A Bump in the Road (32 page)

“Don’t say that. You’re going to be a great mom. And if not, don’t worry. I came out fine and my mother’s pretty off her rocker,” Jake said.

“That’s true,” I laughed into his shirt. I looked up at him. “You’re probably going to win a Father of the Year award. You know that, right?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll settle for not screwing up.”

“We will. But we’ll get each other’s backs. We’ll cover for each other.” I released him and sat on the couch.

“Like in tag-team wrestling?” Jake said, and sat down next to me.

“Sure, if that analogy works for you.”

“Great. I want to be Andre the Giant. Who do you want to be?”

“I don’t know. That’s not the point. I—”

“You have to pick.”

“I don’t even know any of their names, and frankly, I’m somewhat embarrassed that
you
do,” I said.

“Fine. I’ll pick for you. You have to be Hillbilly Jim.”

“Why am I a hillbilly?”

“Because you had sex in the backseat of a used Ford Taurus.”

“With
you
, remember?” I jumped up and put my hands out. “I don’t want to be a hillbilly. I want to be someone else.”

“No. It’s decided. You’re Hillbilly Jim and I’m Andre the Giant.”

“Damn it. This sucks,” I said as I sat back down on the couch and crossed my arms over my chest.

Further building on the tag-team wrestling analogy, Jake and I banded together and started to tackle the task of clearing the crap out of the guest room/future nursery/Butterscotch’s current litterbox.

We started by clearing out everything from the bottom of the closet, and came across a pile of what appeared to be very sparkly clothes covered in cat hair. It was several of my long-lost pieces of clothing. I immediately jumped up (which is getting more and more difficult to do these days seeing as how my ass is now growing a baby) and hugged all of my beautiful, formerly missing pieces.

Apparently, Butterscotch has been hoarding the clothes he finds particularly attractive and building a little nest. In college, I used to hide my favorite articles of clothing when I went to class since Julie was notorious for “borrowing” the skirt or shirt or whatever I was planning on wearing myself. Never once did I think I would have to hide my clothes from my cat. But at least he has good taste, especially in lingerie.

I gave most of the clothes Butterscotch stole to Sam. As I looked through them, I realized sequined tube tops, low-cut camisoles, and a velvet-and-leather bustier are probably not realistic fashion choices at this point since I don’t see myself clubbing anytime soon.

So, Sam reaps the benefits of the life choices I’ve sown.

I’m embarrassed to say I’m a little depressed. It was like packing up my youth into a garbage bag and handing it over to my sister with all those good times still ahead of her. I mean, it’s not like I actually want to go to a club or even bar-hopping, but it’s still a little sad to have total confirmation those days are most likely squarely behind me.

As is the case these days, when my personal life takes a dip, my work life seems to dovetail. The invitations for the Flynn wedding arrived this morning and when I opened the box, I discovered “Flynn” was spelled “Flan,” as in the Mexican custard dessert. Although flan is quite delicious and I found the misspelling slightly humorous, I sincerely doubted the WASPy Flynns would feel the same way. So, I called the stationer and screamed and ranted until they agreed to have them all reprinted and overnighted by next week.

Mule Face, of course, said, “Didn’t you get a proof ahead of time? This kind of stuff always seems to happen to your events. It never happens to mine.” Then, “Mmmm. Flan,” in a Homer Simpson voice, and proceeded to buy four Snickers bars from the vending machine and wolf them down.

I found this deeply disturbing since there were none left for me.

With the wedding invitations in the process of being reprinted, I sat at my desk this morning and checked the news on my computer, when a window indicating a new e-mail popped up. I clicked away from the Web site and opened the e-mail. It was from Sam, one of those chain forwards with twenty questions you’re supposed to answer about yourself and send back. I scrolled through the e-mail with no intention of filling it out, partly due to the fact forwards are Sam’s primary method of communication with me. A few weeks ago, I’d e-mailed her to ask her what she was planning on getting our mom for her birthday and she replied with a chain letter forward I was supposed to pass on to ten people or suffer horrible luck for all of eternity. I didn’t send it. Because I am a rebel.

I almost deleted the e-mail, but my name caught my eye. It was the answer to the question “What person do you most admire and why?” She answered, “My sister, Clare. She’s a cool big sister and I def. want to be like her.” A few tears actually pricked in my eyes as I read, “cool big sister” again. I thought,
She loves me. She looks up to me. She wants to hang out together and read magazines and get manicures
.

I immediately picked up the phone and dialed her cell phone since I knew she was off from school. She answered on the fourth ring, right before it went to voicemail.

“Hi, Clare,” she said in a singsong voice.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“No-thing.” Singsong voice again.

“I just saw this forward you sent me.”

“Oh,” pause, “Leah just sent it to me.” I could hear the trill of her instant messenger in the background.

“So, you admire me, huh?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Whatever. I mean, most everyone else put their sisters down, so I figured I’d just do whatever and just changed the name to yours.”

“Oh. Well, it was really cool to read it.”

“Yeah, I guess. Whatever, Clare. I have to go, I’m talking to my friend.”

“OK, talk to you later.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

I spent the weekend moping around, complaining to Jake that Sam and I will never be close, we’ll never have a good relationship, we’ll never have a sisterly bond, and we’ll never understand each other. I used this to justify a massive consumption of double-chocolate frosted brownies. Also, was for the
baby
.

As I shuffled home from work yesterday, down the hallway to our apartment, already dooming myself to another depressive evening, I stopped as I walked past our new neighbor’s door. A giant banner plastered there proclaimed,
CHAMPAGNE WAYNE IS
BACK!

I relayed this to Jake. Immediately, we were curious. Who was Champagne Wayne? An alcoholic? Man just out of prison? Just another addition to our already freaky building?

Today, we actually met Champagne Wayne. Just how I pictured him: spiky hair coming dangerously close to an ’80s mullet (excuse me, bi-level), leather pants, open purple silky shirt, and about forty pounds of gold chains. His eyes lit up when he saw us in the hallway.

“Hey there, neighbors!”

We were momentarily stunned, since none of our other neighbors have ever spoken to us.

“Hi,” we replied in unison.

“I’m Champagne Wayne, your new neighbor,” he said.

“We figured, from your sign,” Jake said.

He ran his hands through his spiky almost-mullet and outstretched his arms, smiling. “I had to let everyone know I’m back!”

“Back from what?” I asked.

“From prison.”

I looked at Jake with an
I told you
so look.

“The prison of being married to my bitch-ass ex-wife! Oh, sorry,” he said, glancing at me. “I got myself a divorce and now Champagne Wayne is
back
! I’m having a party this weekend. You guys should come!”

We looked at him, trying to rein in our looks of
no fucking way
.

“We’ll try,” Jake said.

We made our escape into our apartment. We barely got the door closed before busting out in laughter.

“Can you believe that guy?” I asked, gasping for breath.

“Love the chains! And the chest hair!” Jake said, his face turning as purple as Champagne Wayne’s shirt.

“Like we need another weirdo around here,” I said.

“Oh, honey, pot meet kettle,” he said, and kissed me.

I think I’ve discovered why Champagne Wayne’s bitch-ass ex-wife left him: because he never sleeps!

The man has been throwing parties nonstop since he moved in. At all hours of the night and into dawn we hear the thumping of old-school early ’90s rap music, people cheering during drinking games, and women shrieking. I don’t mind a neighbor who likes to throw a party every now and then, but I do mind when the party lasts for four straight days. And when I can’t attend because I’m pregnant.

Neither he nor any of his attendees presumably have jobs, because the fun doesn’t usually end until around four thirty in the morning, or at least that’s when they usually pass out or lose the ability to speak.

As I was leaving for work today, I saw a trio of scantily clad women with hair matted to their faces and mascara running down their cheeks trying to sneak out of the building so they wouldn’t have to do the
Walk of Shame past people who actually work for a living. (Edited to add: Maybe they do work for a living. As hookers.)