A Bump in the Road

by Maureen Lipinski

  “Well, I’d love to meet—”

  “Oh! I forgot to tell you!” She cut me off. “Reese wants to give out favors of little engraved—”

  “Julie, cut it. You remember the rule.”

  “Fine. But you’re going to laugh so hard when this is all over and I can tell you what’s really been going on.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I gotta go. Amanda, our new nurse manager, has taken it upon herself to send out an e-mail chastising everyone on their excessive use of computer paper. I need to go kick some ass.”

  Thursday, November 8

  When I got home tonight from work, Jake was sleeping on the couch, face covered by a throw pillow. He claims he’s still exhausted from me keeping him awake with my shower worries the other night, but I swear, he’s the most well-rested person on the planet.

  “Message hsmmmmm,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Message on machine for you,” he managed to roll out of his mouth before turning over.

  I walked over to the blinking answering machine and pressed Play.

  “Hi, Clare, this is Kyle Tiesdale, reporter for The Daily Tribune. If you recall, I interviewed you a while back for the piece we did about your blog. We got a great response from the article so we’d like you to give us a call back to discuss a few things. Thanks.”

  “JAKE!” I screamed across the room.

  “WHAT?” He bolted straight up on the couch.

  “Did you listen to this message?”

  “No, I heard it was for you and stopped it. Who was it?”

  “The Daily Tribune. They want to talk to me about something.”

  “About what?”

  “I have no idea. They want me to call them.”

  “So, call them back.”

  “What do you think it’s about?”

  “Has to be something good, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “So pick up the phone.”

  I grabbed the cordless phone and walked into the bedroom and closed the door behind me.

  “Kyle Tiesdale,” she answered on the first ring.

  “Kyle, hi. It’s Clare Finnegan.”

  “Hi, Clare! Good to hear from you so soon.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Listen, we’re still receiving feedback from the piece we did several months ago about your blog. You have quite a loyal fan base.”

  “I do. They’re great.” My heart started to quicken.

  “We’re interested in having you do some occasional pieces for our Life & Style section. Would that be something you’re interested in?”

  Um, are you fucking kidding me?

  “Wow, yes. Of course I would.”

  “Great. Why don’t you pull together some writing samples and e-mail them over to me so I can show my editor and we’ll go from there.”

  “Sounds great. Thanks so much, Kyle.”

  I hung up the phone and started screaming. Jake ran into the bedroom, looking more than slightly alarmed. I barely squeaked out the news before he hugged me. I picked up Butterscotch and twirled him around. He responded by growling at me and biting my hand. I didn’t mind, though, because I’m going to be a world-famous newspaper columnist!

  Only problem is, I have to pull some writing samples out of my ass. But I’ll worry about that later. It’s much more fun to plot my future as an award-winning columnist.

  Friday, November 9

  My celebration was short-lived when I realized my baby shower is tomorrow and I’m about to be forced to open gifts in front of everyone and discuss why we haven’t picked a name yet.

  Hmmm . . . maybe I can write a sample article on the perils of baby showers?

  Saturday, November 10

  My alarm went off at 9:30 this morning but I was already awake. I went to bed at midnight but visions of pink and blue confetti and old women demanding more cake kept me awake. I spent most of the night throwing myself around the bed and sighing loudly, hoping Jake would wake up and notice. He just snored away, oblivious to my impending doom and mattress gymnastics. So, I spun like a chicken on a rotisserie for hours while he dreamed about the Bears winning the Super Bowl (and probably a world where his very cranky wife is twenty-five pounds lighter).

  I elbowed him when the alarm went off and he jerked suddenly out of his deep sleep and mumbled “Mhhrrhrr” and put his pillow over his head.

  “Not today, buddy,” I said as I grabbed his pillow off his head.

  “Five more minutes,” he said sleepily, and threw the cover over his head.

  “Dream on. This shower is for both of us, so get up.”

  Still covered by the duvet, he stuck one hand out and grabbed my thigh. “Shower. Both of us. Yes. Good idea,” he said.

  Our sex drives are still going strong during the pregnancy, so no way I passed that up.

  Jake and I arrived at Reese’s right at noon for the party. I smoothed my print jersey wrap dress and adjusted my four-inch heels before ringing the doorbell. I had fidgeted the whole way over and still couldn’t relax.

  Reese appeared at the door, dressed in fitted tweed pants covering a tiny bump and a perfectly pressed silk blouse.

  “Hey there!” she said brightly, showing a bit too much of her gums. She hugged both of us and led us inside, her baby blond hair swishing with every step.

  Julie was inside, standing in front of the George Bush photo, wearing a suede skirt, knee-high boots, and a very low-cut cashmere wrap top, laughing hysterically.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” Julie said, wiping her eyes and giving each of us a kiss on the cheek. “Have you seen this shit?” She pointed in the direction of the photo.

  We both shrugged, smiled, and rolled our eyes.

  She shook her head and handed Jake a baby blue drink. “Have a babytini.”

  “A what?” Jake said, holding the drink up and examining it.

  “A babytini—Hypnotiq, watermelon schnapps, and pineapple juice. You’ll either die from the alcohol content or the sugar content,” she paused and took a swig, “or both.”

  Jake took a sip. “Whoa. You might be driving home,” he said, and handed me the keys.

  I looked at Reese, who shrugged and mouthed “Sorry.” I smiled and shrugged. I knew the cocktails were Julie’s idea. I’m sure it was one battle Reese chose to give up, considering the shower was at her house and not a sports bar, like Julie had wanted.

  “Congratulations to the both of you!” said a male voice behind us. We turned and saw Matt standing there, holding Grace.

  My heart skipped a beat and we both awkwardly said, “Thanks,” not really meeting his eyes. I wanted to reach across the room and choke Matt with my bra for being a lying, cheating bastard.

  “Hi, Matt,” Julie said.

  Matt looked nervously at her and gave a small wave. We all stood around silently for a minute.

  Julie drained her glass and said, “Jake, another one?” He looked relieved and nodded and followed her into the sunroom. I saw Matt blatantly stare at Julie’s ass as she walked away. Grace began to fuss and Matt patted her diaper. “Oh. I think she needs to be changed.” He gave Reese an expectant look and she stared back at him. “Can you help me?” he sputtered out, waiting for Reese to jump and rescue him.

  “You can do it. It’s your day today. I have to get ready for the shower,” Reese said. They continued to stare at each other and I became acutely aware I was witnessing some kind of weird marital standoff.

  The doorbell rang and I practically tripped over myself, running toward it and yelling, “I’ll get it!”

  It was my mom and Sam.

  “Hey, honey,” my mom said, and stepped forward and hugged me. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of Marilyn Miglin perfume and for a second, the world stopped. There is something about my mother’s perfume that makes me feel like I’m five years old again, watching her put on her makeup before going out to dinner.

  Then she let go and I was brought back to reality.

&nb
sp; “Hey, Sam,” I finally said to my sister, as she had yet to acknowledge my presence.

  “Oh, hey. What’s up,” she said flatly. Turning back to her phone, she walked into the kitchen. “Oh, I know. She is such a bitch and—”

  Julie walked into the foyer and saw my face. She stepped in front of Sam and grabbed the phone. “This is mine until the party ends.”

  Sam put her hands on her hips but Julie extended a babytini toward her. “Trade?”

  Needless to say, she shut up.

  Within a half hour, all of the guests had arrived, including evil Gwen, who I acted all fake happy to see while silently praying she’d tuck her skirt into her underwear or something while in the bathroom.

  Matt finally left with Grace, making Jake the only male at the party, not that he noticed since he’d already had four babytinis by then.

  We did all of the standard baby shower things: ate crustless sandwiches, scarfed cake, and made pointless small talk. Everyone wanted to know what we are going to name Mr. Skeletor and when I would say we haven’t decided yet, they seemed to think it was an invitation for suggestions. Sorry, I’m not going to name my kid Billy because Jake’s weird aunt has “always loved the name.”

  Unfortunately, I was forced to open gifts in front of everyone and this time it was Julie’s turn to give me a sympathetic look, as it was clearly not her choice. It was fine, though, and we actually got a lot of good shit. Reese got me a day of pampering at a salon, Julie got me a bottle of Belvedere vodka (for after the baby’s born, she explained) and gold leaf earrings, and my mom and Sam bought us the Bugaboo stroller. So our dear child can rest his head in a stroller more expensive than the combined total of everything I’m wearing. Carrie gave us adorable clothes; well, mostly adorable except for the I LOVE CAMPING T-shirt. Marianne and Natalie bought us our high chair and car seat, having sent their regrets since Ash Leigh was sick and apparently it takes both of them to care for one small kid. I’m pretty sure Marianne is just pissed I refused to let them throw their own shower. Sorry, thanks but no thanks. I get enough torture being kicked in the ribs all day long without adding Jake’s family to the mix.

  The gift opening went pretty quickly and painlessly and pretty soon everyone was gone and it was just Jake and me, Reese, Julie, and my mom and Sam.

  And 50 percent of us were drunk.

  My mom left soon after, carting Sam out to go home and sleep it off. I knew this was my shot.

  “Reese. Julie. Come into the kitchen with me.” I grabbed Reese’s arm and shook it until she let go of the garbage bag she was using to clean up and grabbed Julie’s babytini with my other.

  “Oh, God. Come to Jesus meeting. Come to Clare meeting. Whatever,” Julie said as she waved her arms.

  “Come into the kitchen,” I ordered, and they followed me, rolling their eyes. “Listen. Guys. I don’t expect you two to be best friends again. But I love you both and it means so much to me that you did this together. And it was a beautiful shower, even more so because you guys both did it. I just wanted to tell you.”

  Julie rolled her eyes and Reese took a deep breath and stepped forward.

  “I love you, too. I’m so glad you liked the shower. You’ve been such a great friend and it was a little bumpy, but I think we pulled it off.”

  “You guys did more than pull it off, it was the best shower ever.”

  I looked at Julie and she suddenly became very interested in Reese’s countertop.

  “Julie?”

  “What?” she said innocently.

  “I’m trying to say thank-you to you guys.”

  “What?”

  “I’m trying to thank you guys for the shower.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “It wasn’t too terrible to work together, was it?”

  “Piece of cake,” Reese said.

  Julie took a long swig of her drink and set it down.

  “Julie?”

  “Like she said, piece of cake.”

  Knowing this was as close as they would get to a truce, I didn’t push any further. I was in such a good mood I didn’t even mind when I found Jake passed out on Matt and Reese’s bed, empty martini glass in hand.

  Sunday, November 11

  We lugged everything back from the baby shower and stacked it into the spare bedroom. I poked Jake awake this morning and forced him out of bed. I appointed today The Day We Shall Set Up the Nursery or, more appropriately, The Day When Jake Gets Mad and Says Fuck a Lot While Clare Eats Ice Cream and Cries.

  We rented our apartment almost two years ago after moving out of the city. At the time, we were so accustomed to city prices we were shocked, shocked, at how much more space we could afford by moving to the ’burbs. We were all, “Oh my God—there are two bedrooms! And two bathrooms! And closets! There are closets! For clothes! And a kitchen! Yippee!”

  We thought we would never fill 1,200 square feet of space with just little old us and our little old belongings, plus one obese cat. We were thrilled we didn’t have to sleep next to the cat’s litterbox and both of us could be in the kitchen at the same time instead of cooking dinner relay-race style.

  So, we moved in.

  Our amazement lasted approximately six weeks.

  All those closets we thought we’d never fill? Done.

  Our joy at having a place for the litterbox? Short-lived. We realized we needed the second bedroom to operate as just that occasionally, as opposed to our cat’s twenty-four-hour toilet.

  The kitchen we vowed to use daily to make gourmet meals because dude, we have a garbage disposal? Yeah, pizza is still easier.

  After a short while, the walls of our new spacious place began to close in on us. But we put off moving because it was something we could do after the wedding. And then we figured we’d live here just a bit longer and then buy a place. Besides, moving meant Scary Mortgage.

  So now, since we are very, very organized, we have one extra bedroom housing our junk mail, the cat’s shitbox, Jake’s clothes, and old power strips, cords, and extension cords knotted together in ropelike fashion. Plus a bunch of old boxes containing things like fifty empty CD cases, receipts from 1999, and beer bottle caps.

  I started the process by grabbing a big trash bag and throwing out every piece of paper I saw. This worked fine until Jake came in and started going through the bags and taking out stuff he “needs.”

  I have discovered my husband is secretly the male equivalent of the crazy cat lady who hoards her money under her mattress because she doesn’t trust the government. We threw out bags upon bags of old credit card receipts, years-old bank statements, every single credit card offer Jake ever got in the mail, and I’m pretty sure every piece of paper he’s come into contact with since birth. Apparently, every time he got a piece of mail he didn’t want to throw out, he shoved it into the spare dresser in the guest room. He claims he didn’t want to throw any of it out due to the possibility of identity theft, to which I quickly pointed out no one is desperate enough to want to steal either of our identities. He acquiesced and agreed to pitch everything but every time I tried to throw something out he would grab it and say, “Wait! I think I need this!” Again, my comparison to the crazy cat lady: “But he’s my favorite cat! You can’t give Fluffy to the pound, Mr. Officer. He’s all I’ve got left!”

  Then began the always fun-filled task of putting together furniture. Well, Jake put it together while I hovered over his shoulder, asking him each time if he could tighten the screws one more time. I’m pretty sure he wanted to stick the screwdriver in my eye, but I had visions of our crib collapsing on top of Skeletor and trapping him. Which immediately evoked visions of the scene in Happy Gilmore when the window air conditioner falls out of the window onto the elderly woman, so I started laughing hysterically.

  I’m going to hell for comparing a life-threatening baby situation to an Adam Sandler movie.

  Jake finally got all of the furniture assembled and in place while sweating profusely. It looks amazing, like a r
oom a real-life baby would sleep in. Except for on top of the dresser, within reach of Skeletor’s little hands, is a varied assortment of what I would classify as Not Child Appropriate due to the fact each can be at least one of the following: (a) swallowed, thereby killing child; (b) used as a weapon, thereby killing parents; or (c) porn. Such as: Jake’s golf clubs, speaker wires knotted together, an old cable box, a screwdriver, and a fiftieth-anniversary issue of Playboy. I’m thinking all that’s missing is a makeshift meth lab and a loaded handgun.

  1:00 A.M.

  We can also add cat urine to the list since Butterscotch is upset we moved his litterbox and continues to piss in the spot where it used to be: right under the crib. I think the cat urine smell will be perfect to mask the smell of cooking methamphetamine.

  Monday, November 12

  Mule Face got back from her honeymoon today. She strolled in pretending to be exhausted and spent most of the day making exasperated noises and claiming, “I’m so tired.” She passed around this big packet of souvenirs she got from Gatlinburg, including pictures of Big D sitting in a hot tub shaped like a champagne glass. Plus he has abnormally large nipples.

  She even e-mailed everyone the link to a Web site with her wedding pictures. It amazes me she believes anyone cares that much. When I got married, I never assumed people wanted to see my pictures because hello? Boring. It’s like the baby picture thing. Seeing fifty pictures of little Joey on your front lawn is so not interesting. I must remember this over the next few years.

  Wednesday, November 14

  Who cares I’ve spent the last two days listening to Mule Face’s honeymoon stories? Or Skeletor loves to perform a rendition of Michael Flatley’s Lord of the Dance on my cervix all day long. It doesn’t matter because the world is a beautiful, amazing place filled with good-hearted and loving people.

  Several of my readers chipped in and bought me a bunch of items off my registry, including our oh-so-expensive but oh-so-beautiful bedding set and a cashmere blanket. They called it my “virtual shower.” I immediately posted a slightly blubbery entry thanking everyone, complete with pictures of Butterscotch looking disgusted when I wouldn’t allow him to lounge on Skeletor’s new blanket.