regular basis.”

  “Funny. Hey, what are you guys doing on Saturday night?”

  “Blockbuster and takeout, why?”

  “Let’s get together, the four of us. We haven’t been out in ages.”

  “Sure. Um, oh, wait. I forgot. I think Jake has some work thing we need to go to,” I lied.

  “Oh, really? That’s too bad. I wanted all of us to meet up. Maybe another time.”

  “Yeah, definitely.”

  I hung up with Reese and immediately began fanning myself with one of the Flynn-Shepard wedding invitations. I felt horrible I lied to her but I don’t want to fake my way through a dinner with Matt when I really want to cut his balls off and feed them to Butterscotch.

  I put my guilt aside and concentrated on my next task: calling Julie, who I knew would be less easily convinced.

  “Hey!” she answered.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Oh my God, Clare, I was just going to call you. Hot Dr. Ben just e-mailed me.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No. I’ll read it to you: ‘Julie, I had a great time on Friday night. Let’s get together again soon. Are you off on Saturday? If so—dinner and drinks? Ben.’ What do you think it means?”

  “Probably that he wants to have dinner and drinks on Saturday.”