“How did it go?” I asked her as I flung the door open before she had a chance to buzz in.
She looked terrible. Her mascara ran down her cheeks and pooled around her chin and her nose was bright red.
“Not so good,” she said quietly.
“What happened?” I asked, closing the door behind her.
“I showed him the e-mails and he denied everything. He said nothing was going on between him and Leslie and I was overreacting.”
“Isn’t that kind of what you expected?”
She dried her eyes on a wadded-up Kleenex as I glanced nervously toward the living room, where Julie was undoubtedly listening.
“He denied it but started saying all of these other things. Stuff about how he didn’t do anything with her but that he thought about it. About how getting married so young and having Grace makes him feel like he’s middle-aged. How he blames me for pressuring him into being a husband and father before he was ready. He said he feels like he’s trapped and I need to lay off and give him space.” Her face crumpled.
“Oh, honey. I’m sorry. You know that’s not true, don’t you?” I asked.
“What’s not true?”
“You didn’t pressure him into anything. He’s lucky to have you as his beautiful wife and father to his kids.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to—” Her head snapped up and I followed her gaze.
Julie appeared around the corner. She held a glass of wine in her hand.
“Fuck him,” she said, and extended the drink to Reese. Reese looked surprised but took the drink and wordlessly gulped it down in one long pour. She met Julie’s eyes and started to tear up again. Julie stepped forward and hugged her tightly.
They both stayed for another hour, until Jake got home from work. That whole time we both just sat silently and listened to Reese talk. Talk about how much she loves Grace, about how she has everything she thought she wanted, about how she doesn’t really have anything she wanted. Talk about how she doesn’t know what she’s going to do now.
I felt like I’d been treading water for hours by the time they both left. I felt like crying for Reese, because even if Matt didn’t cheat this time, I doubt their marriage will last. I don’t want it to last, but I wish I could make it all better for her. Even just for a moment. She deserves it. She deserves to be happy. Not just regular happy, but pure bliss, floating on a puffy cloud happy.
I emptied the dishwasher and went into the bedroom. Jake was lying on his stomach in bed, checking his e-mail on his laptop. I walked in and placed my cheek against his bare back and listened to the whoosh of his breathing.
Monday, December 17
I’ve been so distracted with helping Reese emotionally that Christmas is quickly sneaking up on me. I announced to Jake this afternoon that I would be going out Christmas shopping alone, since I wanted some peace and quiet, not to mention exercise. He didn’t argue.
Wanna know how it went? Here’s the entry I just typed for my blog:
You know those dumbasses who wait until the week before Christmas to do all of their shopping? You know, those idiots who end up standing in line, cursing under their breath, noses red from the extreme cold outside and hair plastered to their face due to the extreme warmth inside? The people who go to Sharper Image asking about some stupid car gadget thing and get laughed at by the sales clerk because the car thing is like, the most popular gift this year and they sold out weeks ago. The schmucks who, in an oblivious haze, actually set foot inside Toys ’R Us and then quickly leave, running back to the child-free safety of their motor vehicle, throwing holy water on themselves and praying in tongues God will let them forget a place like that exists on this good earth.
Yeah.
Wednesday, December 19
Seriously. How long does it take to read a few articles and then send off an e-mail saying, “We hate your writing. We think it sucks. Actually, we think you as a person suck and should be banned from ever picking up a pencil or composing so much as an e-mail ever again. We do not like you and we think you are ugly. P.S. We most definitely do not want to offer you a column.”
I am dying here. They need to just give me the answer, good or bad, so I can have a reason to eat the entire quart of cookie dough ice cream in the freezer.
Thursday, December 20
Dear Dr. Clarke:
Re: My Birth Plan
If you are wondering what to give me for Christmas, please read the following suggestions:
I have no wishes of greatness. I do not buy organic shampoo, I don’t wear hemp clothing, and my favorite food is Taco Bell; I am not an advocate for anything “natural.” Thus, please be aware I have absolutely no qualms about using every legally available drug to numb the pain of childbirth. I am also open to illegal drugs, should the need arise. I also realize this child is supposed to come out of my vagina and would like to discuss some other options, such as: if there is any way you could wave a wand and make the baby magically appear without any of that gross hospital stuff, I would like to sign up. Please let me know what my options are re: magical birth on pink puffy clouds.
Clare Finnegan
P.S. If there is any way you could wave your wand again and make me bikini ready immediately after the birth, that would be awesome. I’d also like a pony.
Saturday, December 22
The Christmas joy continues. I went to Target this morning to pick up a few last-minute gifts and nearly got knocked over by a lady who threw her body in front of me to get the last set of Christmas lights and then said, “Sorry! For my kids. You understand, don’t you?” I looked at her, wishing that I could strangle her with aforementioned Christmas lights and poke ornament hooks in her eyes, but then the headline “Crazed Pregnant Woman (Who Is Horrible Writer) Kills Shopper in Target and Then Eats Hot Dog” might not portray me in the best light so I just ate the hot dog instead.
I stomped into our apartment after the whole debacle, ready to spew hate and fire during my recollection of my morning, but Jake was sitting on the couch, head in hands. The reason being one of the greatest stories I’ve ever heard:
Jake and a few of his friends chipped in and bought an old busted van to use for tailgating at Bears games. They all got the bright idea to take it in and have it painted orange and blue with the Bears logo on the side. Jake went this afternoon to go pick the van up from the detailer. When I got home, I looked out the window.
“Why is the van still white?”
“They hmmmmhmsh,” he said.
“What?”
“They. Painted. The. Wrong. Van.”
Apparently they got his van mixed up with another one belonging to a nice family about to go on a road-trip vacation and just in for an oil change, and Jake got the oil change and some poor family has to drive down to South Carolina in an orange and blue van with a bear head painted on the hood.
It’s so awesome.
Sunday, December 23
In light of my rapidly approaching due date, my mom insisted on having a holiday tea with her “girls” to do some female bonding while I still have time and am not covered in head-to-toe baby vomit. Sam initially balked at the idea, but I think my mom threatened to return a few of her Christmas presents if she didn’t come.
I met my mom and Sam at the Peninsula Hotel at noon. I tried to look as put together as possible, which wasn’t easy since most of my maternity clothes are now too small. It unfortunately leaves me with the option to either buy new ones or parade around in the same two outfits. I’ve chosen the second option so this morning I squeezed my huge butt into a pair of black pants and a boxy sweater.
Sam surveyed me up and down when I met them in the lobby and said, “God, I hope maternity clothes get better when I’m pregnant.”
I smiled at my mom and then looked at Sam. “They are better. I’m just nine months pregnant so I can’t fit into most of them.”
“Oh,” she said as she narrowed her eyes. “Do you think the baby’s really big or something?�
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“I hope not, but we’ll see,” I said as we walked toward the tea room. “But at this point, I don’t really care. I just want to be done.”
“Ah, a sign of a woman nine months pregnant,” my mom said to me.
We approached the hostess stand and were led to our table. “So, what do they have here?” Sam said as she suspiciously eyed the tea menu.
“Uh, tea,” I said to her.
“That’s it? But I don’t like—ew!” She pointed to my stomach, which was visibly moving in waves.
“Oh, yeah. He doesn’t like these pants. Whenever I wear them, he gets really pissed and pushes back and rolls around a lot.” I shrugged my shoulders and tried to ignore the throngs of well-dressed women now staring at our table.
“That is so effing weird,” she muttered.
“That’s just what happens when the baby’s big and just about ready to be born,” my mom said to her. “What kind of tea are you guys getting?”
“The lemon,” I said, and closed my menu.
“Can I get champagne instead?” Sam asked.
“Nice try. No,” my mom said.
We ordered our tea and immediately a waiter placed a tiered tray of goodies on our table. “This is a pregnant woman’s dream,” I said as my swollen fingers gained artificial intelligence and jerked out and grabbed a fistful of scones before I even knew what happened.
“So, are you getting excited?” my mom asked. She spread cream on a scone.
“Yes and no. I’m excited to be not pregnant anymore but I’m a little nervous about caring for a baby. But I’m excited to see the baby and finally meet him. But I’m nervous to see what my body’s going to look like after he vacates the premises. I could go on and on. So, how’s that for an answer?”
Our waiter reappeared and set steaming cups of herbal tea before us. I took a moment to breathe in the scented steam, hoping it would revive my pasty complexion, before sipping delicately.
“Yum,” I said as I set my teacup back into its porcelain saucer.
“It is. So, Sam, aren’t you excited about the baby?” my mom said.
“What?” Sam was still eyeing her cup of tea with skepticism.
“About the baby? Aren’t you excited?”
“Oh.” She paused for about ten seconds before she nodded her head. “Yeah. Yeah. I am. It’ll probably be kind of cool.”
My mom smiled triumphantly at me.
“Really?” I said carefully.
“Yeah, yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” She rolled her eyes and leaned forward to grab a cookie.
“I don’t know, you just haven’t seemed that into it,” I said, and sipped my tea.
“Whatev. I am. You don’t know how I feel. I think it’ll be good,” she said.
“Well . . . thanks. That means a lot.” I awkwardly patted her hand. She smiled at me and we locked eyes. I was certain she was going to launch into a diatribe about how much she loves the baby and wants to be the baby’s godmother and be best sister friends. I smiled back at her, waiting.
“You know what?” she said.
“What?” I responded, my hopes soaring.
“These cookies are, like, amazing.”
“Yes. Yes, they are.” I laughed.
Tuesday, December 25
Merry effen Christmas.
I’m sorry, but I’m dying.
Skeletor has decided Christmas is truly the season of giving and his gift to me is making me feel like I’ve been kicked in the crotch. Repeatedly.
Nothing fits me anymore except for some gross black stretchy pants and a few short-sleeve tops, which has made for some interesting wardrobe choices at work. I haven’t slept more than two hours straight in a week despite feeling ready to fall asleep all of the time. My eating choices have been limited to Popsicles, the only thing that I can keep down since my stomach is compressed to the size of a pea.
I also found my first stretch marks this morning. I made the huge mistake of turning around and looking at my butt after I got out of the shower. I have four or five purple lines on my right ass cheek. Why only on the right one? I’m so glad I spent one hundred dollars on stretch mark cream last week. It seems to be working so well. Although, it’s really not as big a deal since my sex life decided to take an extended vacation.
Both Julie and Reese called to see if I wanted to exchange gifts but I told them unless they were planning on bringing over a scalpel to cut this child out of me to stay away. Not surprisingly, they did.
I can’t even get excited about any of my gifts, even though I did get some great stuff. My parents bought me a beautiful armchair and ottoman from Pottery Barn for the nursery and Jake got me a gorgeous necklace. Sam didn’t even tell me I look fat. But I just want to sit here and feel sorry for myself.
I started crying last night to Jake how I couldn’t believe it was Christmas already and how I didn’t even get to make Christmas cookies or watch How the Grinch Stole Christmas or drink cider. He wisely put me to bed. This morning when I woke up, I found a plateful of Christmas cookies in the kitchen. Jake stayed up all night baking them. They were a delicious breakfast, even though most of them were burned since Jake fell asleep while they were in the oven.
I am also getting worried because I’ve heard having a newborn is much harder than being pregnant. I pretty much hate being pregnant right now. Does this mean I’m going to hate being a mom? That I’m going to hate having a newborn even more than I hate being pregnant? Oh, God.
I haven’t heard anything from The Daily Tribune, despite sending several e-mails in which I tried to sound both professional and witty at the same time. I’m giving up. I’m going to eat that quart of cookie dough ice cream. Because that is something I don’t hate.
Thursday, December 27
Walking has now officially become waddling. No thanks to the massive quantities of ice cream I consumed last week.
Rock on.
Something else I’m thrilled about? The stranger in Starbucks this morning who gave me a fearful look and asked me if I was due yesterday. It took all of my strength not to squirt gingerbread latte into her eye sockets and scream “TWO MORE WEEKS!”
Then the UPS guy who delivers our mail at work said, “Dayum. You gonna have that baby any day now.”
Later, Mule Face was in the middle of a story about how her sister nearly died from pain during labor when I got another Braxton Hicks contraction and grimaced. She flipped out and screamed, “OH MY GOD. YOU’RE IN LABOR!” before I could shut her up.
I’m also getting at least fifty e-mails every day, asking if I’ve had the baby yet and offering tips to start labor.
At my appointment with Dr. Clarke this afternoon, she told me everything’s fine but there is no progress so far, which means jack is happening down there. She asked me if I was working from home yet and I told her I had to pull off a huge black-tie wedding first. She said not to worry, since I’ll most likely still be pregnant for a while. Then she told me she’ll wait until I’m two weeks overdue to induce me. I swear, if my reflexes weren’t a little slow these days due to massive water retention, I would’ve wrapped my fat fingers around her neck.
I think the ninth month of pregnancy is designed to make women so miserable, they stop worrying about (a) the pain of labor, (b) caring for a newborn, or (c) never sleeping again. I’m convinced it’s like a divine boot camp for new moms. The constant peeing means about two hours of sleep a night, I’m weepy and emotionally fragile about 99 percent of the day, and my lady parts are taking quite the beating due to Skeletor’s gymnastics. I can’t imagine childbirth and being a first-time parent being much worse. So, I asked Reese for her opinion.
“Trust me, it is” was all she said.
I’m not buying it.
Tuesday, January 1
Well, it happened. Just like Ryan Seacrest said. A new year is here. Which means one very important thing: the Flynn-Shepard wedding is over; Ms. Rachael Flynn is now Mrs. Rachael Shepard.
The wedding went fine, w
hich I can say since it is over. I spent a good majority of the reception policing a very intoxicated bridesmaid who drank too many vodka tonics before the ceremony even began. As a result, I was on my feet for close to twelve hours straight. By the end of the night, I resembled Miss Piggy with my engorged foot fat nearly busting the seams of my poor shoes.
It was also my first sober New Year’s Eve in about ten years, although Jake did not join me in my sobriety, and he’s been on the couch napping for most of the day.
The wedding is over so I will be working from home, which is a very good thing since I no longer fit behind my desk.
Another implication of this year rolling around is this is the year when we meet our human child. I’ve moved beyond the whole freaking out, oh my God we’re going to have a kid soon stage to THIS KID BETTER COME SOON BECAUSE I’VE BEEN PREGNANT FOR ONE HUNDRED YEARS.
Improvement? Jury’s still out.
Thursday, January 3
I’m working from home today and besides fielding a few follow-up calls from the Flynn-Shepard wedding, I’ve spent the majority of the morning with Bob Barker, in awe over the actual retail price of Ricola cough drops. Jake offered to stay home with me today, but I practically shoved him out the door because Please. It only takes one of us to sit around, feet tapping, staring impatiently at my stomach.
In preparation for Never Leaving the House Again, I’ve ordered groceries online and done every shred of laundry in sight, both of which took me an hour. So, in search of other ways to pass the time, I came up with a to-do list.
1.
Watch Flip That House.
A Bump in the Road Page 27
