A Bump in the Road (13 page)

“Natalie’s baby shower, of course.”

Shoot me. Kill me. I can’t do this. I absolutely despise baby showers. Actually, showers in general. I had to be practically drugged and tied up to go to my own wedding showers. All that oohhhing and ahhhing, sandwiches with the crusts cut off, pink décor and degrading games. No thanks. I’d just as soon go over to someone’s house with a case of beer and some pizza. At least at a wedding shower there’s usually something decent to drink but at a baby shower it’s all sherbet punch and sparkling water because apparently everyone has to treat the expectant mother as an alcoholic who can’t be near anything intoxicating. Plus the whole passing around of gifts bordering on embarrassing, like nipple cream and breast pads.

“I was thinking we could have it at Kingsley’s Bistro. What do you think?”

“Marianne, I don’t think the grandmother is supposed to plan the shower. It’s usually not supposed to be an immediate relative, according to Emily Post.” I thought I’d found a loophole.

“Of course not! That’s why only your name will be on the invitation. But don’t worry, I’ll help you plan everything.”

I blinked silently for a minute, trying to comprehend what was happening but it. Did. Not. Compute.

“So,” she continued, “Natalie said she wants an all-pink theme since she’s just positive she’s having a little girl. Isn’t that sweet? She’s such a stitch! For the food, we should definitely have mini sandwiches, probably chicken salad, cucumber, and turkey. We’ll also do a green salad and Caesar salad, with cookies and brownies for dessert. What do you think?”

Thankfully, she had already planned everything. She just wanted me to throw my name on the invitation and cough up some cash.

“What about drinks?”

“I’ll have Aunt Sally make her famous punch and we can do the usual soft drinks, sparkling water and such.”

“What about cocktails?”

“It’s a baby shower, people won’t want to drink! If the guest of honor isn’t drinking, nobody else should be, either.”

“Well, if I’m throwing the party, I’m going to have alcohol there.” If I have to fund and help throw a party for Natalie, there sure as hell is going to be alcohol present. Even if I can’t drink it.

“Well, I certainly can’t stop you if that is what you want to do. I hope people would refrain from drinking out of respect for Natalie, but it’s up to you.” I could practically
hear
her pursing her lips together.

“Great! I also think we should make the shower co-ed.” I didn’t really want to have a co-ed shower, so it wasn’t a big deal. I mean, why torture the men also? I just brought it up to drive her nuts.

“Oh, no, dear. A baby shower is supposed to be all women. It is supposed to be a time for ladies to get together to shower the mother with gifts and bestow advice. Men would just feel uncomfortable and intrude on our Hen Fest.”

“OK, so no men. Anything else?”

“Well, we’ll need to compile a list of games we want everyone to play.”

“Honestly, Marianne, I’m not really a fan of the shower games. I don’t think they’re as popular as they used to be. They’re kind of considered somewhat corny these days.”

“Natalie already said she wants to play games.”

It figures.

“OK, well then, I’ll leave that up to you, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll come up with some good ones,” she promised.

“How many people are you thinking?” I started to mentally add up the dollar figures.

“You know how large our extended family is, so we’ll send out around a hundred invites and I’d expect seventy-five or so to show up.”

“Seventy-five people! That could get a little pricey. Is there any way we could cut down the guest list?”

“Oh, no. We can’t pick and choose who we’re going to invite. That would be tacky.”

Of course, now we’re concerned about tacky. I hope she’s OK with visiting her grandchild in a trailer, since we won’t be able to afford our rent after this shindig.

“We don’t want to offend anyone. Listen, Marianne, can we talk about this later? I’m really swamped at work right now.”

“Of course, dear, call me later tonight. We need to get moving on this!”

I hung up the phone and massaged my neck a little. I completely forgot I’d be expected to throw Natalie a baby shower. We are practically going to go broke funding this party. After the baby comes, we’re going to be stuck inside with a screaming newborn, eating baked beans out of dented cans, and screening our phone calls from creditors.

That bitch better get me a nice gift when I have my own shower. No, wait—screw that, there’s no way I’m letting Natalie and Marianne throw a shower for me. They’d probably make me wear some weird hat made out of bows and humiliate me by making everyone guess my weight. Screw. That. If they try to throw me a shower, I’ll convert to Judaism and get off on the technicality that Jews don’t have baby showers.

Although I got very little sleep last night, thanks to peeing every half hour, I’m supposed to go into the city today to meet with the band leader and approve the choreography for the Gala. In between courses, semiprofessional dancers will perform lame routines pertaining to the theme of the event. When the theme was Broadway musicals, singers came out and sang show tunes. It is usually at this point
in the evening I have to throw my fork off the table to prevent me from sticking it in my eye, but the other guests usually enjoy it. Of course, they’ve all had a gallon of vodka each.

4:30
P.M.

I arrived at Tony G. Productions this afternoon and Tony G. informed me that Jessica and Betsy were running late due to a backlog at the salon. Tony G. seemed like a normal enough guy, except for an ego the size of an elephant’s ass. He calls himself a “Creative Musical Consultant,” which basically means he knows a bunch of musicians and performers he hires for events. And that would be fine, if that’s all he did. However, his aforementioned ego convinces him he should also take on the role of “party planner” by making suggestions on everything from the flowers to the invitations. He’s a total douchebag.

I sat around for twenty minutes listening to Tony G. ramble on about his latest event, a “spectacular black-tie at the Ritz,” before Jessica and Betsy walked in.

“We are so sorry. Our mani-pedis ran late.” Jessica and Betsy leaned forward and air-kissed Tony G.

“Ladies, are you ready to see the magic?” Tony G. asked, while I rolled my eyes. Apparently it was noticeable and he stared at me. I smiled innocently back at him.

“What do you have for us?” Jessica asked.

“Well! First we are going to watch a presentation of a Chinese dragon, followed by a traditional dance done by geishas and a performance by Chinese drummers.” He smiled widely, revealing a gold tooth, and smoothed back his ponytailed gray hair.

“Sounds fantastic!” Jessica exclaimed.

“Yes!” Betsy said.

“Ladies, prepare to be blown away!” He clapped his hands and we settled back to watch the performances, which were so craptastic I started playing Pac-Man on my cell phone. Halfway through the “Geisha Dance” one of the dancers dropped her paper fan and never
quite recovered. She forgot half of the steps and almost took out another geisha when she turned the wrong way and smacked into her. At that point, I feigned a coughing fit to cover up my laughter. Tony G. didn’t verbally react, but his face was bright red and I knew geisha number four would get the axe later.

After the performances, Jessica and Betsy exploded with applause.

“Fabulous!” Jessica said.

Tony G. stood up and bowed. “Oh, thank you, ladies. I live to please you. Anything for the Women’s Board! I mean, you ladies
are
the social scene in this town. Without you, parties would be like tax seminars!”

I suddenly wanted to vomit all over Tony G.’s fringed white leather jacket.

“Oh, no, Tony. Any party without
you
just wouldn’t be a party at all,” Jessica said.

“Tony, do you have a final quote we could look at?” I asked him.

“She’s not very much fun, is she?” he whispered to Betsy. “Here it is.” He slid it across the table. Thankfully, he came in at budget.

“This all looks good,” I said briskly, eager to leave, as my nausea was entering dangerous territory, but no one was listening. Tony G. was too busy regaling Betsy and Jessica with tales of his travels to the Far East.

“. . . and that’s where I found these girls! In Hong Kong, can you believe it?”

He actually tried to pass the dancers off as being from Hong Kong even though I very clearly heard geisha number four mutter a swear word in a Southern accent.

“Clare, have you found a dress yet?” Jessica asked me as we were leaving.

“A dress? For what?” Oh, right. “No, not yet. Have you?”

“I’m having one made.”

I thought:
Right
.
I’ll have one made, too
.
To cover my ever-expanding ass
.

“Clare, you’ve done so much for us, we insist you come to lunch with us today,” Jessica said, and Betsy nodded.

I was going to beg off, citing my usual workload, but I was too tired to protest. I learned a variety of new things at lunch today, including: the popovers at the Zodiac Room at Neiman Marcus are heaven, a tuxedo is called a “dinner jacket” when you’re rich, and I am now cursed with Superwoman-like overactive taste buds, making it possible to identify every ingredient in anything. I’m thinking of parlaying this into some kind of game show on the Food Network.

When I told Tony G. that he came in at budget, he apparently took that to mean he should call every half hour and try to add “additional services” into his contract and, thus, thousands more dollars in fees. In the past twenty-four hours, he’s suggested adding custom-designed spotlights for his band, fifteen additional musicians, four more choreographed dances, and—I’m not kidding—a tai chi demonstration.

As I slammed the phone down after our third conversation today, I heard my cell phone beep with a message. It was Sam, begging me to buy her beer on my lunch hour: “I totally need it like
right
after school because we all want to go to the game tonight completely wasteoid.”

I called her back. “Sam, I’m at work. I can’t just leave to go to the liquor store so I can buy you and your friends beer.” I swear I heard her roll her eyes.

“I knew you wouldn’t understand. You and I are too far apart in age.”

“No, we’re not. Listen, I just can’t right now.”

“That’s fine. I didn’t think you’d help me anyway. It sucks that my friends are all close to their sisters,” she mused.

“I wish we could be closer. Don’t you?”

“Whatever. Forget it. You’re so old,” she said, and hung up.

I’m concerned my mother abused narcotics while pregnant with Sam but it would explain her serious personality disorder.

Mark called five minutes later.

“Did Sam just call you?”

“Yeah, she wanted me to leave work to buy her beer, why?”

“She called and asked me why you act like you’re a senior citizen. And then she asked me to buy her beer.”

“Isn’t she lovely?”

“The best. One of the many reasons I never moved back home after college.”

“Do you think she’ll be normal someday?”

“Doubtful. You weren’t normal until about two years ago.”

“Thanks. I’ve now been told I’m annoying by my sister and abnormal by my brother in the same day.”

“Whatever. I said you
used
to be abnormal.”

“As much as I love these sibling chats, I must go. I’m very busy.”

“Tell Mule Face I think she’s sexy,” he called out before I hung up.

Yes. My mother definitely abused drugs while pregnant with both Sam and Mark. Amazing I came out so wonderful.