A Bump in the Road (16 page)

So, in recap, a very well-dressed, professional-looking woman complimented my writing skills today and I responded by dry heaving while holding an aluminum can. Since the Internet doesn’t know I’m pregnant, I’m sure she told all of her friends I’m some anorexic heroin addict.

The vomiting didn’t stop last night until I fell asleep. I even woke up twice in the middle of the night to puke. I feel like I’m going to puke the baby right up.

I planned on keeping a low profile at work today: work on the
last-minute details for the Gala this weekend and avoid Mule Face at all costs. However, as I walked to my office, Mule Face’s head caught my eye. I looked and saw a beautiful sight: Mule Face now has a mullet. Seriously.

I think she asked for layers in the front and long in the back but it wound up looking all business in the front and party in the back. She said her hairstylist called it a “bi-level.” The worst part is, she walked around the office all day and asked people if they liked her new look. Um, yeah, if she’s planning on attending a monster truck rally/demolition derby this weekend, very appropriate. Every time I look at her, I picture her wearing acid-washed denim and standing next to a Camaro. Or vacationing with the Grandalskis at Lake Park Campgrounds.

I must take a picture of her hair and send it to Carrie. Maybe she can make an avant-garde mullet collage art project for the nursery.

It’s here. Gala day.

I asked the baby if I could take a day off from puking, just one day, and it responded by making me heave up my breakfast.

Bad news: I won’t be able to take the edge off with a few drinks.

Good news: After tonight, Carolyn Wittenberg, Jessica Greene, Betsy Fallon, and Tony G. of Tony G. Productions will all be in the past.

Bad news: My breakfast of corn flakes is all over the bathroom.

Good news: I wrote an awesome blog entry on corn flakes, thus again avoiding the whole “Hey World, I’m Pregnant” essay.

11:00
A.M.

I arrived at the hotel to begin setting up the silent auction and to crack the whip on the florist, linen rental company, and all the other vendors. Tony G. greeted me and looked me up and down and smirked while
lifting an eyebrow. “Nice look,” he said, and made a little
tiff
sound. What an asshole. I didn’t need a reminder that no concealer will cover my dark circles, my hair was pissed off it rained so it decided to expand one thousand times the normal size, and the casual, yet professional outfit consisting of black capris and black flats I planned on wearing was crumpled up on my bathroom floor with bits of puked-up corn flakes all over it.

“Everything going OK?” I responded brightly, thinking of exactly which very sharp object I wanted to drill into his skull.

“We-ell, it’s a good thing you’re here. Things are already a blur. There’s no room for my dancers to change, the dance floor isn’t going to be big enough with those extra tables, and the acoustics are all wrong due to the ceiling draping,” he said as we walked toward the ballroom.

I opened the doors to the ballroom and silently scanned the room, which looked amazing. The florists assembled Zen garden centerpieces with giant bamboo and palm leaves, surrounded by bonsai trees and red paper parasols hung from the ceiling. Custom lighting made each centerpiece look ablaze. Across the dance floor, a spotlight displayed the sponsor logos and Asian symbols. I stood back for a moment and enjoyed the sight of everything coming together. It was the moment when everything became sort of worth it.

It was more like half a moment, though, because Tony G. snapped his fingers. “Hello? Earth to the little lady. What are we going to do about my problems?”

“The dancers can change in the hospitality suite—room 1482. We can move the tables back a foot or two off of the dance floor. We can’t do anything about the acoustics, but I’m sure you’re such a phenomenal professional that you can work around it.” He seemed pleased and left to go find someone else to harass.

I saw Jessica over by the silent auction display and walked over.

“Need any help?” I asked.

“Oh, God! Thank God you’re here! We can’t find the airline
package, the bid sheets are out of sequence, and none of the committee has shown up to help!” she said.

“Relax. I’ll take care of everything. The airline package is in the accordion file and I’ll reorder the bid sheets.”

“You’re a lifesaver. Listen, I have a hair appointment this afternoon, so . . .” She paused, waiting for me to jump in.

“Of course, of course. You go get beautiful and I’ll take care of this.”

“You’re the best!” she called over her shoulder. Tony G. jumped out of the way as she rushed out.

3:00
P.M.

The auction display is up, the bid sheets successfully reordered, and Tony G. silent. Since I offered the hospitality suite to the dancers, I changed in the bathroom, which I found appropriate due to the amount of time I spend in the bathroom these days. I threw my hair into a clip and tried to apply some eye shadow but exhaustion began to creep in and the desire to look attractive quickly waned.

6:00
P.M.

Guests are beginning to arrive, because rich or not, these people always want to squeeze every dollar out of a five-hundred-dollar ticket. Jessica and her husband, Robert, were among the first here. She looks stunning in a silk Asian-inspired black dress with delicate embroidery and a plunging neckline framed by loosely waved hair. Betsy Fallon is wearing a bright red strapless dress that belies her personality, and Carolyn Wittenberg is sporting a blue taffeta-and-sequin dress accessorized with many, many carats of diamonds.

I’m sitting back and watching the rest of the crowd as the room fills. A woman with enormous breasts is wearing such a low-cut dress, I thought her nipple was going to pop out when she adjusted her earring. I’ve also seen some of the best face-lifts, brow-lifts, and second wives that money can buy.

A few minutes ago, I longingly stared at Carolyn Wittenberg’s red wine, until she caught me staring and looked slightly alarmed, probably because it looked like I was staring at her cleavage.

6:30
P.M.

I’m so tired I don’t care anymore. I already look like trash so I figure I might as well act like it and snooze in a stall in the bathroom. I can’t imagine if someone walked in on me. They’d probably think I’m a crack whore who OD’d or something.

7:00
P.M.

My nap was wonderful. The silent auction table is running smoothly. The rest should be easy.

2:00
A.M.

Easy, my ass. Just after seven, the Junior Volunteers arrived and tried to appear eager for their assignments, although all they really wanted was a contraband drink from the bar.

“Hi, girls! Thanks so much for coming. I’m Clare, as some of you know, and if you need anything, I’m your gal.”

The five teenagers flatly stared at me. Casey Nolan (daughter of William Nolan, net worth $200 million) flicked her hair back. “Um, just want to let you know, my dad wants to dance with me so I won’t be able to help for very long.”

“Sure, you can take a break, but it would be great if you could help out as much as possible.”

“What
ever
,” she whispered to Renee Kirkowski (daughter of Leslie and Rick, net worth $80 million).

“Casey and Renee, you get table one. Donna and Taylor, table two, and Paige . . .” I looked at Paige Bronstein (daughter of Steve and Laura, net worth $110 million). “You can float between the two.” Poor Paige. She obviously wasn’t in the inner circle.

“What school do you go to?” Paige asked me when the other girls
left, gingerly touching her thick, coarse curly hair and adjusting her glasses.

“Well, I went to St. Mary’s for high school but that was a good ten years ago.”

“Ten years ago?” she asked, tugging at her dress.

“Why? How old do you think I am?”

“Like a senior, probably,” she said.

Ha! It’s probably good my stomach isn’t showing yet. I wouldn’t want to give the impression I’m some knocked-up teenager. It might slightly affect my credibility.

The cocktail hour ended at seven o’clock when waiters rang dinner bells and asked people to take their seats. I pushed past a throng of geisha girls holding silver trays of Singapore slings and mandarin martinis and mouthed, “Everything OK?”

“I’m sweating my balls off in this costume,” one of them whispered back in a thick New York accent.

After the salmon salad with wasabi vinaigrette, Tony G.’s dancers came out and performed the dorky fan routine. It went smoothly until one of them tripped and almost ended up in Carolyn Wittenberg’s lap.

The Chinese dragon and drums whipped through the room after the beef course. Everyone seemed to love it but that could be attributed to the approximately nine thousand drinks everyone had already consumed.

After dinner, Tony G.’s band started playing and I was able to slip my shoes off discreetly for a moment before I jumped up to close the silent auction. The Junior Volunteers were supposed to help close the auction and run the checkout process but I saw Casey Nolan and Renee Kirkowski downing cosmopolitans so I didn’t think they’d be much help.

I looked around the dance floor and saw Betsy and Jessica dancing with their husbands to Tony G.’s rendition of Earth, Wind & Fire. Jessica had her hands in the air and was bopping around while Betsy kept her feet firmly planted to the ground and swayed from side to
side. Carolyn Wittenberg and her husband were doing a routine that very closely resembled the Robot.

The pang of a full bladder hit me and I hightailed it to the bathroom and almost trucked over an old lady wearing close to a million dollars in diamonds. I waited for Casey Nolan to finish puking up cosmos before I could feel the sweet relief. I think I even let out an audible sigh, which probably caused Casey to think I was masturbating in the stall or something.

I picked my tired, nauseous, pregnant ass up and went over to the silent auction and sat down. People drifted out of the ballroom and began to check out and I started taking credit cards and giving out the prizes. Jessica and her husband appeared.

“This is her! This is Clare. Clare, meet my husband, Robert.” Robert extended his hand and I warmly shook it as I noticed Jessica swaying.

“Nice to meet you. Great job tonight,” he said, his bleached teeth glittering.

“Thanks.”

“Oh! I almost forgot!” She turned to a beautiful couple in their twenties. “This is my sister Rachael Flynn and her fiancé, Ben Shepard. Isn’t it great?”

“Yeah, sure!”

“I know! We’ll have so much fun. It’ll be like the Gala all over again. We can go to lunch and everything, right?”

“Right!” I had no clue what she was talking about.

“Gotta go! We’ll talk Monday!” Jessica popped off, grabbing her husband’s arm for balance.

Rachael leaned forward. “You did such a great job tonight. I know you’ll make my wedding so special.” I nodded and Rachael and Ben walked off, mouthing the words to Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration.”

My immediate reaction was:
Hi? Hello? Her wedding? Seriously. I’m sure to be nine months pregnant at this wedding. Because I am just THAT lucky.

Carolyn Wittenberg was the last person to check out. “Hello, Clare,” she said as she puffed on a cigarette and blew smoke in my face.

“You won number eight, right?”

“Correct.”

“Well, we have your credit card on file, so just sign here.” She scribbled on the paper, swiftly grabbed her prize envelope, and walked away, a blaze of navy blue taffeta and diamonds. I looked down at the bid sheet and started laughing. What a drunken idiot. She signed “Gala” instead of her name on the credit card receipt. That kind of made the whole night worth it.

After I arrived home, my feet resembled two wooden blocks, visibly throbbing. I poured myself a half glass of wine and lay down on the couch, happy Jake was out with his friend Bill-I-Still-Live-at-Home-with-My-Parents-and-Smoke-Pot-Every-Day-at-4:20.