Not Ready for Mom Jeans (6 page)

“Where’s Dad?” I smiled as my mom cuddled Sara.

“Working. One of his patients was admitted into the hospital.” She kissed Sara’s cheek and squeezed her.

“Welcome to hell,” a voice from around the corner said. Mark appeared, two beers in hand. He reached out and handed one to Jake.

“Hey! What are you doing here?” I said to my younger brother.

“Just stopping in to raid the kitchen and do some laundry.” Mark took a long swig of his beer.

“Looks like you need it.” I gazed pointedly at his stained T-shirt.

“Gotta look good for the ladies. Big plans tonight, Sis?” He leaned against the stairs and burped.

“Nice. I’m going out with Julie.” His face broke out into a smile and he raised his eyebrows. “And no, we’re not meeting up with you.”

“Why are you so against Mark and Julie hanging out?” my mom asked.

“Because I deal with enough drama in my life just trying to go to Target with Sara. The last thing I need is my brother and my best friend screwing each other and then screwing each other over,” I hissed, and narrowed my eyes at my brother.

“No shit. Bad idea, my friend,” Jake said. He clapped Mark on the back and took a long drink of his beer.

“What’s a bad idea?” Sam appeared at the top of the stairs. Apparently, her grieving period had ended.

“Julie and Mark. Hey, how are you?” I surveyed her hair. She was right, it wasn’t attractive. I imagined she’d asked for a Jessica Simpson baby blond, but it turned out more like Pamela Anderson after about fifty hours in the sun.

“Hel-lo, didn’t you hear? My hair is effing messed up. My life is basically ruined. God!” She collapsed on the stairs and leaned against the railing, her white hair falling around her face.

“I don’t think it looks bad at all. I think it looks really cute!” I nodded my head, smiled, and tried to look sincere.

“Oh, great, it really must be one hundred percent awful if you think it’s cute. You probably think Mom Haircuts are in style now,” my sister wailed from underneath a curtain of strawlike hair. “Why can’t you be like my friend Kristen’s sister? She’s awesome and works for as a buyer for Jimmy Choo.”

“She’s so pleasant,” I said to my mom.

“Sam, your sister is still very cool and hip, even though she’s a mom,” my mom called up the stairs.

“OK, fiberglass mascara,” Sam said to me, her mascara-crusted eyes narrowing.

“What?” I said, and leaned forward.

“Fiberglass mascara. What is?” she repeated slowly, as though she was talking to a developmentally handicapped person.

“I have no idea,” I finally said after a few moments. “Mascara with fiberglass in it?”

“See?” Sam said pointedly to my mom. She stomped up the stairs. Seconds later, I heard “Crazy Game of Poker” blasting from her room.

“O.A.R. I know that one!” I yelled up the stairs.

“Don’t even try. Communication with Sam is futile. Much like communication with houseplants,” Mark said. “I got it!” he exclaimed, and raised his arms. “SAM! I FINALLY FIGURED OUT WHO YOU LOOK LIKE. REMEMBER BRITNEY SPEARS WHEN SHE HAD THOSE PLASTIC EXTENSIONS AFTER SHE SHAVED HER HEAD?” he yelled up the stairs.

“THIS WHOLE FAMILY IS SERIOUSLY RETARDED!” Sam screamed from her room.

“Mark!” My mom elbowed him in the ribs.

“Ow. What? She does.” He rubbed his side.

“Sam, you know I don’t like that word!” my mom called up to Sam, and what sounded like a shoe hit her closed door.

“As much as I hate to leave this family party, Jake and I have to run,” I said.

“OK, don’t worry about anything. Miss Sara and I are going to have a great time together. Jake, you’ll be back to pick her up later?” My mom turned to Jake as she kissed Sara’s head.

“Yep, see you around midnight,” he said as she turned toward the door.

“Sounds good. And Clare, good luck with the reading. Try to behave.” She narrowed her eyes at me.

“Thanks. But Mom, it’s Julie. That’s kind of unlikely.” I shrugged.

“Right,” she said.

“Have Julie call me for phone sex when she’s wasted! Ow, what? Mom, I’m just kidding,” Mark yelled as I closed the door.

Not a chance in hell.

I parked my car on Julie’s street a good three hours later, still shaking with anger. Although I’m sure that man didn’t necessarily mean to have a tire blowout in the center lane of the expressway, it does not mean I didn’t want to roll down my window and spit on his car as I drove past. (Much like when my car crapped out in the middle of rush hour and someone threw a McDonald’s Big Mac at me while I was lifting the hood of my smoking car. Eye for an eye, no?)

I stood in the entryway to Julie’s apartment building, freezing in the chilly spring air, and pressed the intercom. “I’m here,” I called into the speaker. The wind whipped through the glass alcove as I waited.

Nothing.

I checked my watch. Right on time. I pressed the button again.

This time, “UN-ING FU-ING LA—” was all that came out of the intercom.

I pressed the button again. “Julie? I’m here! I’m freezing!”

The intercom crackled to life again, deleting every other syllable.

“Late? Did you say you’re running late?” My voice rose as I pressed the button again, startling a smoker huddled against the apartment building wall.

“LAAAAAA” came across the speaker.

I checked my watch again. I pulled out my cell phone and called Julie.

“Just go. I’ll meet you there. Goddamned flatiron not worth a goddamn …,” she muttered into the phone.

I shoved my cell phone back and into my purse and stepped out onto the sidewalk to hail a cab. The wind whipped against my face and surely took my makeup off in one clean slice. I pictured a mask of foundation, eyeliner, eye shadow, blush, and lip gloss sailing down Diversey Avenue.

I threw myself into a cab, which was when my anxiety started to climb. Blogging is one thing, reading my writing aloud is another.

If I wanted to experience this much stress, I should just go to IKEA on a Saturday morning. Much like last year, when Jake and I nearly got decapitated by a college student looking for Box 2 of 3 to build a FLOGERSHAM media cabinet.

I arrived at the Wine Seller a few minutes early. I’d never been to this particular bar, but I fell in love with it as I walked through the heavy oak doors and into the warmth. Dark wood paneling covered every inch of space, with bookshelves piled high to the ceiling. People lounging around, drinking glasses of wine and reading the newspaper. It seemed like a perfect spot to hide out from the cold and whisper gossip.

Yet I didn’t really know what to do as I stood in the doorway, nearly expecting to see a sign reading, “CLARE FINNEGAN. WALK OVER TO THE BAR. GET A DRINK. ASK FOR JANE. SHE WILL HELP YOU,” like in one of those James Bond movies.

When Jane e-mailed me a few weeks ago, she said she had invited a few local bloggers to read some of their entries at what she called Local Bloggerpalooza. I skimmed over it until I got to the “free drinks” part. With the astronomical cost of day care, “free” means a lot these days.

I walked over to the bar anyway. I figured a little liquid courage couldn’t hurt. I sat down at a bar stool and reached for the wine list as a voice said behind me, “Are you Clare?”

I turned around and saw a slight woman with tightly cropped gray hair and cool black glasses.

I nodded and smiled. “That’s me.”

“I’m Jane. Thanks so much for coming today. We should have a pretty good turnout,” Jane said, and thrust her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

I resisted the urge to look around the room at the, oh, ten people in the bar.

Including waitstaff.

Whatever. It’s a few free drinks. Besides, aren’t there supposed to be other bloggers here, too? It’s not like they can blame the low attendance all on—

“We had another blogger scheduled. Do you know Mike from
Lakeshore Jive
?” Jane said.

I nodded my head enthusiastically. “I’ve never met him, but his blog is hilarious. He’s going to be here, too?”

Wow. It’ll be great to meet him. Fellow Internet stalker magnet,
I thought.

Jane shook her head. “No. He was supposed to come but canceled at the last minute. So, it’s just you.”

I stared at her, waiting for my brain to translate the linguistics. I think my brain flashed into the Blue Screen of Computer Meltdown Death.

Jane saw the look on my face. “Don’t worry! It’ll be a piece of cake. I’ll just introduce you over there.” She pointed to a small stage with a microphone and bar stool. “And you can read a couple of entries and take some questions, OK?”

My head snapped back and forth between the microphone and her.

Like, uh, This. So. Was. Not. The. Deal.

“I don’t think—,” I started to say when a flash of red hair caught my eye.

Julie. She’ll definitely save me.

“Hey!” I waved to her.

“I’m so fucking sorry. My shitty flatiron shorted out on me,” Julie yelled across the bar, startling the seven people quietly sipping drinks. She pulled off her coat as she walked toward me, and again, the seven people seemed rattled, since all of them were dressed in cold-weather-appropriate gear, like turtlenecks, sweaters, and scarves. With very little cleavage.

Meanwhile, Julie was dressed in a tight long-sleeved black dress with fishnet tights and knee-high boots. With very much cleavage.

By self-admission, her trailer park roots run deep.

“What’s going on?” Julie said as she walked over to me, red hair tangled around her shoulders. “Hey, I’m Julie,” she said to Jane.

Jane seemed slightly disturbed. “Oh, hello.” She looked at me. “Julie as in Julie from your blog?”

I nodded and picked up the wine list again.

“Good to meet you! You look”—Jane stopped and looked Julie up and down—“great.”

“Thanks, so do you,” Julie said sweetly.

Recognizing the calm before the proverbial Julie Shitstorm, I thrust the wine list in front of her.

“Order,” I said. I turned to Jane. “So what time am I supposed to do this thing?” I said as I waved around to the empty tables.

Jane looked at her watch. “Right now. But get a glass of wine first.” She looked around the empty bar and back to me. “We’ve got time.”

Right.

After Jane walked off to test the microphone, Julie sat down next to me. “What? Did she not like my outfit or something?” She leaned forward and her massive boobs rested on the bar.

“Forget her. Listen. There was supposed to be other bloggers here, but it’s just me! I can’t go up there and read some lame entries to like four people.” I leaned forward and gripped her arm.

“Relax, drama queen. Just have a few free drinks, get up there and read your shit, and then we’ll bail.” Julie rolled her eyes. She glanced around the room. “Let’s go to a normal bar next.”

I smiled. “Normal like how?”

“Normal like I can dance on the tables and no one will give a shit. Bars should be loud, with drunks puking their guts out, not quiet and studious,” Julie said, and signaled to the bartender. “Two glasses of Pinot Noir.”

“What if they boo me offstage?” I mused as the bartender set two glasses of wine down in front of us.

“There’s like two people here. You probably won’t even be able to hear it. Speaking of which,
why
are there only two people here?” Julie whipped her head around, nearly smacking me across the face with her bright red hair extensions.

I shrugged as I watched Jane get ready to introduce me, to send me out as a sheep amongst the wolves. “No idea,” I said to Julie as I shuffled the papers with my printed-out blog posts in my hand.

Maybe I could just go up there and read from the newspaper. People might want to hear the news, right?

“No, really. You have so many readers. How many hits you up to these days?” she asked as she pulled a tube of lip gloss out of her purse.

I shrugged. “Same as always. About twenty thousand, I think.”

Julie shook her head and laughed.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing. No offense or anything, but it’s still just weird that so many people read your blog.” She squinted across the dark bar at a guy wearing a black turtleneck and gray skinny jeans.

“No kidding. I started it because I had that lowly assistant job and answering the phones didn’t exactly entertain me all day long. I thought it would be hilarious to write about my obnoxious coworkers and new martini recipes.” I fidgeted with the silver bracelet on my arm, pinching it on my forearm until it left an indentation.

“And, for whatever reason, people started reading and now thousands of them read about your life.” She grabbed her wineglass and downed the liquid in a quick gulp.

“If you would’ve told me in college that I’d have thousands of people reading stories about my kid’s diaper rashes and my husband’s hate for the cable company …” I stopped and shrugged. “Guess there’s still a lot of bored people at work.” I picked up my drink.

Yet I brought the wineglass just a wee bit too fast to my lips, and it clinked against my front teeth.

Which, of course, led me to jerk my head back.

Which, of course, led the red wine to splash down the front of my shirt.

Which led my Dignity to leave the bar and go down the street for a smoke break.

“Thanks for coming, everyone. We have a special guest in the house tonight. Her name is Clare Finnegan, of the popular blog
Am I Making Myself Clare,
and she’s here to read a few of her entries tonight. So please give her a warm welcome,” Jane said from the stage.

I remained frozen on my bar stool, still holding the wineglass, red wine soaking into my shirt and pants.

“Go,” Julie said, and took the wineglass out of my hand. She gave me a little shove forward on the shoulder. “Now.”

My hand still in the air, I said, “But I—”

She shook her head. “Go up there. Read. It’ll give me something to do while I’m stuck in this shithole.”

I slowly got up, walked toward the microphone, and stepped onstage, red wine stain and all. I felt all of the people in the bar freeze as they watched the stained, freaked-out girl walk toward the stage. I stood up and was nearly blinded by the spotlight. I leaned into the microphone and glanced over at Julie, who waved her hand at me.