A Bump in the Road (23 page)

“So, how was the birthday dinner?” Julie asked me today over the phone.

“Fine. Sam was her usual charming self. Jake and I had good birthday sex.”

“Finally! Thank God. I was worried you’d become celibate.”

“You’re not kidding. So, what’s going on?”

“Not much. Except I’m a drunken whore.” She sniffed into the phone. “I made out with a married man last night.”

“Julie, you didn’t!” I said, and put my head in my hands.

“I did. I didn’t mean to. I only meant to go out for a casual happy hour drink with my coworkers and then go dancing. Instead, I ended up doing tequila shots with Roger the Male Nurse/Married Man and tonguing him outside the women’s restroom. I think everyone saw it so now they probably think I’m a giant dirty whore. I
am
a whore.” She sniffled.

“No, you’re not! Don’t say that about yourself. It’s not your fault
at all—he’s the one who’s married. It’s his responsibility to keep it in his pants,” I whispered, fully aware of Mule Face loitering around outside my office, pretending to look for a floral order.

“Then, this morning when I came in, Roger gave me this creepy smile and asked when the next happy hour party is.”

“Julie, listen. This guy’s a slimeball. You shouldn’t feel guilty at all. It’s so
not
your fault. Don’t let that prick make you feel uncomfortable. Just ask him how his wife is, that should shut him up. Oh! I know! If he doesn’t lay off, tell him I’ll do an entry on him, complete with pictures,” I hissed into the phone.

Mule Face stopped pretending to look for files and leaned against the doorjamb of my office, shoveling microwave popcorn into her mouth. I gave her an evil look, which she misread as an invitation to sit down in my office.

“I feel like such a dumbass though. I mean, who does something like that? What kind of person makes out with a married guy?”

“I think the better question is what kind of guy cheats on his wife with a coworker during a happy hour party?”

I heard a lot of rustling and she said, “Clare, I have to go. I need to check on a patient. I’ll call you later.” I hung up the phone and Mule Face looked at me with an encouraging smile.

“So, what’s going on? Who was that?”

“My friend.” I started to straighten papers on my desk and hoped she would go away.

“Was that Julie? She’s my favorite character on your blog.”

I didn’t have the strength to explain to her once again that the people I mention on my blog aren’t “characters,” but real people, so I just said, “Mmmmmm.”

She didn’t get the hint. She leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “Well, your friend isn’t the only one to have had an affair with a married man. This one guy I dated a few years ago was married and used to offer to leave his wife for me but I didn’t want to be tied down so I just told him to stay married. Just another episode in the life of a single gal!”

“Um, sure. It wasn’t Julie though.” Time to change the subject. “How’s the Castle sweet sixteen party coming along?”

She licked butter off her chubby fingers. “Wonderful. Easy. Isn’t it weird how my events are always so straightforward and yours always have so many problems?”

“Yeah. And isn’t it weird how my events always get the best feedback from the clients?”

I desperately wanted her to react but she just smiled, popcorn stuck between her teeth, and shrugged. When she left my office, I saw a piece of toilet paper stuck to her shoe and I silently thanked Jesus for the small token.

Julie’s still depressed over making out with the disgusting married man. I’ve told her many times over that it’s not her fault, but she’s still upset. So, that makes two now. My two best friends are now officially depressed with their lives, for very different reasons.

Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to be emotional and depressed and hormonal? Instead, I’m trying to help them put fires out all over the place.

Since Reese and Julie have their own problems to worry about, I don’t want to burden them with the latest “crisis” in my life: a complete inability to name my child.

After much introspection, I’ve discovered the reason for this: I watched an excessive amount of television as a child. And not the good, educational stuff like
Sesame Street
or
Reading Rainbow
, either. I’m talking every bad sitcom aired in the mideighties. I not only watched them, but absorbed and crammed into my brain every bit of information relayed to me. I mean, there are days when I can’t remember my debit card PIN number, but I sure as hell can recite the theme songs from
Full House
and
Perfect Strangers
.

Besides taking up valuable space in my brain, these ’80s television
shows also crippled me in a much more serious fashion: they’re the reason I can’t find a suitable name for Crouton. Any name Jake or I think of evokes images of one of the characters from some horribly acted, laugh-track-filled sitcom aired between 1981 and 1990. An example: Jake came home last week and suggested the name Kevin. A perfectly benign, normal name, right? Negative. Kevin was the name of the tall, geeky son with the freakishly large Adam’s apple on
Mr. Belvedere
, a show about a refined English male housekeeper and the wacky antics of the American family who employed him.

Next Jake suggested Nicole for a girl. Not bad, right? Wrong. I only think of the show
My Two Dads
when I hear the name Nicole. Nicole was the name of the main character, a teenage girl whose mom died before she found out if Joey, the wacky musician, or Michael, the straight-laced accountant, was her real dad. So, apparently they all decided to live together and both guys raised her. How’s that for fucked up? I mean, her mom was a ho who didn’t know who her baby daddy was and never bothered to go on
Maury Povich
for a DNA test?

Then I thought of the name Jamie. Another good one? Not exactly. Jamie was the name of the obnoxious brother on
Small Wonder,
quite possibly the worst show ever created (and thus also the greatest). If memory serves,
Small Wonder
was about a family who created a robot girl and raised her as their daughter. She was so lifelike, no one knew she was really a robot! Which would’ve been believable except for the tiny fact that she talked in a robotic voice: “HEL-LO. MY NAME IS VICKI. I LIVE IN A NUCLEAR HOUSEHOLD. I ENJOY DOING DOMESTIC CHORES AND HELPING MY PARENTAL UNITS MAXIMIZE THEIR LEISURE TIME.” Amazing no one figured out the secret!

The irony is I was allowed to watch everything except for one show—
Three’s Company.
My mother thought it was “sexist.” I have no idea why. All I know is I wasn’t allowed to watch it and so it became the only thing I wanted to watch. While other kids were trying to sneak to watch R-rated movies, I tried to sneak a peek at the antics of Jack Tripper.

So, when she thought another show I liked was sexist (
Just the Ten of Us
—apparently the daughters were “not good role models” and “objectified women as sex objects”), I went to my friend Adrianna’s house. Her mother wasn’t a feminist so we could watch whatever we wanted.

I asked my readers for some suggestions and jen2485 suggested we name him “Shithead” since his parents are clearly idiots and he will be, too. While I don’t disagree Jake and I are idiots, I’m thinking of asking Wifey1025 to cut her up into little pieces first before trying to kill me.

Genitalia countdown: T minus two weeks. Still no name.

My birthday gift from Marianne came in the mail today. She bought me maternity lingerie and some stretch mark cream.

Her gift-giving streak continues.

Mule Face spent this morning picking out song selections for her reception. She pulled out a packet of paper five inches thick and asked us to pass it around and make notes next to the songs we would like to hear. The rest of the staff took it as an opportunity to reciprocate torture and requested songs like the “Chicken Dance” and “Macarena,” but I just wasn’t feeling it.

After the third e-mail asking for suggestions for her and D’s first dance, I locked my computer, grabbed my purse, and walked outside. Thankfully, the blistering heat had broken for one day and it was actually tolerable outside. The sun was shining and a nice, cool breeze rustled through the trees. So, I decided to do something I’d always thought about doing, but never did. I grabbed a slice of pizza and a drink from the Italian restaurant on the corner, found a nice
comfy patch of grass under an oak tree in the park across from my office, and had lunch.

Eating under a tree is so
not
me. With my obvious distaste for camping, picnicking under a tree always sounded nice, but visions of ants and mosquitoes and wildlife attacking me and stealing my lunch always deterred me.

It was actually quite nice. I leaned against the cool bark of the tree and closed my eyes.

“So, what’s up? How’s it going in there?” I said to my stomach. “I can’t feel you yet, but I bet you’re moving around in there, trying to send me a Morse code signal with your taps. We’ll figure it out at some point. So, what’s new?” I knew I looked completely ridiculous, shoveling pizza into my mouth and talking to myself, but no one was around. “Are you comfortable? I hope so. Because I’m sure as hell—I mean—heck—oh, whatever—I’m sure as hell not. Are you a boy or a girl?”

Nothing.

“I said, are you a boy or a girl? C’mon, you can tell me. I want to win the bet. I’d also like to narrow down the name choices, since, yeah, I think you’ve heard that conversation.”

Still nothing.

“OK, fine. Be that way. You could at least give me some insider info, you know. I’m the one who’s growing you, not your dad, so I’m the one who should be privy to these things first, don’t you think?”

I think he fell asleep. I probably bored my own kid to death. I’m going to remember this trick when it’s four in the morning and he wants to party all night long.