A Bump in the Road (7 page)

My depression over the prospect of nine long red wine–less months continued today, when Carrie e-mailed me some pictures from the
infamous Cranapple Night, a.k.a. Clare’s Last Night of Drinking Ever. Extreme sadness pricked behind my eyes as I looked over the pictures of all of us holding our pretty red drinks and smiling drunkenly for the camera.

I became so entranced by the pretty colored drinks, I nearly forgot about my first meeting with the Women’s Board ladies at nine until I heard Mule Face lead them into the conference room. I quickly grabbed the event file and rushed down the hallway, just in time to hear Mule Face gush over Carolyn Wittenberg’s Gucci loafers. Carolyn, President/Head Bitch, greeted me coolly with a limp handshake. I saw her eyes quickly dart to my shoes as she sat down. Thankfully, I anticipated this and wore my Lanvin flats.

Betsy Fallon and Jessica Greene, the Gala cochairs, were close behind and rushed in and sat down, each looking as though the Neiman Marcus catalog barfed all over them.

“Clare, I’d like to begin by giving you a brief overview of this year’s event and then we can get into the specifics regarding your responsibilities.” Carolyn placed her alligator-rimmed glasses on the tip of her nose and peered down at me as Betsy and Jessica poured themselves cups of coffee.

“Sounds great.” I smiled a little too widely as I placed my hands under the table to hide my chipped manicure.

“The Women’s Board Gala is the premier event in the Chicago area. It is the gold standard to which all other black-tie events are compared. We not only represent ourselves and our community at this event, but also the fine tradition and long history of the Women’s Board.” Carolyn stopped and stared at the tiny pen mark on my sleeve.

I nodded my head. “Absolutely.”

“That said, I cannot tolerate any mistakes or errors or omissions for this event. It must be completely flawless.” All three of them stared at me silently and I realized I was supposed to say something.

“Absolutely,” I said again.

“Clare,” Jessica began, “this year’s theme will be ‘An Evening in Asia’ and we are planning on incorporating an Asian theme into
everything from the decorations, to the food, to the silent auction. It promises to be a fabulous event.”

“The theme is fun. We really like it,” Betsy said. I once heard Christina refer to Betsy Fallon as having the personality of a houseplant. A very accurate assessment.

“Clare, here is a list of responsibilities we’ve been told that your company will handle for us.” Carolyn slid a packet of paper three inches thick toward me. Except it only made it halfway so I awkwardly half stood and groped around the table until I reached it.

Carolyn continued, “We’ve usually handled most of these tasks, so there are very specific ways that we want these things accomplished. This year we’ve had an unprecedented number of members who had personal crises, so we have less manpower than before.” I nodded my head, thinking,
Personal crises? What, like, someone’s gardener quit and their favorite rose plant died? Or, someone had to fly coach when first class was sold out and they became disgusted by the mealy communal pillows and blankets?

“It’s going to be such a wonderful event and we’re looking forward to working with you,” Jessica said, and nodded her head enthusiastically. I shot her a grateful look.

I opened the thick packet, which detailed the next few months of hell and included everything from stuffing their invitations to assembling favors.

“That said, Clare, this is a lot of work and we’ve been assured your full attention until the event. Betsy and Jessica,” Carolyn turned toward them, “think of Clare as your sort of personal assistant to help you through the event. Anything you need, you call her. She is here to be your support system.”

Four years of college, seven of working in event planning, and I’m called a personal assistant? Awesome.

Jessica and Betsy smiled at Carolyn and beamed at me.

“Now, ladies, you must excuse me, I have an appointment at George’s that I cannot miss.” Within seconds, Carolyn left the room and all that remained was the smell of her perfume and my churning stomach.

“So, what’s the first order of business?” I asked carefully.

“Well, we’d like to get the letters out asking people for silent auction donations as soon as possible, so that would be great,” Jessica said.

The silent auction each year is the crown jewel of the entire event. The auction is where most of the proceeds from the event originate. The women use their connections to secure extravagant prizes, with everyone trying to outdo each other. Last year alone the prizes included a trip to the Seychelles, a private catered party for one hundred and fifty, and a week-long stay in the Presidential Suite of the Four Seasons. Since the guests are some of the richest people in the city, and are usually pretty intoxicated, the prizes usually go for well over market value, which is rare in a silent auction.

“Certainly, we’ll have those completed by the end of the week.” Suddenly I had a horrible vision of the next few months, a vision of me saying, “Absolutely,” “Yes,” “Certainly,” and “Of course,” like some robotic prostitute.

Three hours later, Betsy and Jessica left. My hair was thrown back into a haphazard ponytail, my makeup was running, and my head was pounding from nodding and smiling.

Man, I wish I could go home and have a glass (or two or three or, OK, a bottle) of wine tonight. After I’m done being pregnant, I’m going to focus on inventing a safe-for-pregnant-women wine. I’ll be a millionaire.

My cravings for wine are still going strong and continued as I drove home from work today. Unable to satisfy my longing, I settled on indulging another addiction: books. I peeled into the parking lot of the first bookstore I saw, tore inside, and headed straight for the pregnancy section. I blindly grabbed every single book I saw. I ripped through them when I got home and quickly came to this conclusion: pregnancy books are the equivalent of the Homeland Security Alerts on the news.
I mean, after reading all of the inflammatory warnings, I felt like I should be stocking up on canned goods and building a bomb shelter in my parents’ basement.

Many of the warnings are common sense
(Really?
You mean it isn’t good for the baby to down this bottle of scotch and smoke a joint? Seriously? Well, what about half of the bottle and a few puffs? What if I don’t inhale? You’re joking!), but others are downright ridiculous. Apparently, lunch meat and goat cheese are the equivalent of smoking crack, according to some books. Do people actually buy that crap? I’m sorry, but no alcohol or cigarettes means I can have a turkey sandwich if I want. No one is going to convince me I need to exist on organic granola and fruit for the next nine months. And I pity anyone who tries to pry my diet pop out of my soon-to-be-fat pregnant fingers.

Besides all of the food warnings, these books go into graphic detail
with pictures
about labor and delivery. I actually threw one book across the bedroom in shock when I read that something like 80 percent of women poop on the table when they’re pushing during labor. Horrified, I showed Jake, who laughed and thought it was hilarious. Why does it seem pregnancy is one small indignity after another ending with one giant loss of pride? Isn’t nine months of discomfort, nausea, hemorrhoids, varicose veins, stretch marks, profuse sweating, and heartburn enough? Why must God give us one final kick in the teeth involving bodily functions in front of everyone right before the baby comes out? Is it because having your girly parts on display just isn’t humiliating enough?

I’m wondering how difficult it would be to sew my knees together.

Why are there no helpful books on pregnancy? Why are there no books called
What to Do When Your Husband Impregnates You But You Can’t Have a Baby Because All of Your Furniture Is a Collapsible Death-trap from IKEA and Plus You Don’t Even Like Kids That Much?
Now
that
is a book I’d find helpful.

It reminds me of right after I graduated high school and everybody
gave me these books about college and the “Real World” (grown-up world, not the TV show). These books were all totally worthless because they had advice like “Make yourself stand out in class. Introduce yourself to your professor on the first day.” Now, anyone who has actually attended college knows standing out is the last thing to do in class because then the professor will notice absences. I could’ve used a book outlining things like what to do when your roommate is having loud sex when you’re in the room or what to do when you oversleep and miss a final. That is shit I actually
needed
the answers to.

So, I ask: Why can’t there be a pregnancy book that tells me what to do when everyone else is partying on the Fourth of July? What to do to ensure I’m back to my prepregnancy body no more than one month after giving birth? How to convince everyone I’m still cool to hang out with even though I’m the fat, knocked-up one? Who the fuck thought giving us a child would be a good experiment?

Because these are things I need to know. Immediately.

I gave the pregnancy books another shot today. Once I got past all of the disgusting details about labor and delivery and the inflammatory warnings, I started to actually learn a few things. For example, my child currently has a tail. I’m pregnant with a little tiny dragon. Which is kind of awesome.

I wanted to do nothing more than spend the day on the Web learning about the very strange process of growing a baby, but Mule Face provided a very compelling distraction. Apparently, she has a new boyfriend she met on the Internet. His name is Dwight but she calls him “Big D.” It’s his screen name, and I will assume the “D” stands for his name and not anything else. He’s from Wisconsin and only drinks champagne cocktails when he goes out. He also, based on the photo she e-mailed to everyone, has a severely receding hairline and slightly resembles a frog. Nothing gives me more pleasure than
watching her show Big D’s picture to someone, seeing their initial reaction of shock/horror, and then watching them quickly try to cover it up by complimenting his orange striped shirt or something.

She put a picture of him on her desk and periodically says things like “Look at how cute he is!” and “I could just lick him!” throughout the day. I also listened to her talk to him on the phone in a high-pitched baby voice in between slurps of microwave oatmeal. Occasionally, her voice drops down to a whisper and I hear things like “hot” and “can’t wait.” Like they’re having phone sex. Sick. It makes me want to cut off my arm and throw it at her.

It was kind of all worth it though when I heard Isabel Castle’s mother ask her if she is color-blind because the wrong tablecloths were ordered for Isabel’s birthday.

It’s times like these that I wish I could talk about work on my blog. I’d love to post a picture of Mule Face’s feathered bangs and watch the comments fly. But I’d like to keep my job, especially in light of the Dragon. I can’t talk about that, either, so I’m going to write an entry recapping one of my old drunken college stories. Besides, right now? An entry on the pregnancy would look something like this: HELP ME INTERNET PEOPLE! I’M PREGNANT. SEND HELP. AND DIAPERS.

I have to write something, because I’ve gotten twenty e-mails asking if everything is OK since I haven’t updated as frequently. Wifey1025 offered to drop off some of her famous chocolate chip cookies if I would please just give her my address and phone number.