Not Ready for Mom Jeans (15 page)

“Looking forward to it,” he said, and signaled to the valet to bring his Mercedes to the front.

“Same here! It was great to catch up!” I chirped. I waved quickly to him and hightailed it over to my car.

Friday, April 25

“Just tell him you’re so exhausted all of the time due to having hot married sex every night,” Julie said as she uncorked a bottle of wine.

“Jules, he’s a client. I actually have to be a professional around him. I’m not going to make inappropriate comments and risk losing the account. Besides, it’s really not like that. We’re just friends.”

“Ha! He’s just this ‘friend’ who you haven’t seen in years and who completely screwed you over?” She poured the Cabernet into two wineglasses. “Here,” she said, and extended her arm, “drink up.”

I took a long sip of the deep, velvety liquid and enjoyed the slightly bitter aftertaste.

“Ohhh,” I sighed. “I’ve needed this.”

“I know, hon,” she said sympathetically. “Julie knows what you need,” she said, and downed half her glass.

“I’m so exhausted. No, scratch that. I’m sick of using that word. What comes after exhausted?” I leaned forward and rested my head against the cool kitchen countertop.

“Forget about Greg. Not worth the discussion,” Julie said as she took another sip of wine.

I weakly lifted my head off the countertop and looked at her through strands of hair. “I know. It’s not that, it’s …” My eyes filled with tears and I quickly put my head down again and closed my eyes.

“Hey! None of that! Look at me.” Julie tapped me on the head lightly.

I obligingly lifted my head again and stood up straight.

She wagged her finger at me. “She’s going to beat it, right?”

I nodded slowly. I could barely get out the words when I told Julie about my mom the other day.

“Then, don’t waste your tears. She’s going to be great,” Julie said firmly.

I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Let’s talk about something other than cancer or exes. What movie did you bring?”

“Well, I knew a good comedy was in order, so
The 40 Year Old Virgin
.”

“Perfect. Sara’s down for the night, so we should be good.” We grabbed our wineglasses and walked into the family room. I flopped down on the couch and tucked my legs underneath me as Julie walked over to the television, DVD case in hand.

“Where’s Jake?” she asked as she fiddled with the DVD player.

“Out with Bill-Until-Two-Months-Ago-I-Still-Lived-with-My-Parents.” I took another sip of wine and smiled.

“Oooh, that guy is such a winner. Is he still toking up every day at four twenty like he did when we were in college?” Julie rubbed her hands together like she was starting a fire.

“As far as I know. I’m sure he doesn’t let his job at the sporting goods store interfere with his marijuana habit.” I pulled a blanket down off the back of the couch and tucked it around me.

“How does he help customers if he’s high all the time?” she asked as she sat down next to me.

“Not customers. Climbers,” I said.

“What?” She leaned forward a bit.

“Climbers. He runs the rock-climbing wall.” I pulled the blanket up around my shoulders and laughed.

“You’re fucking kidding me! He supervises rock climbers while he’s high? What does he say? ‘Du-ude, hurry up and get down here. It’s my break and I really need some Cheetos.’ ”

“Or, ‘Just like, sign this release and shit saying you won’t sue us if I drop you or something.’ ” I laughed.

“Exactly.” Julie shook her head. “At least he finally moved out of his parents’ house.”

“Um, yeah, only because his parents freaking bought him a place because they were so desperate for him to move out. Ew, I can’t believe you made out with him in college.” I crinkled my nose.

“Yeah, well, you had some winners yourself. How about the guy who you made out with freshman year who had hair plugs?” she said, and took a long sip of wine.

“He didn’t have hair plugs! It just looked like that,” I defended him, despite the mental picture of tufts of hair plugged into a scalp, much like one of those plastic baby dolls.

“Sweetie, he could’ve been on the Hair Club for Men commercial.” Julie pursed her lips.

“Whatever. Speaking of which, how’s the online dating coming?” I said quickly to change the subject. I didn’t want her to remind me how I cried when hair plug guy didn’t ask me out.

“Ugh. Not so good. First date was a disaster.” She leaned her head against the back of the couch and closed her eyes.

“Julie! You didn’t tell me you went on a date already!” I said, and tossed a pillow in her direction.

“Hey, watch the wine! I’m telling you now,” she said smugly, and took a sip of her wine.

“So spill,” I said.

“You’re going to love this.” She paused and took a sip of wine. She leaned forward and set her already empty wineglass down on the coffee table in front of her.

“Stop stalling! Tell!” I demanded.

“Relax. So, OK. This guy seemed normal enough from his online profile, right? Well, he comes to pick me up and he brings me flowers, which is kind of lame but was fine. But then, he smiles real wide at me as I take the flowers and I notice …” She paused and leaned forward.

“What? Noticed what?” I shrieked at her.

“He had no back teeth!” She sat back and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

“NO!” I covered my mouth with my hands.

“Yes! So, yeah, no back teeth. But I felt really bad because he said he already got show tickets for us, so I figured I’d just go see the show and then ditch him after.”

“What show?
Wicked
?
Jersey Boys
?” I asked as I hugged a pillow to my stomach.

“You wish,” she said, and cocked her head to the side. “Try rodeo.”

“What? Like with horses and stuff?” I tilted my head to the side and thought,
Maybe he’s a cowboy?

“Yeah. A fucking horse rodeo. I didn’t even know they had any around here. Oh, and get this—we got a behind-the-scenes tour because his brother was one of the rodeo clowns! And the rodeo, let me just tell you that while I make no attempt to hide my white-trash roots, this was like a
Deliverance
convention.”

“Oh my God!” My hand flew up to my mouth and I started laughing uncontrollably.

“But wait, there’s more!” she shrieked.

“ ‘But wait, there’s more!’ You sound like one of those people on infomercials who …” I trailed off when I saw her Look of Death.

“This rodeo was like way out in butt-fuck land, so he’s driving me back to my apartment and we have to go through all these country roads and crap. And the entire time I’m convinced he’s either going to molest me, kill me, or sell me into white slavery. He didn’t do any of that, but he did pull off the road and ask if we could make out underneath the stars.”

“What? Like on the roof of his car or something?” I shrieked, and clapped my hands. Julie’s stories always thrill me in a way that no movie, TV show, or book ever could.

She shrugged. “Who the hell knows? I told him the only stars he’d be seeing were the ones after I punched him in the face if he didn’t keep driving.” She threw her hands up in the air. “So yeah, not a good one.”

“Wow,” I said. We sat silently for a moment before I cleared my throat and said, “Can I—”

“Yeah, go ahead and blog about it,” she finished for me.

“Cool. That’s going to be an awesome one.”

This. This is why I have to be Julie’s friend for the rest of my life. Even if she burns my house down, kidnaps my daughter, and sleeps with my husband, I have to be her friend. Because her life will provide an infinite amount of writing material for as long as we both shall live.

We turned on the movie and settled in on the couch with a big fluffy comforter and our wine.

Halfway through the movie, the baby monitor crackled and horrid screams began to emit from it.

“Shit,” I muttered. “Pause it,” I said to Julie.

I walked into Sara’s room and picked her up.

“What’s the matter, baby girl?” I cooed to her. “Are you jealous we’re drinking wine?” She continued to scream and started batting at her ears. “What’s wrong?” I looked at her as though I expected her to say,
Well, Mom, thanks for asking. I don’t really like this new brand of diapers you started using and my room is a touch on the warm side.

I thought she might be hungry, so I brought her out into the living room and tried to give her a bottle, which only made her make these horrid sucking noises and then scream harder.

Julie, at first, tried to help. “What’s the matter? Do you just want some wine, too?” she said to Sara, and held her glass out. When it did not seem, in fact, that Sara wanted any wine, Julie asked, “Do you want to hear about the rodeo?” Sara turned purple in response. Julie turned to me. “I’ve got nothing,” she said, and shrugged her shoulders.

I tried to rock Sara. I tried to walk around. I tried to give her a pacifier. Basically, I did everything short of buying her a pony and giving her a credit card.

After an hour, Julie said, “Uh, Clare, I hate to leave, but …”

“Get out. Seriously, go. You shouldn’t have to listen to this. I might just put her in her crib and let her fuss anyway.”

“Sure?” Julie said, even though she already had put her shoes on.

“Absolutely.” I watched Julie walk out the door and close it behind her. I realized I didn’t have a chance to talk her about my latest mental wrestling match, i.e., Clare versus Working, but I figured it was for the best. I’ve always been so adamant about going back to work that she might suspect me an imposter and start asking secret questions, like my bank’s Web site when I forget my log-in:
What’s your mother’s father’s third cousin’s middle name?

It’s probably best to allow myself to distill my emotions without any additional input. I mentioned to Jake last night that I might want to consider the option of staying at home. I said the sentence with enough qualifiers that he knew better than to push a discussion. He just kissed me and told me he’d support whatever I decided. Which was great, but sometimes I wish someone would just tell me what to do.

Or, at least, why my daughter won’t stop crying.

I turned back to Sara, still screaming in her swing. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”

She considered it but decided screaming her head off was more the way to go.

But as she cried, I caught a glimpse of something in her mouth. I stopped the swing and bent down. The mouth-gaping-open screams made it easy to examine her. Her bottom gum was swollen. I stuck my finger in her mouth and peered at her gum. I could see a faint white pellet like object beneath the skin.

Fark.

She’s teething.

DUM, DUM, DUM, DUM, DUM …

I called Jake and told him we needed to start ordering wine by the case rather than just the bottle, as excessive amounts of alcohol are really the only aid we have. I heard Bill-Until-Two-Months-Ago-I-Still-Lived-with-My-Parents laughing and playing Super Mario Brothers in the background and told Jake to get his ass home and help me. I had little tolerance for potheads playing Nintendo when I was trying to endure what I have now dubbed The Great Tooth Debacle.

Nice timing, teething. Way to roundhouse kick me when I’m down.

Wednesday, April 30

Roundhouse kicks to the noggin continue.

Very, very little sleep.

Jake and I have been surviving on very, very little sleep.

Today, I opened my lunch at my desk, expecting to find my yummy leftover spaghetti Bolognese from last night, and found a bottle of baby lotion.

That’s it.

Just a bottle.

Placed inside a paper bag.

Last night, I was trying to give Sara her bath and pack my lunch for today at the same time, amidst all of the I Hate the World and My Teeth screaming. My spaghetti Bolognese is probably sitting inside Sara’s baby tub in our laundry room right now.

I think the sleep deprivation has finally won.

I’m so drained I kind of wish I would break my arm or something and have to be admitted to the hospital—where I’d get to sleep in a bed, be brought my meals, and get to watch television. Yes, I have now reached the point where I am so miserable that breaking body parts sounds like a vacation.