A Bump in the Road (17 page)

The night was a success—I didn’t slit Tony G.’s throat, Jessica and Betsy had a fabulously drunken time, I didn’t pee or vomit on myself, and the event raised $650,000. I took a sip of the Merlot and closed my eyes. I thanked the dear Lord I was done with the Gala, with Carolyn Wittenberg, Jessica Greene, and Betsy Fallon.

Until . . . Oh, shit. I forgot.

Assuming Jessica and her sister weren’t on drugs, they want me to plan her wedding. I so don’t have the strength to do a wedding. Bride crying because the flowers are wrong, the mother screaming at the band, the drunk groomsmen, the wasted bridesmaids, the incompetent waiters, the sobbing father, and me in the middle, trying to keep the evening flowing. Oh, and add in a shitload of money, which means expectations. And one unborn fetus. New thought: What if it is after the baby’s born? New set of fears: What if Christina makes me work the event while I’m on maternity leave? How will I manage that? What if I’ve just had the baby and my boobs are huge? What if I’m fat and don’t have anything to wear? What if Jake burns down the apartment while watching the child?

I’m still exhausted from the Gala and hoped today would be quiet. But no. So much for any downtime.

Today I suffered through what was officially the world’s most pointless and boring staff meeting. By the end of it, I was flicking my Bic rollerball pen in between my fingers, thinking that spending an afternoon in the ER getting a writing utensil removed from my eye socket would be
much
more enjoyable.

I overslept and came into the meeting after it had already started. Christina gave me an evil look as I slid next to her. I mouthed an apology and sat down in my chair, which made a loud
crack
sound as I settled in. Jan, Christina’s boss, stopped talking and looked directly at me before continuing to drone on about how we were already over on our printing budget.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mule Face hide a smile. She was wearing a purple polyester pantsuit that screamed Jaclyn Smith Plus Size Collection from Kmart. I glanced around the table at everyone, confirming by expressions they were all bored as hell already. I pulled out my budget and pretended to stare at it while playing a fun game of Check Out the Other Employees. Half of the staff works in another office across town, a fact for which I am eternally grateful since they are all kind of weird freaks.

I did a quick survey: Donna’s tortoise-shell hair clip in the shape of a cat? Check.

Tracy’s hot pink Lee Press-on Nails that look like Middle East torture devices used to scratch out POWs’ corneas? Check.

Mary’s open-toed orthopedic wedge pumps worn with reinforced-toe pantyhose? Check. (Why does she think it looks attractive? Does she think we can’t tell she’s wearing stockings? Maybe she wears them to make her legs look tan? These are mysteries of the universe that sadly, I am unable to answer.)

Jan finished her tirade about the budget by making us all promise
to cut our expenses. I’m sure using fewer Post-its will get us back on track. She turned to Christina and asked her to begin her presentation. Christina got up and passed out a bunch of packets regarding clean-up work to be done by our IT guys—who exist solely to laugh at us and make us feel stupid when we can’t access our e-mail.

Once Christina finished her presentation on our computer system, we all went around the table to report on our current projects like in kindergarten show-and-tell.

When it came to me, I reviewed how the Gala went and how I would be doing the Flynn-Shepard wedding. In a delusional moment, I briefly considered announcing my pregnancy, but chickened out. I finished my sentence and quickly looked to Mule Face to indicate that I was finished.

She smiled broadly and said, “Well, I do have something to tell everyone.”

I thought she was going to resign.

No such luck.

She threw her left hand out into the center of the table with a dramatic slap.

“I’m engaged!” she screamed.

We all made fakey congratulatory noises.

“Big D proposed last night! I went to the grocery store and when I got home, he had set up candles and flowers and was down on one knee!”

I think that is officially the worst proposal story I’ve ever heard. The grocery store? How romantic. Not to mention he proposed on a Sunday night. I took a look at the engagement ring and almost puked. It’s a heart-shaped diamond. It looks like it belongs to a three-year-old, along with her My Little Pony and Malibu Barbie collection.

I let the realization I’m going to spend the next several months of my life listening to Mule Face’s wedding discussions sink in and suddenly I didn’t feel so well, and this time it wasn’t due to my unborn fetus.

When the meeting ended, I quickly walked back to my office, eager to get back to some quiet respite. Mule Face planted herself right in front of me, waving a
Bride
magazine.

“Look at this wedding gown. Wouldn’t it look amazing on me?” She pointed to a model wearing a gorgeous silk form-fitting sheath that would show even the barest wisp of underwear, not to mention fat rolls.

“Yep!” I said brightly.

She beamed at me. “I knew you’d love it! You’ll have to help me pick everything out. I want to learn from all the mistakes you made while planning yours.” She waddled off, yanking her panties out of her crack as she walked away.

I wanted to chase her down and beat her over the head with her fifty-pound bridal magazine and tell her she was going to look like an overstuffed sausage casing if she wore that wedding gown.

Mule Face hasn’t shut up about her wedding for even a nanosecond. She’s spent the morning being oh-so-productive by talking to her florist, bridesmaid, and Big D, saying things like, “Ooohhhh, I
love
it.
Oohhhhh
pink hydrangeas are
amazing
. Ooohhhh, yeah.” She’s even been making sexual grunts and rolling her eyes back in her head as she says “Mmmmm.”

I swear, she could make a fortune as a phone sex operator.

When I walked past her desk, she looked weirdly at my midsection before getting up and waddling off to cram more Krispy Kremes into her pie hole. I know I can’t wait much longer to tell anyone at work, but I still can’t bear the thought of answering the asinine questions people will ask, like “Was it planned?” and “You’re so young! Are you worried about losing your freedom?” or “You
do
know that you’ll never sleep again, right?” and my personal favorite, “How bad
do you want a glass of wine?” The answers: No, yes, in denial, and really freaking bad.

How do I bring it up? “Um, did you get that vendor contract yet? No? Hopefully it will come in soon. Why? Because I’m pregnant.” I’d love to send out a mass e-mail but I’m pretty sure that falls in the “unprofessional” category. At least I have a little bit of time before they start gossiping about my stretch marks and baby names. Now they just think I’ve become a fat-ass and gossip about my love handles and double chin. (Which Reese and Jake swear aren’t there but I think they’re lying because they don’t want me to cry like I did the other night when the Chinese takeout lady couldn’t understand my order over the phone.)

I called Reese today and waited through four rings until someone picked up the phone.

Silence
.

Me: “Hello? Hello?”

Silence

Me: “Reese?”

Silence

Me: “Anyone there?”

A high-pitched voice: “TYLER!”

I had no idea who the hell Tyler was so I looked at my cell phone, but sure enough it said
REESE HOME
.

Me: “Tyler? What?”

Tyler: “I had some Oreos.”

Me: “Um. Great. Do you know Reese?”

Tyler: “No.”

Me: “You don’t know who Reese is?”

Tyler: “My dog has a tail. Her name is Rudy.”

Me: “Are there any grown-ups there?”

Tyler: “NO!”

Me: “If you find a grown-up for me, I’ll buy you a pony.”

Tyler: “A purple one?”

Me: “Yes! A purple one.”

Tyler: “My mom—”

I heard muffled voices in the background and the sound of someone wrestling the phone out of Tyler’s vice grip.

Reese: “Hello?”

Me: “Reese—it’s me. Who the hell was that kid?”

Reese: “Clare! I’m so sorry. I was in the bathroom. He’s my friend Meredith’s boy. I met her at a new Mommy and Me class Grace and I are taking. We babysit one day a week for each other now.”

Me: “That kid is a brat.”

Reese: “Clare! He’s not a brat, he’s four. He’s perfectly sweet.”

I heard Tyler in the background, yelling “WHO’S A BRAT? THAT’S A BAD WORD.” I heard her yell, “Tyler! Don’t throw that down the stairs!” followed by another crash.

Reese: “You’re right. That kid’s a brat. God, I can’t wait until Meredith picks him up. So what’s going on with you?”

Me: “Not much. Just wanted to make sure you were OK. I haven’t heard from you that much lately.”

Reese: “Everything’s great!”

Me: “Are you sure, because . . .”

Reese: “Clare. I. Am. Fine.”

Me: “OK, OK. Just wanted to be sure. So, are you doing anything fun this weekend? Any big plans?”

Reese: “Besides cleaning the house and doing laundry? No.”

Me: “Well, Joel and Megan are having one of their famous parties on Saturday night and I was wondering if you and Matt want to come and be our dates.”

Reese: “I’d love to. In that fabulous house they just bought?”

Me: “Yep. Five thousand square feet prime for partying. No kids
and every kind of booze you didn’t know existed. Oh, and they’re getting a band this year. We’ll probably just crash on the couch or floor or wherever.”

Reese: “Christ, I haven’t been to one of those since—well, you know. Before Grace. You’ll know what I’m talking about soon.”

Me: “Well, then we both need to get out. It’s settled—we’re all going Saturday!”

Reese: “Who’s going to be there?”

Me: “Julie can’t go, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Reese: “Oh, right. I don’t care, I was just wondering. I don’t know if Matt will want to go. He doesn’t like to go to parties anymore, but if we can find a babysitter we’ll come. It’s kind of short notice. I’ll have to let you—”

Bang!
The awful sound of glass shattering came from the other end of the phone.

Reese: “OH MY GOD! THE CRYSTAL! I have to go.”

After I hung up, I silently thanked Jake for talking me out of registering for Waterford crystal. The only things breakable in our place are hideous gifts from Marianne.

I know Reese and Matt probably won’t come on Saturday. I wonder if Reese will even tell him about the party. I doubt she has the energy to keep up the act of perfect happily married couple with a group of people who’ve known them since college.