Not Ready for Mom Jeans (21 page)

Here’s a sampling:

From: Jennifer Theriod

To: All

Should we have the office lunch next week at P.F. Chang’s or Kona Grill?

Then every idiot in the company hits Reply All to the message, so I’ve gotten thirty e-mails alone with people voting on which place to have lunch.

Another:

From: Zoe Smithe

To: All

Do you guys want to chip in to buy Kathy’s daughter a christening gift?

Once again, thirty e-mails with people debating on how much to spend, what to get, who would go out and get the damn thing, and should we, in fact, even buy a gift?

I played Grinch and voted that we shouldn’t buy a gift at all. Simply because I don’t want to get caught up in a revolving door of office gifts where we have to shell out ten dollars each week because so-and-so’s son is getting married or so-and-so’s grandmother turned eighty. Julie told me once she had to chip in at work because one of the other nurses’ cat died and she couldn’t afford a proper burial. So Julie had to chip in fifteen dollars to help cremate this chick’s cat.

I had to buy a gift for Mule Face’s wedding to her husband, Big D (Short for Dwight. Hopefully not anything else) last year. I think buying a heart-shaped picture frame made out of crystal and tinsel was enough for a while.

The good news today is that my assistant position is finally posted on the Internet. Let the flooding in of awesome candidates begin!

3:30 P.M.

How about, let the flooding in of average candidates begin?

People who have sent in their résumés so far: a high-school student looking for twenty-five dollars an hour, a fry cook at McDonald’s, and someone who wrote,
IverygoodatjobIliketohavejobhereismyresume
and attached a résumé in some foreign language to the e-mail.

4:30 P.M.

I’ll settle for a candidate who speaks English and who functions at a third-grade level.

6:00 P.M.

Wifey1025
really really
wants to be considered for the position since her parole officer told her she needs to find a job. I’ll have to look into Signature Events’ corporate policy on hiring convicted and possibly dangerous and stalkerlike felons.

Saturday, June 21

“You sound tired. Are you still in bed?” Julie asked me over the phone at noon today.

“In bed? Are you serious?” I snorted. “I’ve been up since six thirty.”

“Jesus, why in God’s name were you up at the ass crack of dawn on a Saturday?” I could hear what sounded like a pill bottle rattling around in the background.

“I have a kid, remember? Kids don’t generally sleep in. Because they are evil and want to punish their parents. Hungover?” I said.

“Un-freaking-believably. Hold on.” I could hear her gulping down water and some extra-strength ibuprofen, I assumed. “OK, there.”

“What did you do last night?” I asked.

“Went out with this new coworker. She had like one-and-a-half beers and was completely hammered. You’d have thought she was high or something.”

“Sounds like that girl from our dorm freshman year,” I said.

“Who?” Julie’s voice squeaked out.

“God, what was her name? You know, the chick that freaked out after she had three beers?” I tapped my finger against my cheek as I tried to pull her name from the air.

“Oh yeah! What the fuck was her name?” Julie shrieked.

“Laurel!” I said triumphantly, and pumped my fist in the air.

“Yeah, Laurel! We played drinking games in our room, and after like fifteen minutes that bitch ran out into the hallway, threw herself down, and started screaming her head off and wriggling around on the floor because she was so wasted and out of it.” Julie sighed happily, thrilled that I had helped her rescue a nearly forgotten memory.

“Remember how people were asking her if she was on acid or ’shrooms or something? We were like, ‘No acid. Three beers.’ ”

“That was awesome. I wish I had taken some pictures instead of helping her back to her room.”

“Oh, Julie, you’re such a Good Samaritan.” I laughed.

“Good Samaritan, my ass. I just thought we were going to get caught for drinking in our room. I couldn’t throw that bitch into her own room fast enough. I would’ve stapled her mouth shut if I had the means.” I could hear her pouring what sounded like pop over ice.

“You got her back later in the year when you peed outside her room,” I reminded.

“That wasn’t my fault. The bathroom was locked and I really had to go.” I heard her take a long drink and sigh.

“Locked or required the turning of the knob and you didn’t have the motor skills at the time to do so?”

“Who can remember?” she sighed. “Hey, so I think I’m finally ready to go on another Internet date.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Next weekend. Oh, but hey, do you want to go out tonight? I have an extra Second City ticket.”

I sighed. “I wish. I have Ash Leigh’s first birthday party tomorrow and I need to be at full strength to deal with the giant disease
that
party’s going to be. Want to come and keep me company?”

“I’d rather give myself a Brazilian bikini wax while on a Tilt-A-Whirl,” she practically shouted into the phone.

“Funny,” I said. I paused for a moment.

Screw it. I have to talk to her about it. I’ve turned to Julie for advice about every major life decision I’ve made; the choice to keep working or stay at home definitely qualifies.

“So, I need to talk to you about something,” I said quickly.

“Oh no. You’re pregnant again, right? Keep your pants on!” Julie sputtered.

“No! Lord, no!” I waved my arms around as though she could see me. “Not even close. And hopefully this won’t be even more terrifying for you, but I, um, am considering the idea of staying at home.” I closed my eyes and winced slightly. It was still hard to say out loud with any conviction. “But just considering,” I quickly added.

There was a long pause and I thought she’d dropped dead.

“No fucking way,” Julie whispered into the phone.

“Tell me about it,” I said as I leaned forward and put my head onto my kitchen countertop.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully. “You’d never have to deal with Mule Face again, so that’s a bonus.”

“True,” I said.

“I mean, I honestly can’t picture you being a stay-at-home mom, but whatever. If you think you’d be happy. But what would you do all day?” Julie whispered.

I shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m sure I’d be busy. I’d be with Sara. I’d love to ask Reese, but I suspect that question is slightly loaded, like, asking a working mom how she ‘does it.’ There’s judgment implied, even though I really wouldn’t mean it like that. I’m just honestly curious.”

“Yeah, definitely. She gets pissed off really easily,” Julie said.

Pot, meet kettle,
I thought.

“Anyway, whatever you decide, I’ll be happy for you.”

My shoulders slumped with relief that she chose not to remind me of my college diatribes on Why Women Should Work.

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

“No prob, Donna Reed,” Julie said with a laugh.

Sunday, June 22

An open letter to the attendees of Ash Leigh’s birthday party:

Dear All:

I’m not like you. Get over it.

That means I don’t wear a fanny pack or Mom Jeans. I don’t know how to make anything involving a slow cooker. I don’t know how to make nut-free treats for afternoon play group (which I can’t attend because—let’s review: I work), but I’m very good at ordering takeout, does that count?

One more thing: My daughter is not even a year old yet. Please do not ask when I’m having the next one. I’ll have the next one just as soon as we figure out a way for Jake to get pregnant.

Also? Dressing yourself and your child in matching Crocs does not a good fashion statement make. So please put on something else. Your shoes are burning my eyes.

While I acknowledge your child is cute, I did not want to see five hundred pictures of her at Halloween, her rolling over, her next to a farm animal or picking her nose. M’kay? Find something else to talk about other than The Time Little Jackie Caught Croup or your son’s bowel movements. I have a kid and I have plenty to talk about. Try reading a newspaper or picking up a book once in a while.

And? Lady with the bowl haircut à la the little kid on Family Ties? You blow. I don’t care your kid started sleeping through the night, or STTN as you called it, at six weeks. You are not a better mother than I am because my kid wants to party all night long rather than sleeping in her crib for fifteen hours straight. I will not bow down to you like the other loser moms there who fawned all over you, fetched you cocktails, and exchanged onion soup mix recipes.

And earth to the lady wearing overalls. First off, overalls are cute on kids. Adults, unless employed as carnival workers, should not wear them. By the way? It’s not called baby weight when your kid is eighteen. You don’t need to “lose a few pounds left over from the pregnancy.” After two years, “baby weight” turns into “fat.” News flash: you look like you should be on the Facts of Life reunion special. Repeatedly grabbing your muffin top, stretching it, complaining about it, showing me the stretch marks on your boobs, and then crying about how your husband would rather watch Monday Night Football than have sex with you made me want to kill myself. Please also tell your husband I didn’t enjoy him repeatedly grabbing my ass.

While I know I’m still pretty soft around the middle, I choose not to draw literal attention to it and reveal my fat to strangers. There’s these girdle things called Spanx and they work awesome.

I would also like to remind you all I did not, repeat:
did
not, dress Sara that day. As you may recall, I met Jake and Sara at the party since I had to run some errands. My husband, not I, chose her outfit. If I dressed my daughter in a onesie and pants, I would at least know to snap the onesie at the crotch, under the pants, rather than allowing the front and back flaps to hang freely over her jeans and flap in the breeze. Had I been home I also would have asked Jake to seriously rethink his outfit of light-colored 1987-style jeans paired with a black waffle-weave Henley shirt and brown loafers. You all knew he was a technology geek before he even presented his debate on LCD versus Plasma.

Oh, and
thanks
for so sweetly comparing my job as an event planner to the time you planned your parents’ anniversary party. Now that you mention it, pulling off a black-tie gala that raises over a million dollars
is
just like gluing old photos of your parents to a poster board and baking frozen puff pastry appetizers.

And speaking of my job, thanks for telling me that you think that the ladies at day-care are “raising” Sara. I debated telling you about the current decision in front of me, but you all proved that you share but one brain cell and not a shred of compassion. You guys rule!

Clare