Not Ready for Mom Jeans (26 page)

“Um, ya. Let’s go in,” I said. I figured it would be easy to give the pizza guy directions:
The house next to the one with all the shit in the yard.

The interior was beautiful. It was perfect. The only problem was that we needed to breathe, oh, occasionally.

Not only did the owners appear to be very heavy smokers, as evidenced by the yellow ceilings, ashtrays in every room, and general odor of a dive bar, but they also had a cat. More than one, probably. Who all must be on strike from their litter box, as the entire place reeked of cat urine. I only stayed inside with Sara for about five minutes, as I wasn’t sure what excessive exposure to cat piss would do to her still-developing wee brain. Now, I’m not one to complain about animals, seeing as how our cat is as well behaved as Stewie from
Family Guy,
but I don’t think Jake and I have the funds to purchase enough gas masks to hand out to visitors before they even set foot through the door.

House Number One? Not the One.

We journeyed on to House Number Two.

This house was another equally gorgeous, redbrick colonial with white windows. It even had a garden tub in the master bathroom. Of course, it was decorated hideously, since a seven-foot-tall mural of a naked Indian carrying a dead white woman isn’t exactly my taste, but it wasn’t anything several gallons of paint couldn’t fix. The shrine in the basement to Tupac Shakur didn’t even deter me.

The ten thousand dollars a year in taxes did.

Apparently, when they built this subdivision, a onetime assessment was levied on each house to do general infrastructure work like road paving. People had the choice of either paying it upfront or rolling it into their yearly taxes. Guess which one these owners chose?

Moving on.

House Number Three was an old farmhouse from the 1800s. It was in an amazing location, one Jake and I thought we’d never be able to get near. It would be a huge investment opportunity and our property value would surely shoot up year after year.

The problem with House Number Three was location and nostalgic charm were about the only pluses. Now, I love old houses and their quirks, but living in this house would
literally
be like living in the 1800s. No air-conditioning, one bathroom—on the
first floor
—narrow staircases, and no closets. Apparently, back in the good ole days, taxes were calculated per the number of rooms in a house. Closets were considered rooms. So, to save money, nobody built closets. Their gain? Our loss.

Also, the dirt floor cellar really creeped me out. And that’s where the washer and dryer were located. I figured it would be a good excuse to never do laundry again, but the fuses (yes, fuses, not circuit breakers) were down there, too, and if the power ever went out and Jake wasn’t home, Sara and I would be stuck in the darkness with no electricity (again, like the 1800s) until he came home.

And the no AC thing really wouldn’t jive during the summer, when my hair expands to three times its normal size when it comes into contact with so much as a drop of humidity.

So, sadly, Jake and I aren’t going to buy the Money Pit. My dad reminded us that we’d only seen three houses, it’s a buyer’s market, we have tons of time, blah, blah, blah. The problem is I’m already starting to panic. See, we can afford like 1 percent of what’s on the market right now, buyer’s advantage or not.

It didn’t help when Marianne said, “Of
course
you’re going to put at least thirty percent down, right?” and when I told her no, we didn’t have extra tens of thousands of dollars saved up but that we were planning on making a modest down payment, she said: “Then you’d be at risk for foreclosure and default. You don’t want to lose your house, do you?”

I started to freak out when Jake reminded me we hadn’t even bought a house yet and I should probably wait until we find one and move before I start Googling what house foreclosure does to one’s credit. But, looking at the spec sheets in front of me, I’m starting to worry if we even want to live anywhere we can afford. Not to mention, I’m afraid to look at more expensive houses, since I don’t want to hamstring my decisions at this point.

So, today was pretty much a bust. Except I did discover Realtors give out free things, like juice and cookies at open houses. I think I’m going to go drown my sorrows in one of the oatmeal-raisins stuffed into my purse.

Monday, August 18

As if my working mom guilt needed another kick in the teeth, I was, once again, the last person to arrive in the office. I still arrived by 8:30 a.m., but it was clear that everyone else had already been working for at least an hour.

I collected a few things at my desk and left to go to Greg’s office to drop off some golf shirt samples for the outing. Every golfer receives a collared shirt as part of the giveaway, and I needed Greg to choose between the lovely white waffle-weave cotton and the light blue nylon version.

Thrilling, I know.

I planned on dropping the shirts off with his secretary and sending him a follow-up e-mail, which was why I purposely stopped in around lunchtime. But, true to my luck, he had just gotten back from his lunch meeting.

“Clare! Come on in!” Greg said as he waved in from the reception area of the Thompson & Thompson, LLC, law firm.

I stood up and grabbed my bag. Except, out of nowhere, my ankle wobbled in my slingback shoe. My hands went toward the heavens and about a thousand pieces of paper, two golf shirt samples, and some miniature golf tees all scattered through the air like caps on graduation day.

“Oh!” I shrieked as my hands flailed through the air like a
Dancing with the Stars
contestant.

“Are you OK?” Greg said as he rushed to steady my elbow.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I said as I fixed my errant shoe strap and surveyed the contents of my bag, which now littered the reception area. “Er, lemme just—” I kind of awkwardly half-crouched, half leaned over, and tried to pick up the hundreds of golf tees one by one.

“Here, let me help you.” Greg bent down in his expensive suit and helped me corral all of the materials. He chuckled as he handed me the golf shirts.

“Thanks,” I muttered under my breath. I looked over at him and laughed.

Golf outing paraphernalia shoved back into my bag, we stood up.

“My office is this way. Try not to break anything,” Greg said, and pointed me down the hallway. “You sure your ankle is all right?” he asked as we walked down the oak-paneled corridor, past expansive offices with panoramic views of Lake Michigan.

“It’s fine.” I smiled at him despite the humiliation burning through me.

“Right here.” Greg pointed to an office dripping with dark cherry bookcases, an enormous empty desk, and a pretty kick-ass computer monitor. It looked like a NASA command station.

So this was how he could afford that condo. Although I’ll never admit it to anyone, I Googled Greg’s name and found the property record for a condo he bought a year ago.

The sale price was more money than Jake and I will make in about five years. Either litigation was going well or Greg had a cocaine empire I was unaware of. (And if the latter is true, I’d be open to reading the business plan, as I’d like to live in a house that has indoor plumbing and is not located in a neighborhood consistently featured on
America’s Most Wanted.
Just a request.)

“So here’s the samples,” I said, and slid the shirts across the desk.

“Oh, right,” Greg said as he sat down across from me in his leather chair. He picked them up and studied them.

I looked around his office, his success evident in the fixtures. My office is littered with newspaper clippings of event coverage, the lamp on my desk is from IKEA rather than Tiffany, and I was excited to get a computer that had Microsoft 2003 on it earlier this year. Looking at Greg’s computer, I’m sure he has Microsoft Armageddon on it, or whatever the upgrade is called.

“This one looks good,” Greg finally said. He pointed to the blue nylon shirt.

“Great! I’ll place the order,” I said as I shoved both shirts back into my Bag of Death.

“Sounds good. Anything else I can do at this point?” Greg leaned back in his chair.

I shook my head. “Nope. Everything’s under control and running smoothly.” I stood up and glanced down at his desk while I rose. A photo caught my eye. “Hey! Is this from New Year’s?” Before I could stop myself, my arm darted out and landed on the black-framed photo. I lifted it and brought it closer.

A photo of about twenty people, mostly his friends, from his fraternity house’s annual New Year’s party, freshman year. My eyes zeroed in on one person in the center. Looking happy. Like she was having fun. Like she got more than an average of four hours of sleep at night.

Me.

All of us smiling into the camera, cheering in the new year. Cheering to what we knew would be an amazing future. Or, at least, an amazing night until the beer ran out.

I remembered how nervous I was to go to the party. How I looked forever for a dress. How I didn’t really know anyone there. How I awkwardly went to the bathroom every time Greg did, so I wouldn’t be stuck standing there by myself.

How, when Jake and I started dating, I’d arrive at parties before he even got there and feel completely comfortable and welcome.

“Oh, sorry! Ignore that—I normally don’t have old photos on my desk, but it got mixed in with a box from my home office,” Greg said quickly. He looked embarrassed. “Not very professional.”

I set the picture back down on his desk and smiled. “It’s OK. I won’t tell. Fun night, though.”

Greg nodded as he quickly put the photo into a desk drawer. We stood silently for a moment until his cell phone began to chirp.

“Well! Thanks for everything and I’ll be in touch!” I said quickly, and started toward the door.

“Thanks again, Clare,” Greg called from his office as I walked down the hallway.

I drove back to my office in a fog.

I’ve come so far beyond that girl with too much eye makeup, too-high heels, and a mere shred of confidence. But despite all of that, I still felt spooked. Spooked because, despite my emotional growth, I felt something else as I stared at that picture.

Envy.

Envy for that girl’s life. For her naïve view of the world. For her carefree attitude. For her self-allowances to make mistakes because, man, she had her whole life ahead of her. And she could be whatever she wanted.

Greg became exactly what he said he was going to in college—I’ve moved so far from that line that it’s disappeared. If my goals have changed so drastically, does it just mean that they’re adapting or that I’ve just given up? How much can my former dreams change before all of the good stuff gets edited out, like what my high school English teacher used to do to my creative writing assignments?

I have no answers, only questions. Like how was I supposed to prepare for Sara? She changed everything. How was I supposed to know that being apart from her would feel like a body part was missing? How was I supposed to know that having a child would make everything else in my life more muted?

Tuesday, August 19

No rest for the weary.

Or it is no rest for the wicked?

Regardless, Sara’s decided to adopt both as her motto.

Sara woke up every two hours last night, something she hasn’t done in forever. Finally, around 3:00 a.m. or so, I closed her door, turned off the monitor, and decided to let her cry. Of course, I’ll bet she fell asleep at 3:08 a.m. I’m sure her day-care teachers are going be thrilled with her today. Actually, she’ll probably be a total angel for her teachers and have a meltdown the second I get her home.

As I sipped my coffee and blearily stared at my computer monitor this morning, my phone rang shrilly, jolting me out of my walking dead state. I sluggishly picked up my phone. “Clare Finnegan,” I croaked.

“Yes, I’m looking for Clare Finnegan?” a woman’s voice said.

“This is she,” I said.

“Clare, my name is Elise Stansfield. You gave me your card a while back, if you recall.”

I stiffened my spine, grabbed a pen, and crossed my legs. “Oh yes. Elise, thank you so much for calling. How can I help you?”