A Bump in the Road

by Maureen Lipinski

  “You know what I mean! Do you think it means he just thinks I’m easy so he wants to hook up again, or something more?”

  “Well,” I said thoughtfully while I chewed on my pen, “I think it means something more because he asked you out for dinner and drinks, not just drinks. Plus, he didn’t say anything like, ‘Let’s do it again soon,’ you know?”

  “Yeah. That’s what I think, too. What am I going to wear? I need to cut out early and go shopping. I need an outfit that says classy but not stuffy. And I definitely shouldn’t dress sexy, well, since I already gave away the farm on that one.”

  “Yep. Hey, I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it’s more like I wanted to tell you something.” And . . . cue the sweating. “Reese mentioned she’d like to throw me a shower, too, so—”

  “That bitch! I knew she would—,” Julie exploded.

  “Shut up a minute. Listen to me. I’m sick of this shit between you two. I’ve put up with it for years now and I’ve had it. I love you both but this ends now. You both want to throw me a shower and that can’t happen for a number of reasons. So, I’m asking if you’ll do one together.”

  “Are you kidding?” Her voice was black and flat.

  “No. I’m not.”

  “So, you want me to call up Mrs. June Fucking Cleaver and pretend to be all nicey-nice and ask her about, oh, I don’t know, what it feels like to have accomplished ironing your husband’s pants that day? You can’t be serious. You’re insane.”

  “Julie, cut the shit. We all used to be friends. You two used to be friends. I am still her friend. Do this for me.”

  “Should I call her up and tell her about how Matt tried to kiss me?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, yeah? I didn’t tell you that? He tried to make out with me when he was wasted.”

  “No. You didn’t tell me. When was this?”

  “About three weeks ago. I saw him at Le Passage. He was tanked with some work buddies. I went up and said hello and he told me about how fucking boring his life is and how he just wants to party. And then he leaned in and tried to kiss me.”

  “You’re joking. What did you do?”

  “Nothing. I told him to go fuck himself and to go home to his wife and kid.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. Then I poured my drink over the crotch of his pants and left.”

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe this.”

  “Are you serious? Matt’s always been a slimeball. I don’t know why you keep giving him the benefit of the doubt. Or why Reese married him.”

  “You know how Reese is. She was looking for some stability. She thought Matt could give that to her.”

  “A lot of good it did her. I’m not going to feel sorry for her, though, that bitch is sitting up there in her million-dollar mansion and passing judgment on the rest of us fuckers.”

  “No, she’s not. She’s just—”

  “Don’t even start. Another word and there is no way in hell I’m doing this baby shower.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “God, I hate you.”

  “I know.”

  “Fine, I’ll do it. But you so owe me.”

  “Anything you want.”

  “Yeah, well,” her voice changed, “then you can lend me your black pearl necklace for Saturday.”

  “As long as you don’t use it as some kind of sex toy.”

  “Forget it then,” she said, and laughed.

  “Whatever, so you’ll do it?”

  “Yeah, I’ll do it. Only because I love you. Not because I hate her any less.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I hung up the phone and collapsed back in my chair. I debated calling Reese and telling her what Julie said about Matt, but I knew the message would get lost in translation. Reese is never going to face reality until she really wants to. That was a lesson I learned years ago. Regardless, this is going to be one interesting baby shower.

  Friday, October 19

  Shower dread aside, I had to go over to the hospital today for the infamous one-hour glucose test. Apparently it tests for diabetes during pregnancy. When I got to the hospital lab, a nurse handed me a cup filled with orange liquid tasting like Orange Crush. I actually enjoyed it until the nurse checked her watch and instructed me to “Chug it!” since I was supposed to drink it all within five minutes or something. Being the former flip cup champion, I chugged that baby down in record time.

  While waiting out the hour, I sat in a very uncomfortable chair until they could draw my blood and release me into the general population. I had prepared by bringing several People magazines, but read very little since I was totally distracted listening to another pregnant woman describe in detail how her diarrhea was so bad she was afraid of pooping her baby out and could the nurses please check to make sure the baby is OK? Then, her husband and three-year-old came to wait with her. The three-year-old threw herself down on the ground and screamed while the parents ignored her and read Parenting magazine. I found it very ironic since the cover story detailed how to discipline toddlers.

  Finally, an hour was up and the nurse drew my blood. I winced a little when the needle went in, as I always do. I would much rather they take blood from any other body part, eyeballs included, than my inner arm. It always skeeves me out for some reason. But, being the compassionate caregiver, the nurse chastised me and said, “Honey, you think this is bad, just wait until your epidural wears off while they’re stitching up your episiotomy cut. Now quit moving around.”

  We, as a human race, need to invent a better way for babies to be born. Like a way not involving vaginas or stitches or needles. I must ask Dr. Clarke about this at my appointment on Tuesday.

  Tuesday, October 23

  Dr. Clarke said two very scary words at my appointment today: “third” and “trimester.”

  It’s true, I’m really in it. Which means Mr. Skeletor is just about two-thirds of the way done, and I have close to zero things done for his arrival. Like, oh, small things—pick out a name, get the nursery ready, cover up sharp pointy things in my apartment, move the cases of wine currently occupying where his crib will go, actually buy a crib, etc. Like I said, small things.

  So yeah, I know I said he needs to pack his shit up and move out at forty weeks, but I’m willing to extend the lease for a while. We can try it on a month-to-month basis, as long as he respects the management and doesn’t throw wild parties or anything.

  One of my readers did put it into perspective, though. She said, “Think of it this way—two-thirds of the way done means only one-third longer until you can drink again.” That does help because while I’m terrified of actually having a baby who I’ll have to protect from choking hazards and poisonous materials, I’d sell my kidneys—both of them and probably Jake’s, too—to drink a pitcher of margaritas.

  Wednesday, October 24

  To celebrate my third trimester, Mule Face brought in cupcakes for everyone today. (How did she even know? It wasn’t like I told her. She must be tracking my pregnancy on her own. Scary.)

  Well, she said it was to celebrate the third trimester, but the cupcakes were decorated with little “Here Comes the Bride” designs on them, as if anyone could forget she’s getting married next weekend. She has stopped doing any form of work since last week and started cornering innocent coworkers in their offices, the conference room, even the bathroom to blabber on about last-minute details. She talks for so long I start praying my phone will ring so I can get rid of her. Or, at least wonder if I can discreetly grab my cell phone and dial my own office number.

  The greatest part about her bringing in the cupcakes today was she sent out a blast e-mail to everyone saying, “Cupcakes in the conference room. First come, first severed.” To which Tom, one of the interns, hit Reply All and said: “Severed? I don’t think so. I’d like to have a cupcake but I don’t feel like getting anything cut off so no thanks.”

  Mule Face just lau
ghed and thought Tom was flirting with her, but the rest of us all know she makes him want to cut out his eyes with a spoon so he won’t have to watch her eating strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts every morning. That’s a direct quote.

  Friday, October 26

  I think I have a hangover from all the sugar on Mule Face’s cupcakes. In spite of myself, I ate close to five yesterday. I didn’t want to eat so many, but the baby did. Being a good and indulgent mother, I went ahead and allowed him the treat.

  He’s been flipping around like crazy today and tapping my cervix periodically. I’ll be sitting at my desk and suddenly an electric jolt will run through my body. It’s like having a portable internal lightning rod.

  I asked him to please chill out so I could make sure the Flynn wedding invitations went out today but he ignored my request and gave me a swift kick to the ribs for good measure.

  Disobeying me already? Not a good sign.

  After the invitations went out this morning, Irene called and said she and Rachael would be in this afternoon to discuss favor details. I walked to the bathroom to check my appearance before they arrived. I looked awful so I went down to my car and grabbed my makeup case for a few touch-ups.

  Christina was in the bathroom. “Hi, Clare. I hear the Flynns are on their way over.”

  “Yep. They should be here shortly.” I placed my makeup bag on the vanity with some hesitation. I pretended to adjust my contact lens for a few moments until Christina snapped her purse closed and raised her eyebrows at me.

  “Good luck,” she said, then patted me on the shoulder and walked out.

  Immediately after she left, I opened my makeup case and reapplied my eye shadow. I hate pulling out my makeup in front of other people. I wish I could be one of those women whose makeup is all one brand, like Laura Mercier or M.A.C., and it’s all shiny and new-looking and kept in a pristine case so when someone asks to borrow something, I could say “Sure” with ease and hand them a gorgeous shade of blush. Instead, my bag is filled with a mish-mosh of drugstore brands mixed in with a few expensive brands. I also have eye shadows with the plastic covering popped off, so every now and then I reach into my case and come out with a nail bed full of plum eye shadow.

  So it is understandable why I wouldn’t feel my most professional if I were standing next to my boss, applying Wet ’n’ Wild eye shadow with one of those plastic applicators that comes in the compact.

  Someday, maybe someday, I’ll be one of Those Women, a woman who only has beautiful silk underwear and thongs in her underwear drawer, instead of half nice and half junky stuff. A woman with no skeletons in her beauty closet. But for now, I’ll just have to look like one, since I doubt Rachael Flynn buys any of her makeup at Walgreens.

  Monday, October 29

  Julie texted me this message this morning:

  Black pearl necklace worked. Ben was a dream and even better the second time around. So hot. So good. Just wanted to give you an update.

  J.

  P.S. Talked to Reese. Do you know if she has scheduled her sorely needed stick-removal-from-ass surgery yet? Let me know. I’d like to send flowers.

  Well, at least they spoke.

  Wednesday, October 31

  Along with the lightning rod cervix kicks, Mr. Skeletor has also blessed me with an overwhelming waterfall of emotion.

  Suddenly and out of the blue.

  On today of all days. On Halloween. The holiday for strange happenings, hauntings, and ghoulish occurrences. In the true spirit of Halloween, I thought of something truly bizarre today: Jake and I will have a child to take trick-or-treating next year. Of course, he’ll still be a wee one and we’ll probably have to carry him from house to house and then we’ll steal his candy, but still. A kid. To dress into a costume and take out into the world.

  I saw all the little trick-or-treaters as I drove home from work today. Dusk was just beginning to settle and as I saw the groups of pumpkins, witches, and zombies trekking up and down the block, I felt a pang. A pang because someday, Skeletor is going to be one of those little kids. I got a little teary-eyed and switched on the radio, hoping I’d hear some Eminem or something so I could focus on the profanity-filled lyrics rather than my overflowing emotions.

  Eminem was not on the radio.

  The Beatles were, however. “In My Life,” to be exact.

  Well, that did it. The lyrics about loving someone more than everything that had come before just about killed me. The tears overflowed and rained on my steering wheel. I tried to brush them away quickly, lest they impair my vision and I run down some kid dressed as Harry Potter.

  I was still crying as I walked into our apartment. Jake was already home.

  “What’s wrong?” He jumped up and bounded over to me as soon as he saw my tear-streaked face.

  “Song . . . Beatles . . . Halloween . . . witches . . . Eminem . . . love you more . . . things that went before . . . so moving!” I blubbered.

  “Er, yes.” He patted me on the shoulder.

  “You don’t understand! I’m talking about our child here! Don’t you care?” I shouted at him, hands on my hips.

  He stared at me, not sure how to proceed. “Of course I care. I love the baby,” he finally said.

  “Good. Me too,” I hiccupped out. “I love the Beatles, too.”

  “Er, yes,” he said again, totally bewildered.

  Saturday, November 3

  I woke up this morning feeling awful. At first I thought it was still the lingering effects of a Halloween candy hangover, but I quickly realized my discomfort had more to do with my sudden enormity than too many mini Three Musketeers. After the requisite bathroom trip this morning, I lay back down in bed and wondered if I’d be allowed to join Celebrity Fat Camp after I had the baby.

  It appears as though, literally overnight, I’ve become huge. Even Jake muttered an exclamation under his breath when he saw me this morning.

  The worst part about turning into a tank overnight is I can no longer squeeze myself into a good portion of my clothes, including the cocktail dress I planned on wearing to Mule Face’s wedding tonight. It literally came down to a choice between buying a new dress this afternoon or throwing a bed sheet over myself in a nouveau toga-style dress. Since there was no way I wanted to spend money on a dress for Mule Face’s wedding, option A was out. Since we didn’t have any clean sheets, option B was out. So, in conclusion, as much as it seriously disappoints me, we aren’t going to the wedding.

  I am so depressed. I was so looking forward to laughing at the iPod hooked up to speakers operating as the DJ, the hideous bridesmaid dresses, and the fried chicken buffet. Everyone at work on Monday is going to be recapping the wedding and I’m going to be clueless. Maybe it’s just as well. Watching Mule Face and Big D do their choreographed dance to Aladdin’s “A Whole New World” might drive me to drink.

  So, Jake and I are going to have dinner and get some Cold Stone Creamery, Skeletor’s favorite treat now. He’d better knock it off soon though, I don’t want to have to work off three gallons of cake batter ice cream after he’s born. I’ve already gained thirty pounds, and twenty-nine of that had better be baby.

  Oh, and speaking of Skeletor, Jake suggested another name last night: Corbin. I asked him if he was on drugs, which he took as a no.

  Monday, November 5

  I bounded out of bed this morning, eager to arrive at work and hear the reviews of Mule Face’s wedding from my coworkers. As I left my apartment, I saw Champagne Wayne in the hallway. It was about eight thirty and he looked like he was just getting home, dressed in a purple suit reeking of cigarettes and carrying a glass with brown liquid in it.

  “Heya!” he slurred.

  “Hi, Wayne,” I said, and tried to walk past him.

  “Hey! Wait! You looksh good!” He patted my stomach.

  It’s nice to know I’ve still got it.

  I was only at my desk for ten minutes before my phone rang. I let it go to voice mail and listened to the message. Just as I thought,
it was Reese.

  “Clare, sorry to bother you with this, but I have to get your opinion about something for the shower. Julie wants it in a bar, which I think is totally inappropriate for a baby shower. I was thinking we could have it at the Four Seasons and do an afternoon tea. Well, call me and let me know what you think.”

  Just another daily phone call asking me to take a side. I ignored all of the phone calls, e-mails, and text messages and just told them to work it out; I didn’t care. Because I don’t. I truly don’t care where it is, who is invited, or what color the tablecloths are. All I care about is that we all get through it so I can have this baby already.

  Wednesday, November 7

  With a few short weeks until the deadline, not even half of the Flynn-Shepard RSVPs are in yet. Irene assured me their guests are always very prompt in responding to invitations but I’m thinking she’s never the one managing the process. It’s probably her assistant or some poor event planner. I’m praying a crapload more come in before next week because I do not want to call all of the Flynns’ equally rich and snotty friends.

  I was just about to pick up the phone and make my daily phone call to Irene when Julie called.

  “So, aren’t you going to ask me how my date with Ben was?”

  “Oh, God, I totally forgot. Sorry, it’s been crazy. How was it?”

  “Fabulous. Amazing. We went to Tavern on Rush for dinner and then met his friends out at a bar.”

  “That’s great. How were his friends?”

  “Most of them were OK, but the girls were bitches and looked me up and down and then ignored me like I was trailer trash.”

  “Did Ben notice?”

  “Of course not. Typical guy.”

  “So, what exactly is going on between you two?”

  “Oh, who knows. We’re just having fun. Nothing serious.”