Not Ready for Mom Jeans

by Maureen Lipinski

  And it is. But … Holy Crap.

  Sunday, November 16

  This morning, I opened my front door to walk to my car and drive to Elise’s house but immediately stopped. Psycho Bitch stood in her driveway, talking to an equally portly older couple. I froze, unsure of whether I should walk to my car and pretend I didn’t see them or wait it out. After a vision of Psycho Bitch throwing canine excrement at my car, I decided to wait it out.

  I crouched on my front porch, hidden behind a bush, and waited for them to finish their conversation. Those jerks stood around for fifteen minutes shooting the shit. I learned the portly older couple were her parents. And they were all on diets. They compared weight loss recipes, their exercise habits, and inches lost.

  Finally, I could wait no longer, so I stood up, brushed evergreen needles off my pants, and hustled to my car, head down. Their conversation halted and I could feel three sets of eyes follow me as I jumped into my car and pulled out of the driveway.

  I arrived at Elise’s at the same time as the party rental company. I pulled up to her estate, the enormity startling me even though I’d been here before to do the event walk-through. A beautiful redbrick Georgian with black shutters, it whispered, rather than shouted, money, in opposition to most of the other houses on the block, with huge white pillars and fountains in the driveway.

  I hopped out of my car, waved my arms around, and started directing the tables, chairs, and tent setup. Within five minutes, Elise walked out to the backyard, a cashmere sweater thrown around her shoulders.

  “Good morning,” she said, and rubbed her forehead.

  “Morning! How’s it going?” I said as I approved the chair design.

  “Dreadful. I was tossing and turning all night, worrying about this party. It means so much to Logan, I just want everything to go according to plan,” she said.

  “Don’t worry, it will. That’s why I’m here. Logan will be thrilled,” I said, and smiled at Elise. “She still in bed?”

  “Of course. She’s a teenager. She’ll be up in a few hours. She’s so excited,” Elise said, and sipped a mug of coffee. “Can I get you some?” she asked, and raised the mug.

  “Love it, thanks!”

  “Be right back,” she said, and turned to walk back into her palatial estate.

  Within an hour, the tent was erected, the flooring installed, and the electrical wiring started. I sat back and sipped on coffee and barked orders at everyone. Everything was going according to schedule when Logan appeared at my side, curly hair frizzed back into a ponytail.

  “Looks good,” she said, and hiked her glasses up with one finger.

  “Good morning! I thought you might like it.” I gave her a pat on the shoulder. “Excited for tonight?”

  “I totally can’t wait!” she squealed.

  “Do you have your dress laid out and everything?”

  “Yep! It’s designed after the one in The Princess Diaries. My mom’s even having someone come and do my hair and makeup. I’m going to look so good!” she said, and clapped her hands together.

  “You’re going to look amazing.” I nodded in agreement.

  “I’m cold, so I’m going to go inside. See you soon!” Logan waved and turned to run back in the house, pajamas pants decorated with chili peppers billowing behind her.

  “Hey there!” Keri’s voice called out as she walked across the lawn.

  “It’s starting to come together.” I nodded and pointed toward the workers smoothing out the white fabric for the dinner tent.

  “This is so cool. You must be so proud. You’ve done such a great job,” Keri said as she lifted her paper coffee cup toward me.

  “Thanks, I am. Now we just need to pull it off,” I said, and smiled at her.

  By 4:00 p.m., the tent was set up and the last-minute prep began. The caterers scurried around like mice underfoot to prepare the appetizers and signature cocktails at the bar. The candy sculptor warmed up his candy wheel and tools to whittle the sugary red candies, and the giant ice sculptures were in place.

  After Keri changed into her dress, I grabbed my bag out of my car and walked inside Elise’s house to change. I walked through her amazing kitchen, complete with dual Sub-Zero fridges and miles and miles of granite countertops. I found a bathroom and was just about to close the door when I heard a scream.

  A scream not of terror but of despair. A sound I recognized: the scream of a teenager.

  I paused and stuck my head out the door, craned my neck, and tried to hear the conversation.

  “… awful … make fun of me … look ridiculous!” Logan.

  I debated whether or not to intervene, so I slowly crept toward the bottom of the stairs to see if I was needed. A loud thud sounded and a bedroom door ripped open and Logan walked out, round face flushed red and streaming with tears, hair pulled severely on top of her head in a matronly bun.

  “Clare! Tell me! Doesn’t my hair look wretched?” Logan screeched. “I’m going to look so ugly for my party,” she sobbed.

  “You look beautiful, sweetheart! It just needs an adjustment—let Maxie try to fix it for you,” Elise said from inside the bedroom.

  “MOM! I told you I’m NOT letting her touch my hair! She already messed it up once!” Logan shouted into the bedroom. “Clare, you have to help me!” she said, and turned to me.

  “Um, OK,” I said, and slowly crept up the stairs.

  Logan and I walked into her bedroom, where Elise was perched on a massive antique four-poster bed, dressed in a silk robe, hair in Velcro curlers. A terrified hairdresser cowered in the corner. Logan led me into her bathroom

  “Fix it,” she commanded.

  “Uh, er …” I gingerly touched the lacquered bun on top of her hair. “I’m not sure what to do. What did you want?”

  “I wanted my hair half-up with curly tendrils coming down the sides. Didn’t I?” Logan said, and glowered at the hairdresser.

  “I’m not sure, uh—” I pulled a bobby pin out of the bun and half of it collapsed. “Sorry,” I said.

  Logan’s thick hair hung out of the bun like a deranged rooster tail. “I don’t care, just fix it,” she said.

  I thought about asking Keri to frantically call around to salons, but a better idea struck me.

  “Hold on,” I said to Logan. I grabbed my purse and dug around for my cell phone. I snapped it open and dialed a number.

  “Ya?” Sam trilled into the phone.

  “Sam! I need your help! I’m in the middle of a serious hair emergency and I need some advice.”

  “Cut it off,” she said quickly.

  “What?”

  “Cut your hair off. It looks scraggly.”

  “No, it’s not for me. It’s for my friend, Logan.” I smiled at Logan. “The hairdresser goofed when doing her hair and she wants it half-up, half-down with curly tendrils.” I looked at Logan and she nodded.

  “OK, easy. Send me a phone pic.”

  I snapped a picture and my phone beeped thirty seconds later. I put Sam on speakerphone as she directed me where to place each tendril and curl. I wove Logan’s hair together and pulled soft curls out around her cheeks. I spritzed the ends with hair gel and scrunched her curls with my fingers and then finger-combed the curls out.

  Logan kept her eyes closed the whole time. When I was done, I gave her a pat on the shoulder, “Look,” I said.

  She opened her eyes and her face grew into a grin. “Looks awesome!” she said.

  “Thanks, Sam. You rule,” I said, and snapped my phone shut. “So, what do you think?” I said to Elise, who had been watching silently from the bed the entire time.

  “I think she looks wonderful. Like a princess,” Elise said.

  “Great! Now I need to throw my dress on so I can direct the caterers!” I got one foot out the door before a hand hooked in the crook of my elbow.

  “You’re a lifesaver,” Elise whispered in my ear.

  “Anytime,” I whispered back.

  An hour later and the guests a
rrived. They oohed and ahhed as they walked into the heated tent, which was transformed into a modern-day Paris, complete with twinkling white lights hung from the ceiling. After the cocktail hour, it was time for Logan to make her entrance. She walked into the tent on the arms of two gorgeous teen models we hired for the event.

  “No way! Her hair is like totally tight!” a girl behind me squealed.

  I flashed Logan a thumbs-up sign and winked at her as she walked past.

  The rest of the event went smoothly—cake cut on time, teenagers boogying for hours, and the food psychotically delicious, not that I tried any of it. My mouth watered as I walked past the mushroom and mashed potato bars, but I refrained by remembering the trauma caused the other day thanks to an accidental glimpse of my bare ass in the mirror.

  After the last guest had left, I had sent Keri home with all of my gratitude, and Logan was out in the driveway squealing over her new car, Elise handed me glass of champagne.

  “Sit,” she said, and pointed to an empty cocktail table. I wordlessly followed her command.

  “Nice job,” she said, and raised her glass. We clicked our champagne flutes together and I took a tiny sip.

  “I’m just glad Logan had a great time,” I said as I played with a stray rose petal on the table.

  “She did.” Elise looked at the flower petal in my hand. “The flowers were beautiful.”

  “They were, weren’t they?” I said. I took another sip of champagne, trying to will up some liquid courage. There was something I wanted to ask Elise, something I wanted to run by her, but I’d been too chicken.

  “They were a lovely tribute to your mom,” I said carefully.

  “Thanks.” Elise smiled at me.

  “I know what it’s like,” I said, and looked down at the flower. “My mom has breast cancer.”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry, Clare,” Elise said, and leaned forward and patted me on the arm. Her flowing curls still bounced around her shoulders after three hours of dancing.

  “Thanks. I’ve had this idea and … kind of … wanted your opinion,” I said.

  “What is it?”

  “I want to throw a fundraiser, something not too big, fairly intimate, in my mom’s name to raise money for breast cancer research. I’m not really sure what I’d want it to be, or where, or who would come, but I …” I trailed off and looked up at her.

  She slowly took a long sip of champagne and set her glass down on the table. “You organize it, I’ll chair it,” she said, and smiled.

  “Really? I mean, I don’t know really anything yet, but I just know I want to do it.”

  “Really. I think …” She paused. “I think it would be good for me to start getting out there more. You know …” She stopped. “You know what I mean,” she finished.

  I nodded. “Deal?” I said, and stuck out my hand.

  “Deal,” she said, and shook it.

  We clinked glasses once more and drained the rest of our champagne. As I sipped the fizzy liquid, a thought ran through my head:

  This is why I do it. This is why I love my job. This is why I stay on the emotional roller coaster.

  Because I suspect it’s completely and utterly Worth It.

  Tuesday, November 18

  “Splish Splash, Sara’s takin’ a bath, on about a Tuesday niiiight!” I sang off-key as I rinsed the soap off Sara’s arms. “Rub-a-dub, she’s chillin’ in her tub … something, something, something, something!”

  Sara grinned at me and kicked her legs out, splashing water all down the front of my T-shirt.

  “What are you doin’? Huh? You trying to soak Mommy?” I said to her.

  “AHHAH!” she shrieked.

  “Jake, your daughter is a little water baby!” I called to him in the next room.

  “Sara, are you playin’ in the tub?” he said in a high-pitched voice.

  She looked very serious as she stared at him, then looked at me, then back to him. Her face broke out into one of her awesome smiles—the kind where her nose crinkles up and her entire gum line shows.

  “Isn’t she such a supermodel?” I asked Jake. “She’s prolly the cutest baby ever,” I said as I stood up, plucked her out of the tub, and wrapped a hooded towel shaped like a dragon around her.

  “Prolly,” he said, and bent down and nuzzled his face against her fluffy towel.

  After I put Sara to bed, I sat down in front of the television with my laptop to write my next column for The Daily Tribune.

  This column, I wrote about the not-so-warm-and-fuzzy moments. Here’s my favorite part:

  “People always ask me if I can remember what life was like before I had my daughter. They always seem shocked when I quickly respond that yes, I can. Not only do I remember what it was like, but I often miss it. I longingly remember sleeping in, disposable income, free time, movie theaters and books. I sometimes miss being just a person, rather than a mom. Once earned, the title of mother is one that permeates throughout your entire existence.”

  What I didn’t say was that I miss being sure of my choices, of knowing I’m on the right path. When I was in college and didn’t want children, I was so certain it was the right decision. Now, ever since Sara was born, from the second she came out, the straight lines of my life have become watery and wavy. And figuring out my life feels like grasping sand—each time I feel as though I have it in my hold, it slips through my fingers and I’m back to the beginning.

  Wednesday, November 19

  Today, I started pulling together some ideas for my event with Elise. I think we should do a simple holiday luncheon, possibly with a fashion show. The models could be breast cancer survivors, and we could hold the event at a country club. The event will raise money for breast cancer research at a local hospital. I think we should be able to get most of the components, like the invitations and the favors, donated from local stores, thanks to some of my connections.

  I haven’t told my mom about it yet. I think I’m going to wait until Thanksgiving to tell her.

  Thursday, November 7

  “Is it wrong that I’m thankful your parents won’t be here for Thanksgiving?” I said to Jake this morning as I poured him a cup of coffee.

  “Not at all. Thanksgiving is the time of gift giving, and they’ve given us a conflict-free holiday,” he said as he took the cup from my hand.

  “I think that’s Christmas, but all the same,” I said as I raised my mug to him and then lowered it to my mouth and took a sip. “What time is their flight?”

  “In a couple hours. What time is it?” he said, and craned his neck to look at the clock. “Shit! I have to leave.” He leaned forward to kiss me.

  “Tell them I hope they have a great trip,” I said.

  As Jake walked out to the garage, the monitor crackled and I heard Sara start to stir in her bedroom. I walked upstairs, tiptoed in, and peered over the side of her crib.

  “Happy Thanksgiving!” I said brightly.

  She looked up at me, recognized my face, and grinned brightly.

  “… something in my car?” I heard Jake’s voice yell from downstairs.

  I picked Sara up and walked to the top of the stairs.

  “What?” I called.

  “Did you spill something in my car?” he said.

  I froze. I didn’t think he’d notice. I broke his “no cups without lids” rule the other day and brought a cup of diet pop in his car. Well, I hit a freaking pothole and the pop went everywhere. I thought I cleaned it up.

  “Nope,” I called back.

  After Jake left for the second time, I turned on the parade for Sara and me and started pulling out all the ingredients to make the stuffing. In a momentary lapse of judgment, I heard myself offer to host Thanksgiving this year. I thought it would mean just buying some cute fall leaf centerpieces and decorating with some apples and stuff. I kinda forgot that also meant I’d have to cook turkey and stuffing and all that other crap. Must’ve been why my mom agreed so quickly.

  I don’t really mind, though.
I know my mom’s too exhausted these days to spend all day cooking, and besides, how hard can it be to cook a turkey? If I get into trouble, there’s a 1-800 help number practically tattooed on the turkey itself. I’m sure they get some great questions like, Um, hi. I was wondering if it would be possible to cook my turkey in my fireplace using only crumpled newspaper and some matches?

  Ha!

  I’m going to be like the Emeril of Thanksgiving. Jake does not believe this, seeing as how last year I tried to cook dinner for my family and we wound up ordering pizza. But that was in our old apartment and I’m confident that in my new, fabulous house I will be a cooking genius.

  2:00 P.M.

  Does Emeril’s house smell like B.O.?

  The entire house smells since I cooked the celery and onions for the stuffing without turning on the fan or opening a window. Not a smart move. Jake walked in from dropping his parents off at the airport and asked why the place smelled like feet. He wasn’t in a very good mood since the airport was a total zoo and he practically had to ask his parents to do a tuck and roll out of the car since the airport cops wouldn’t let anyone stop for more than two seconds.

  He plucked Sara out of her ExerSaucer and flopped down on the couch and said, “Ah, yes. This is what Thanksgiving is about. Watching football and taking a nap.”

  I walked out of the kitchen and stood in front of him. “You wish. You have to go out and buy beer and wine for tonight.”

  He didn’t look up at me. “I thought your parents were bringing the alcohol.”

  “They are. But I thought we could get some extra, in case we run out.”

  “Seriously?” He looked up at me, trying to look as pathetic as possible.

  “Won’t work this time. Take Sara with you. I have to finish the sweet potato casserole and put it in the oven.”

  He made some fake whining noises but scooped Sara up, bundled her in a jacket and hat, and left, grumbling about how holidays are supposed to be relaxing. (I have no idea where he got that idea. He must not live in My Universe.)

  I finished the sweet potato casserole and put it in the top tier of my oven (I have two ovens! How cool is that?) and pulled out everything for the mashed potatoes. I started peeling the potatoes when I realized it was time to baste the turkey again. So, I opened up the bottom oven, grabbed the baster, peeled back the cheesecloth on the turkey, and squirted some juice all over it. Then, in an act of pure genius, I grabbed the turkey pan with my bare hand.