So yes, I will be having a glass of wine tonight.
12:00 A.M.
Tonight was horrific. Much worse than the Time Our Cat Butterscotch Accidentally Got Locked in Our Car Overnight with My Bridesmaid Dress for Reese’s Wedding—the reigning Worst Night Ever.
After work, I picked up Sara from day-care. The second she saw me, she gave me one of her huge, toothless smiles that make my insides melt. I scooped her up and kissed her about fifty times on her soft hair and whisked her outside and into the car. She cooed happily the entire way to the grocery store. I had briefly contemplated getting the groceries before I picked her up, but I couldn’t wait to see her.
Besides, she usually behaves in stores and I was just popping in the store for a wee moment. Except I forgot that I am a huge idiot who is very, very stupid and wrong.
She smiled at me from her car seat the entire way from the parking lot until the second we walked into the store.
“We’re just going to pop in for a quick moment and then we’ll be on our way!” I said cheerfully as I wheeled her through the doors. I deftly maneuvered the cart around an old lady studying coupons. I’m so good at this taking my kid out in public stuff, I thought smugly.
Yet, as I got about ten feet into the store, dark clouds began to gather and Sara’s brow furrowed. I knew the heavens were about to open up and punish us all.
“It’s OK! Like I said, just a quick lil’ minute!” I said loudly, hoping my three-month-old daughter would suddenly become familiar with the English language.
Except her face instantly turned beet red and she opened her tiny mouth. A wail of epic proportions emanated from her head.
“No panicking,” I muttered to myself. I didn’t worry because I knew all the tricks. A little jiggle here, a little bounce there, and she’d be fine, right? Oh, so, so wrong.
I jiggled her, which only made her more angry. “Shhhhh,” I awkwardly hissed at her as people began to stare. I stood in the produce aisle and began to sweat. Finally, I unstrapped her from her car seat and cradled her. When that didn’t work either, I reached into the diaper bag for her bottle. Panic washed over me as I groped around desperately.
Nothing.
I’d forgotten the bottle at the day-care center.
“Jesus,” I muttered as Sara turned purple. People around me began to whisper to each other. I felt a bead of sweat run down my back as I contemplated running out of the store. But I was determined to make my celebratory dinner, so I blazed over to the baby supply aisle, grabbed a pack of ready-made formula and a package of bottles. I ripped them open, made a bottle, and shoved it into Sara’s mouth. I was then able to shop a little, albeit awkwardly, trying to push the cart, feed her, and grab ingredients all at the same time.
After five minutes, the bottle became futile as well and she started screaming again. This time I was ready to screw the dinner and leave, but now I had to pay for the formula and bottles I’d already opened. So, like a total idiot, I waited in line, screaming child and all. A woman next to me on her cell phone glared at me as I stood next to her.
“… I know, so rude … What? … What? … I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. There’s a baby next to me … I know … She’s not even trying to make it be quiet.”
I immediately felt my face flush as anger bubbled up inside me. I caught her eye and said, “What?” The cell-phone woman rolled her eyes and looked away.
I got in line behind the old woman with the coupons and prayed she was one of those Super Fast and Efficient old people and not like my grandmother, who takes ten minutes to remember her debit card’s PIN.
“OK, good,” I said as I saw the clerk speedily move through the order. Then, sudden death appeared. The woman pulled out a checkbook. (I seriously didn’t think anyone paid for anything with checks anymore. I thought they were obsolete, like laser discs or something.) Ten minutes later, it was our turn.
Items purchased: formula, baby bottle, almonds, and paper towels.
Needless to say, I arrived home, still red-faced and sweaty and burning inside from humiliation and anger, plopped Sara’s car seat in front of Jake, and announced, “We’re having goddamned pizza for dinner.” He took one look at the frizzed-out hair, beet red face, and sweat marks ringing my armpits, silently nodded, and grabbed the phone book.
“I can go back out and get …,” Jake started to offer when I shook my head violently.
“No. Stay. We’re all in for the night. Going outside is bad,” I said ominously.
“But I really don’t mind. I can make something for dinner,” Jake said. He leaned forward and pulled Sara out of her car seat. “Shhhh,” he whispered as he patted her on the back.
“We’re safe in here,” I said solemnly. “Outside, bad. Inside, good.” I nodded, my proclamation handed down.
The worst part about everything is I didn’t get to buy any wine, so we have to drink the Merlot that Natalie bought us for Christmas. It doesn’t taste exactly like a dead animal but pretty close. But it’s better than nothing.
Not to mention, Jake and I have Adult Time planned for tonight, and I would prefer that he drinks a few glasses of wine before getting a good look at what these Miss Piggy pants are a-hidin’. We’ve had a handful of Adult Moments since Sara was born, and all I have to say is thank god our bedroom has bulbs that are about 15 watts.
Sunday, March 23
I woke up yesterday with a headache thanks to the no-doubt poisons in the Merlot from the Roadkill Vineyards, but ignored it since last evening required full strength. I was invited a while back to participate in something called Local Bloggerpalooza at a bar called the Wine Seller. Apparently, a bunch of Chicago bloggers were supposed to read blog entries. Or something like that. I didn’t know, I just figured I’d show up with a few printed entries and toast the crowd. I spent yesterday trying to calm my nerves, but publicly reading my writing is so much more frightening and panic-inducing than just blogging.
My blog, Am I Making Myself Clare, was mildly successful, as I mainly wrote about going out in the city and getting drunk at happy hours. Until last year, when an article about my site ran in the national paper The Daily Tribune and I suddenly had twenty thousand hits a day. Then, because my life is Just. That. Funny, I unexpectedly got pregnant immediately after, thanks to an unkind mixture of antibiotics and my punk-ass birth control pills. My pregnancy led to lots of sweet comments, a serious increase in stalkers, and many, many links to pregnant lady porno Web sites.
I invited Julie to join me, for both emotional and possible physical support, should the wine drinking be vigorous. Jake offered to join us, but I was due for a girls’ night in the city with Julie. So, he booked a poker night and my parents offered to babysit.
Jake and I started preparing for the space shuttle launch a.k.a. getting out the door and Sara over to my parents about three hours ahead of time. Traveling with Sara is what I would imagine it’s like when Mariah Carey goes on vacation, except our bags are filled with diapers instead of Fendi purses. We arrived at my parents’ reasonably on time. I heard Sam screaming as I opened the front door.
“… MAKE FUN OF ME! MO-OM, I LOOK HIDEOUS! THIS IS THE WORST THING THAT COULD’VE POSSIBLY EVER HAPPENED TO ME! MY LIFE IS RUINED!” Her voice bounced across the walls of the house.
Jake and I stood in the foyer, not sure whether it was safe to proceed or not. I heard a door slam upstairs.
“It really doesn’t look that bad. Sweetie, come out and let me take another look.” I heard my mom use her most gentle, Sam-specific voice.
“MOM! I’M HUMILIATED! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”
Jake cowered and covered his ears.
“Sam, please, it’ll be—”
My mom’s efforts were cruelly rebuffed. “GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!” Sam’s voice sounded like a tortured squirrel.
“OK, I’ll leave you alone.” My mom appeared at the top of the stairs, her brow furrowed. “Hi, I didn’t even hear you guys come in.”
“What
’s going on?” I asked, and tried to hide a smile.
“Your sister’s highlights didn’t turn out the way she wanted. I think they look fine, but she’s obviously not happy.” My mom threw her hands up and rolled her eyes and walked down the stairs. She bent down and looked at Sara, “Hey, beautiful. Come to Grandma.” She unbuckled Sara from her car seat and picked her up.
“Where’s Dad?” I smiled as my mom cuddled Sara.
“Working. One of his patients was admitted into the hospital.” She kissed Sara’s cheek and squeezed her.
“Welcome to hell,” a voice from around the corner said. Mark appeared, two beers in hand. He reached out and handed one to Jake.
“Hey! What are you doing here?” I said to my younger brother.
“Just stopping in to raid the kitchen and do some laundry.” Mark took a long swig of his beer.
“Looks like you need it.” I gazed pointedly at his stained T-shirt.
“Gotta look good for the ladies. Big plans tonight, Sis?” He leaned against the stairs and burped.
“Nice. I’m going out with Julie.” His face broke out into a smile and he raised his eyebrows. “And no, we’re not meeting up with you.”
“Why are you so against Mark and Julie hanging out?” my mom asked.
“Because I deal with enough drama in my life just trying to go to Target with Sara. The last thing I need is my brother and my best friend screwing each other and then screwing each other over,” I hissed, and narrowed my eyes at my brother.
“No shit. Bad idea, my friend,” Jake said. He clapped Mark on the back and took a long drink of his beer.
“What’s a bad idea?” Sam appeared at the top of the stairs. Apparently, her grieving period had ended.
“Julie and Mark. Hey, how are you?” I surveyed her hair. She was right, it wasn’t attractive. I imagined she’d asked for a Jessica Simpson baby blond, but it turned out more like Pamela Anderson after about fifty hours in the sun.
“Hel-lo, didn’t you hear? My hair is effing messed up. My life is basically ruined. God!” She collapsed on the stairs and leaned against the railing, her white hair falling around her face.
“I don’t think it looks bad at all. I think it looks really cute!” I nodded my head, smiled, and tried to look sincere.
“Oh, great, it really must be one hundred percent awful if you think it’s cute. You probably think Mom Haircuts are in style now,” my sister wailed from underneath a curtain of strawlike hair. “Why can’t you be like my friend Kristen’s sister? She’s awesome and works for as a buyer for Jimmy Choo.”
“She’s so pleasant,” I said to my mom.
“Sam, your sister is still very cool and hip, even though she’s a mom,” my mom called up the stairs.
“OK, fiberglass mascara,” Sam said to me, her mascara-crusted eyes narrowing.
“What?” I said, and leaned forward.
“Fiberglass mascara. What is?” she repeated slowly, as though she was talking to a developmentally handicapped person.
“I have no idea,” I finally said after a few moments. “Mascara with fiberglass in it?”
“See?” Sam said pointedly to my mom. She stomped up the stairs. Seconds later, I heard “Crazy Game of Poker” blasting from her room.
“O.A.R. I know that one!” I yelled up the stairs.
“Don’t even try. Communication with Sam is futile. Much like communication with houseplants,” Mark said. “I got it!” he exclaimed, and raised his arms. “SAM! I FINALLY FIGURED OUT WHO YOU LOOK LIKE. REMEMBER BRITNEY SPEARS WHEN SHE HAD THOSE PLASTIC EXTENSIONS AFTER SHE SHAVED HER HEAD?” he yelled up the stairs.
“THIS WHOLE FAMILY IS SERIOUSLY RETARDED!” Sam screamed from her room.
“Mark!” My mom elbowed him in the ribs.
“Ow. What? She does.” He rubbed his side.
“Sam, you know I don’t like that word!” my mom called up to Sam, and what sounded like a shoe hit her closed door.
“As much as I hate to leave this family party, Jake and I have to run,” I said.
“OK, don’t worry about anything. Miss Sara and I are going to have a great time together. Jake, you’ll be back to pick her up later?” My mom turned to Jake as she kissed Sara’s head.
“Yep, see you around midnight,” he said as she turned toward the door.
“Sounds good. And Clare, good luck with the reading. Try to behave.” She narrowed her eyes at me.
“Thanks. But Mom, it’s Julie. That’s kind of unlikely.” I shrugged.
“Right,” she said.
“Have Julie call me for phone sex when she’s wasted! Ow, what? Mom, I’m just kidding,” Mark yelled as I closed the door.
Not a chance in hell.
I parked my car on Julie’s street a good three hours later, still shaking with anger. Although I’m sure that man didn’t necessarily mean to have a tire blowout in the center lane of the expressway, it does not mean I didn’t want to roll down my window and spit on his car as I drove past. (Much like when my car crapped out in the middle of rush hour and someone threw a McDonald’s Big Mac at me while I was lifting the hood of my smoking car. Eye for an eye, no?)
I stood in the entryway to Julie’s apartment building, freezing in the chilly spring air, and pressed the intercom. “I’m here,” I called into the speaker. The wind whipped through the glass alcove as I waited.
Nothing.
I checked my watch. Right on time. I pressed the button again.
This time, “UN-ING FU-ING LA—” was all that came out of the intercom.
I pressed the button again. “Julie? I’m here! I’m freezing!”
The intercom crackled to life again, deleting every other syllable.
“Late? Did you say you’re running late?” My voice rose as I pressed the button again, startling a smoker huddled against the apartment building wall.
“LAAAAAA” came across the speaker.
I checked my watch again. I pulled out my cell phone and called Julie.
“Just go. I’ll meet you there. Goddamned flatiron not worth a goddamn …,” she muttered into the phone.
I shoved my cell phone back and into my purse and stepped out onto the sidewalk to hail a cab. The wind whipped against my face and surely took my makeup off in one clean slice. I pictured a mask of foundation, eyeliner, eye shadow, blush, and lip gloss sailing down Diversey Avenue.
I threw myself into a cab, which was when my anxiety started to climb. Blogging is one thing, reading my writing aloud is another.
If I wanted to experience this much stress, I should just go to IKEA on a Saturday morning. Much like last year, when Jake and I nearly got decapitated by a college student looking for Box 2 of 3 to build a FLOGERSHAM media cabinet.
I arrived at the Wine Seller a few minutes early. I’d never been to this particular bar, but I fell in love with it as I walked through the heavy oak doors and into the warmth. Dark wood paneling covered every inch of space, with bookshelves piled high to the ceiling. People lounging around, drinking glasses of wine and reading the newspaper. It seemed like a perfect spot to hide out from the cold and whisper gossip.
Yet I didn’t really know what to do as I stood in the doorway, nearly expecting to see a sign reading, “CLARE FINNEGAN. WALK OVER TO THE BAR. GET A DRINK. ASK FOR JANE. SHE WILL HELP YOU,” like in one of those James Bond movies.
When Jane e-mailed me a few weeks ago, she said she had invited a few local bloggers to read some of their entries at what she called Local Bloggerpalooza. I skimmed over it until I got to the “free drinks” part. With the astronomical cost of day care, “free” means a lot these days.
I walked over to the bar anyway. I figured a little liquid courage couldn’t hurt. I sat down at a bar stool and reached for the wine list as a voice said behind me, “Are you Clare?”
I turned around and saw a slight woman with tightly cropped gray hair and cool black glasses.
I nodded and smiled. “That’s me.”
“I’m Jane. Th
anks so much for coming today. We should have a pretty good turnout,” Jane said, and thrust her hands into the pockets of her jeans.
I resisted the urge to look around the room at the, oh, ten people in the bar.
Including waitstaff.
Whatever. It’s a few free drinks. Besides, aren’t there supposed to be other bloggers here, too? It’s not like they can blame the low attendance all on—
“We had another blogger scheduled. Do you know Mike from Lakeshore Jive?” Jane said.
I nodded my head enthusiastically. “I’ve never met him, but his blog is hilarious. He’s going to be here, too?”
Wow. It’ll be great to meet him. Fellow Internet stalker magnet, I thought.
Jane shook her head. “No. He was supposed to come but canceled at the last minute. So, it’s just you.”
I stared at her, waiting for my brain to translate the linguistics. I think my brain flashed into the Blue Screen of Computer Meltdown Death.
Jane saw the look on my face. “Don’t worry! It’ll be a piece of cake. I’ll just introduce you over there.” She pointed to a small stage with a microphone and bar stool. “And you can read a couple of entries and take some questions, OK?”
My head snapped back and forth between the microphone and her.
Like, uh, This. So. Was. Not. The. Deal.
“I don’t think—,” I started to say when a flash of red hair caught my eye.
Julie. She’ll definitely save me.
Not Ready for Mom Jeans Page 4
