A Bump in the Road (36 page)

“Yeah. That’s what I think, too. What am I going to wear? I need to cut out early and go shopping. I need an outfit that says classy but not stuffy. And I definitely shouldn’t dress sexy, well, since I already gave away the farm on that one.”

“Yep. Hey, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“Well, it’s more like I wanted to tell you something.” And . . . cue the sweating. “Reese mentioned she’d like to throw me a shower, too, so—”

“That bitch! I knew she would—,” Julie exploded.

“Shut up a minute. Listen to me. I’m sick of this shit between you two. I’ve put up with it for years now and I’ve had it. I love you both but this ends now. You both want to throw me a shower and that
can’t happen for a number of reasons. So, I’m asking if you’ll do one together.”

“Are you kidding?” Her voice was black and flat.

“No. I’m not.”

“So, you want me to call up Mrs. June Fucking Cleaver and pretend to be all nicey-nice and ask her about, oh, I don’t know, what it feels like to have accomplished ironing your husband’s pants that day? You can’t be serious. You’re insane.”

“Julie, cut the shit. We all used to be friends. You two used to be friends. I am
still
her friend. Do this for me.”

“Should I call her up and tell her about how Matt tried to kiss me?”

“
What
?”

“Oh, yeah? I didn’t tell you that? He tried to make out with me when he was wasted.”

“
No
. You didn’t tell me. When was this?”

“About three weeks ago. I saw him at Le Passage. He was tanked with some work buddies. I went up and said hello and he told me about how fucking boring his life is and how he just wants to party. And then he leaned in and tried to kiss me.”

“You’re joking. What did you do?”

“Nothing. I told him to go fuck himself and to go home to his wife and kid.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. Then I poured my drink over the crotch of his pants and left.”

“Oh my God, I can’t believe this.”

“Are you serious? Matt’s always been a slimeball. I don’t know why you keep giving him the benefit of the doubt. Or why Reese married him.”

“You know how Reese is. She was looking for some stability. She thought Matt could give that to her.”

“A lot of good it did her. I’m not going to feel sorry for her,
though, that bitch is sitting up there in her million-dollar mansion and passing judgment on the rest of us fuckers.”

“No, she’s not. She’s just—”

“Don’t even start. Another word and there is no way in hell I’m doing this baby shower.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“God, I hate you.”

“I know.”

“Fine, I’ll do it. But you so owe me.”

“Anything you want.”

“Yeah, well,” her voice changed, “then you can lend me your black pearl necklace for Saturday.”

“As long as you don’t use it as some kind of sex toy.”

“Forget it then,” she said, and laughed.

“Whatever, so you’ll do it?”

“Yeah, I’ll do it. Only because I love you. Not because I hate her any less.”

“Fair enough.”

I hung up the phone and collapsed back in my chair. I debated calling Reese and telling her what Julie said about Matt, but I knew the message would get lost in translation. Reese is never going to face reality until she really wants to. That was a lesson I learned years ago. Regardless, this is going to be one interesting baby shower.

Shower dread aside, I had to go over to the hospital today for the infamous one-hour glucose test. Apparently it tests for diabetes during pregnancy. When I got to the hospital lab, a nurse handed me a cup filled with orange liquid tasting like Orange Crush. I actually enjoyed it until the nurse checked her watch and instructed me to “Chug it!” since I was supposed to drink it all within five minutes or
something. Being the former flip cup champion, I chugged that baby down in record time.

While waiting out the hour, I sat in a very uncomfortable chair until they could draw my blood and release me into the general population. I had prepared by bringing several
People
magazines, but read very little since I was totally distracted listening to another pregnant woman describe in detail how her diarrhea was so bad she was afraid of pooping her baby out and could the nurses please check to make sure the baby is OK? Then, her husband and three-year-old came to wait with her. The three-year-old threw herself down on the ground and screamed while the parents ignored her and read
Parenting
magazine. I found it very ironic since the cover story detailed how to discipline toddlers.

Finally, an hour was up and the nurse drew my blood. I winced a little when the needle went in, as I always do. I would much rather they take blood from any other body part, eyeballs included, than my inner arm. It always skeeves me out for some reason. But, being the compassionate caregiver, the nurse chastised me and said, “Honey, you think this is bad, just wait until your epidural wears off while they’re stitching up your episiotomy cut. Now quit moving around.”

We, as a human race, need to invent a better way for babies to be born. Like a way not involving vaginas or stitches or needles. I must ask Dr. Clarke about this at my appointment on Tuesday.

Dr. Clarke said two very scary words at my appointment today: “third” and “trimester.”

It’s true, I’m really in it. Which means Mr. Skeletor is just about two-thirds of the way done, and I have close to zero things done for his arrival. Like, oh, small things—pick out a name, get the nursery
ready, cover up sharp pointy things in my apartment, move the cases of wine currently occupying where his crib will go, actually buy a crib, etc. Like I said, small things.

So yeah, I know I said he needs to pack his shit up and move out at forty weeks, but I’m willing to extend the lease for a while. We can try it on a month-to-month basis, as long as he respects the management and doesn’t throw wild parties or anything.

One of my readers did put it into perspective, though. She said, “Think of it this way—two-thirds of the way done means only one-third longer until you can drink again.” That does help because while I’m terrified of actually having a baby who I’ll have to protect from choking hazards and poisonous materials, I’d sell my kidneys—
both
of them and probably Jake’s, too—to drink a pitcher of margaritas.

To celebrate my third trimester, Mule Face brought in cupcakes for everyone today. (How did she even know? It wasn’t like I told her. She must be tracking my pregnancy on her own. Scary.)

Well, she said it was to celebrate the third trimester, but the cupcakes were decorated with little “Here Comes the Bride” designs on them, as if anyone could forget she’s getting married next weekend. She has stopped doing any form of work since last week and started cornering innocent coworkers in their offices, the conference room, even the bathroom to blabber on about last-minute details. She talks for so long I start praying my phone will ring so I can get rid of her. Or, at least wonder if I can discreetly grab my cell phone and dial my own office number.

The greatest part about her bringing in the cupcakes today was she sent out a blast e-mail to everyone saying, “Cupcakes in the conference room. First come, first severed.” To which Tom, one of the interns, hit Reply All and said: “Severed? I don’t think so. I’d like to
have a cupcake but I don’t feel like getting anything cut off so no thanks.”

Mule Face just laughed and thought Tom was flirting with her, but the rest of us all know she makes him want to cut out his eyes with a spoon so he won’t have to watch her eating strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts every morning. That’s a direct quote.

I think I have a hangover from all the sugar on Mule Face’s cupcakes. In spite of myself, I ate close to five yesterday. I didn’t want to eat so many, but the
baby
did. Being a good and indulgent mother, I went ahead and allowed him the treat.

He’s been flipping around like crazy today and tapping my cervix periodically. I’ll be sitting at my desk and suddenly an electric jolt will run through my body. It’s like having a portable internal lightning rod.

I asked him to please chill out so I could make sure the Flynn wedding invitations went out today but he ignored my request and gave me a swift kick to the ribs for good measure.

Disobeying me already? Not a good sign.

After the invitations went out this morning, Irene called and said she and Rachael would be in this afternoon to discuss favor details. I walked to the bathroom to check my appearance before they arrived. I looked awful so I went down to my car and grabbed my makeup case for a few touch-ups.

Christina was in the bathroom. “Hi, Clare. I hear the Flynns are on their way over.”

“Yep. They should be here shortly.” I placed my makeup bag on the vanity with some hesitation. I pretended to adjust my contact lens for a few moments until Christina snapped her purse closed and raised her eyebrows at me.

“Good luck,” she said, then patted me on the shoulder and walked out.

Immediately after she left, I opened my makeup case and reapplied my eye shadow. I hate pulling out my makeup in front of other people. I wish I could be one of those women whose makeup is all one brand, like Laura Mercier or M.A.C., and it’s all shiny and new-looking and kept in a pristine case so when someone asks to borrow something, I could say “Sure” with ease and hand them a gorgeous shade of blush. Instead, my bag is filled with a mish-mosh of drugstore brands mixed in with a few expensive brands. I also have eye shadows with the plastic covering popped off, so every now and then I reach into my case and come out with a nail bed full of plum eye shadow.

So it is understandable why I wouldn’t feel my most professional if I were standing next to my boss, applying Wet ’n’ Wild eye shadow with one of those plastic applicators that comes in the compact.

Someday, maybe someday, I’ll be one of Those Women, a woman who only has beautiful silk underwear and thongs in her underwear drawer, instead of half nice and half junky stuff. A woman with no skeletons in her beauty closet. But for now, I’ll just have to look like one, since I doubt Rachael Flynn buys any of her makeup at Walgreens.