A Bump in the Road (18 page)

Ugh. It’s Fourth of July weekend. The fact I don’t look pregnant but merely fat and the temperature is ninety thousand degrees outside is not making me excited at all for Joel and Megan’s annual Fourth of July party/barbecue. Normally, I’d be putting on some new cute tank top or sundress and sandals, but now, in the alternate universe known as pregnancy, I’m searching for something that covers my spare
tire/baby. Thankfully, I have many “tunic length” tanks from last season long enough to cover the blubber. The problem is the tanks are also “long and lean style” which makes me look “round and tubby,” but I figure most of our friends know about everything so I don’t have to worry about any misperceptions.

I really don’t want to go, but Jake would die since Joel and Megan’s Fourth of July parties are legendary. They usually last from around noon until dawn, when everyone passes out in various random positions. I’m pretty nervous about being one of the only sober people there. I’m slightly worried that the following will happen: (a) I will discover my husband is the most annoying drunk
ever
, (b) I will realize my friends are alcoholics and need to go to rehab, and (c) everyone will think, “Man, Clare really isn’t any fun when she’s sober.”

2:00
P.M.

Percentage of drunk people at the party: 20.

OK, I’m doing well. Things have started out fine. Jake’s “taking it slow” like he promised me by drinking only beer and refusing every Jell-O shot and mixed drink offered to him. Joel even tried to guilt him into taking a shot on account of the “former college roommate reunion,” but he turned it down. For now.

I got a text message on my phone this afternoon from Reese:
Sorry. Can’t make it. Sitter fell through. Have drinks for me!

I’m so bummed. Even though I knew she probably wouldn’t make it, I still held out hope she’d show up, sans Matt, and we could hang out.

I’m already getting tired of sipping on soft drinks and stuffing my face with Chex mix. I realized I’d never really eaten anything at this party before, minus the lone hot dog crammed down the throat to prevent gnawing hunger at four in the morning and dry heaves at nine in the morning. I’ve already eaten two hot dogs, some potato salad, and coleslaw. And I can pretty much guarantee this pattern will continue.

5:30
P.M.

Percentage of drunk people at the party: 40.

I’ve definitely swapped drinking and smoking for gorging on food, but otherwise everything is going well. Jake left to join a poker game and I’ve sprawled out on a lawn chair with Megan. After she stopped laughing when I told her about the In-Law Camping Trip, I figured it was time for another pop. And maybe another hot dog.

I wish I could update my blog. Wifey1025 would surely offer to come over and keep me company.

8:00
P.M.

Percentage of drunk people: 65.

People are starting to annoy me now. Megan accidentally spilled part of her cranberry vodka on me, so it looks like my boob is lactating. A wonderful sign of things to come. Megan’s sister Jamie burped right in my face when she was telling me a story about how she never wants to have kids because she values her free time too much, and Jake keeps patting my blubber fat/baby in a weird drunken way. I think he’s trying to be attentive but it looks more like groping. Oh, and my hands are shaking slightly from the eight gallons of caffeine.

12:00
A.M.

Percentage of drunk people: 99.9 minus one pregnant/fat girl.

Megan showed me her ass because she thought it would cheer me up. I spent a good twenty minutes recounting a good Mule Face story to Joel, about the time when she coughed and farted and tried to cover it up, and he laughed so hysterically, I thought,
Wow. I’m so funny. I’m a comedienne. People love my stories. I’m the funniest person here. I don’t even need alcohol!
until I realized he was stoned and would’ve laughed at test patterns.

Joel and Jake have played “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” approximately one thousand times, singing along while decked out in sunglasses and
hats, using their beer bottles as microphones. A routine I’ve seen many, many times. Joel’s sister Ava acted as their backup dancer, clapping her hands and twirling around unsteadily. If I hear everyone yell “Once more!” and “Fuck, yeah” and then “The south side of Chicago, is the baddest part of town . . .” one more time, I’m going to break a beer bottle and slit my wrist with the pieces.

“I’m having a baby! And I’m naming him Leroy!” Jake drunkenly yelled and everyone cheered, raising their drinks. “Isn’t my wife beautiful? She’s having a baby and it’s sexy!” Jake shouted and everyone cheered again. I looked over my shoulder for someone, anyone, who thought this was just as weird/annoying/freaky as me.

2:00
A.M.

Percentage of people passed out: 32 and soon to include one tubby/pregnant girl.

Jake and Joel concluded their show by singing most of the Blues Brothers greatest hits. It’s amazing how easily our friends are entertained. See, this is why I wanted to wait to have kids. I figured when we had kids, we’d spend our free time socializing with people who drink only a few cocktails and hold fancy dinner parties while debating politics and religion. A social life consisting of sophistication and intelligence. A social life with friends who drink only occasionally, so it wouldn’t be such a big deal to be the sober one. Oh, and friends who also have kids. But instead, I’m at a party listening to Joel and Jake make plans to start a new business of selling house plants shaped like private parts they plan to market to college kids. And they kept asking for my help and opinions, so I nodded enthusiastically and smiled from time to time. I mean please,
someone
has to have a good time, but it would be nice to have at least one other person here who isn’t drinking—like a parent, another pregnant lady, or a recovering alcoholic.

All in all, I’m pretty fucking proud of myself. I didn’t kill Jake, although it became abundantly clear we would’ve never made it past the second date if I were a devout Baptist/teetotaler, and I didn’t
punch anyone in the face, even when begged to sing “Papa Don’t Preach” around one in the morning. They wanted to hear me sing “But I’m keepin’ my baby!” It was kind of frightening having a drunken mob of people try to persuade me to do something. I felt like the “good girl” being forced to play Seven Minutes in Heaven with the sketchy popular boy at a high school party in some crappy made-for-TV movie.

9:00
A.M.

Poke poke. Hmmm . . . I think he’s dead. He looks dead. Poke poke. I must wake him up. I’m starving.

9:06
A.M.

I slowly pried Jake’s left eyelid open and peered into his bloodshot eye. “Hlrjim” was all I got.

“I’m starving,” I said. He didn’t speak or even twitch. He looked dead.

“Jake?” I said, and he lifted his eyebrows up, eyes still closed. “Jake, wake up. I want to go home.”

“Too early,” he grumbled, then turned over and buried his face into the inflatable inner tube he was using as a pillow. I had no idea where the hell he got it until I remembered Joel and Megan’s neighbor has a pool. My baby daddy is an alcoholic thief.

“GET YOUR ASS UP RIGHT NOW AND FEED ME, YOU DRUNK!”

That finally made him sit up. Well, that coupled with a ninjalike poke to his flank.

“Fine,” he said. He got up and stumbled around while trying to put on his jeans. “Where the hell did this come from?” he asked, pointing to the inner tube.

“How the hell should I know? I went to bed when you and Joel were firing up the deep fryer to see if you could batter and fry Doritos.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, and smiled to himself, fuzzily remembering
his fry-cook creations. “I think we tried to fry up a pizza slice, too. It didn’t work.”

“DON’T CARE. NEED BACON.”

“Fine. You might have to drive, though. I think I’m still a little drunk.”

I’ve now become not only the sober driver, but morning-after designated driver.

“Kill me. Please. Just kill me. Put me out of my misery,” I moaned to Julie this morning. She came over to hang out with me since her apartment building is being fumigated for “water beetles,” which is just a nice term for “cockroaches.”

“Morning sickness still kicking your ass?” she asked from her bed on the floor, head covered in an ice pack.

“It’s not just kicking my ass, it’s freaking owning me. I thought pregnancy was a natural, organic bodily experience, not one my body seems to reject with every cell inside it,” I said as I lay down on the couch and buried my face in a pillow. The cat hair on the pillow made my stomach turn and I tossed it across the room, narrowly missing Julie’s head.

“Watch it! I feel like shit, too, remember?” She leaned over and glared at me.

“Yes, but you feel like shit because you were out until three o’clock last night, drinking and dancing your butt off. Wanna know what I did last night? Went to bed at ten
P.M.
Now I ask you, how is that grounds to feel like someone is sticking a knife in my head and punching me in the stomach?” I sat up and looked at Julie, awaiting her response.

She shrugged and moaned again. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“Well, you know where the bathroom is. Trust me, it’s gotten
plenty of action these days. I’m just thrilled I didn’t puke at Joel and Megan’s party. You should’ve come, it was a blast.”

“Would’ve loved to. Had to work, remember?”

“Oh, right.”

“So where’s Jake?” Julie said as she adjusted the ice pack.

“Playing softball.”

“In this heat?” Julie shrieked. “He’ll die of heatstroke! Isn’t he tired?”

“Julie, you need to remember not everyone on earth is hungover. I know you’re probably dying inside, but we got about ten hours of sleep last night, so I think he’s up for a few hours of exercise.”

“I got ten hours of sleep last night. Lot of good it did me,” Julie muttered. She threw a blanket over her head. “You guys still doing it?” she asked casually.

“I wish,” I sighed. “I feel guilty, but I’m way too exhausted and sick most of the time to muster up the energy to do anything remotely sexual.”

“I simply cannot relate.”

“I know. I tried to tell Jake to find a nice girl who’ll have sex with him, but he turned it down. It’s too bad, though. Since R—” I started to say Reese, but stopped myself. “—other women tell me men get a little freaked out by sex at the end. Hopefully I’ll feel better so I can get some while the gettin’ is good, so to speak.”

“Rother women?” Julie eyed me suspiciously.

“Other. You know what I meant,” I said quickly.

“Well, suck it up, sister. Remember what I said about increased blood flow.”

“Please. Don’t torture me.”

“So, what’s new with work? Have you told them yet?” Julie stretched her arms over her head like a cat.

“Not yet. I’m putting it off as long as possible. Although that might be a bit difficult if you don’t keep your mouth shut in public.”

“I apologized for that, OK? Besides, you should apologize to
me
. You told someone I’m pregnant. What if you cursed me and now I’m going to get knocked up, too?”

“It wouldn’t be that bad. What did you say to me? Oh, yes, something about designer jeans and Reese Witherspoon. So, yeah! I hope you get pregnant, too!” I said, and smiled at her.

She pointed her finger at me and sat up. “You take it back.”

“Really, why? I thought you said accidental pregnancies were very Hollywood.” I looked innocently at her.

“Say another word and I’m leaving.”

“Leaving? I don’t think so. I’ll blackmail you to hang out with me if necessary.” I switched on the DVD player. “This should keep you here for a while.”

The television screen flickered and George Clooney’s gorgeous face filled the screen.

“You win.” Julie sighed and snuggled down on the floor. “You have me for another three hours. Two for the movie and one to discuss his hotness.”

“Deal,” I said.

Miraculously, I’ve felt better ever since Julie and I had the George Clooney movie marathon. I’m attributing it to his gorgeous eyelashes rather than the end of the first trimester. Although, according to every pregnancy book I’ve read, the second trimester is considered the honeymoon period. The first trimester is something like this: