Momnesia

Whatever possessed us to get a dog in the midst of an already chaotic time? Could it have been... Satan?

The good news: little Scrabble is almost completely housebroken after just two very tiring days. The bad news: I said “almost.” I didn’t think anything this small could pee more than a pregnant woman, but I’ll admit when I’m wrong.

I’m going to be a terrible mother, I can see from the way I treat the dog. Every time I he does something - anything - out of the ordinary, I think, “Oh, god! He’s going to die!” Or, when the more terrifying things happen: “Oh, god! He’s dead!” Just the first night we had Scrabble home, I thought he was dead. He’s kind of needy, so he sleeps in the bed with us. Okay, I’M kind of needy, so he sleeps in the bed with us. Anyway, he was snuggled up against me in the bed, fast asleep, when I woke up. I felt his little furry body next to me, and patted him. No response.

I patted him again and whispered, “Hey, buddy, are you asleep?” Which is utterly ridiculous of me.
I poked him. Nothing.
I patted Scrabble again. Nothing.
I scratched his belly. Nothing.

And then, I knew: In the middle of the night, I had rolled over on him and crushed the life out of him. I killed the best puppy in the world. I was a monster, and I was going to hell. With a strangled cry, I picked up his cold, limp puppy body. He raised his head and licked my face.

Oh. I’m an idiot.

I spent 10 minutes in the bathroom, sobbing, so that I wouldn’t wake Scott.

Is this normal for pregnancy? And when do I recover? I don’t think my mother ever has. Am I going to spend the rest of my life in perpetual recovery from the hourly heart attacks I give myself? No wonder I’m so tired! I’m on 10 all day long!

Scott: I just can’t wait to meet our child!
Me (laughing): I can.
Scott: Why?!
Me: ‘Cause I’m not ready to have it yet. I’m happy to wait the six more months.
Scott: But, still. I can’t wait to meet him. Or her.

He’ll see. We joke that we’re having a demon child, but I’m telling you: with Scott’s demon seed and my deviled eggs, that’s just a recipe for hellmonkeys.

I watched the movie “Big Fish” last night - or, rather, I tried to watch it. But the movie takes place during the fight by the father, played by Albert Finney, to live his life even though he has incurable cancer. There was a scene where he was comforting his wife. I thought, “Oh, how terrible it must be to have to watch the man you’ve loved for 30 years, the father or your children, die a slow and painful death.” And then I thought: “Soon, I’ll have a husband. Oh, god. One day he’ll die!” And the floodgates opened. I don’t want Scott to die. I realize that it won’t be anytime soon. Or, at least, one can only hope. I guess you never know for sure.

After about an hour, I got myself under control. I restarted the movie. Within five minutes, Albert Finney’s character had a stroke. I thought: “My father is about the same age as Albert Finney’s character. Oh, god. One day my father will die!” And then the floodgates reopened, and they wouldn’t stop. For three hours.

When Scott got home, he was... confused. And comforted me very poorly. I finally cried myself to sleep. Scott thinks I’ve gone insane. And, to be honest, I rarely cry like that. Not when I broke my ankle. Not when my grandfather died. Only once or twice in my life have I cried like that, and certainly never over something like a movie.

Scott called me when I was at work to inform me that I’d better enjoy the remaining seven months "because after the baby is born I’m getting my nuts chopped.”

We close at 7, but I’ve agreed to stay until 8:30 for a bride's father and their photographer. They’re late. I suspect they won’t show – typical – and I begin closing procedures. As I’m putting up a golf cart, I see him: Eeyore. He’s sitting in his minivan.

This man has been here 312 times preparing for his daughter’s wedding. I’ve nicknamed him Eeyore after the perpetually depressed donkey in Winnie the Pooh. The nickname captures his perpetual complaining, but it doesn’t begin to describe his severe case of obsessive-compulsive disorder that is becoming increasingly obvious. He’s measured the seating area twice, the pergola towers once, the – let’s just say that any draftsman could take his measurements and produce a NASA-worthy, topographically correct map of the entire 8-and-1/2-acre gardens to scale with only a slight margin of error.

I’m not in the mood to hear about the special lights heconstructed (using bubble gum and chickenwire, powered entirely by potatoes) to hang from the pergola. I’ve already heard that his daughter’s wedding dress was stolen by the lady who was supposed to complete the alterations, along with 10 other brides’ dresses, and about the ensuing court battle. I do not care that the wedding is just a giant fiasco spinning rapidly out of control and out of money. Don't get me wrong: I cared, at first. Five months later, I want them to elope. Eeyore comes inside. I smile and say, "Hello!" He does not smile back.

I do paperwork while he’s talking, and pray the photographer will arrive soon. I want to distract him – throw my shoe across the room and watch him chase it, like Scrabble, maybe. I’m considering just jamming the shoe down his throat when the photographer arrives. Or, rather, makes her entrance.

She’s on her cell phone, and walks breezily in, even though she is now 35 minutes late. She is dressed head-to-toe in the kind of batik-print, ethnic-inspired, flowing dress/robe/gown kind of thing they sell at department stores, which is to say that the inspiration is far from ethnic. Her hair is swept to the side in a deep part that forces her to cock her head to keep it out of her eyes. She doesn’t acknowledge either of us before she ends her conversation: “No, you called me. No, you called me. No! You called me!" Then she snaps shut her cell phone and slips it into her bag with a dramatic sigh.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, but I got a phone call at 5:30 from someone asking me if I could teach a class from 6 to 7. I said, ‘I can teach from 6 to 6:45, dahling, but I couldn’t possibly teach until 7.’ Then there was so much creativity flowing that I couldn’t cut it short."

She’s like a cartoon – like mad scientists smashed together Cruella DeVil, Marlene Dietrich, and Natasha Karloff. It's like listening to a community theatre production of “A Streetcar Named Desire” in Wichita. No one on the planet is born with a voice like that. It has to be cultivated.

Eeyore introduces us, and I hold out my hand to shake hers. Slowly, she extends hers towards mine, palm down, in such a way that I am unsure whether she intends to shake in return, or if she expects me to kiss hers. I opt for a brief, perfunctory shake and ask if they have any questions. When they say no, I explain that I’ll need to lock up and run to the post office for a few minutes, but that I’ll be right back. I have to get this mail out today, and it’s 7:27. I’m only a block away, so I can make it before they pick up.

“Ooh?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “You will not be escorting us?”

Escorting you? Are you kidding me? Your virtue is safe, your majesty.

“My goodness!” I exclaim to Eeyore. "I’d have thought you’d know every blade of grass by name, by now! I’ve never seen such a dedicated father.”

He beams. Yes! I’m out! It’s now 7:32. I rush out the door and get there just as the mail carrier is pulling away. Damn! I mail all 50 pieces and return to the gardens. It’s 7:45 and they’re still placing items in the golf cart. They only have two bags! I watch, discreetly, as they move the bags from one place to another on the cart...

After another minute, I shake my head and run inside to work on a spreadsheet. I finish at 8:20, and shut everything off. I clean the counter, straighten up the kitchen, check the bathroom, and file my daily paperwork. I hear the golf cart, and peek out the open door. They’re returning, right on time. Then, they turn around. I sigh as they circle the quad and reenter the gardens. Shit.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting on the steps, reading a book. I peek towards the gardens, and see them creeping towards the gate… and right past it. Finally, at 9:10, they return. I meet them, keys in hand.

“What did you think? Do we have any questions?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” her majesty places the back of her hand against her forehead. “I didn’t even think of you still being here.”

Obviously.

Eeyore pulls out a schematic map of the gardens. “This light, this light, this light, this light, this light, this light, and this light are all off. Do you know why?”

I glance at the map. I really don't know - probably because the bulbs are burned out, you fuckhead? I raise my hands.

“Those kinds of mechanical and any logistical problems are Beda’s domain. I wish I knew the answer.”

“Yeah, but…” he goes on to ask questions I can’t answer. I spend the next 10 minutes smiling, nodding, and giving the same answer: “You’ll have to discuss that with Beda. I simply don't know.”

Fiinally, he rolls up his map. The photographer hasn’t moved from her perch on the golf cart. She’s checking her cell phone messages, scrolling through her contacts, and is generally unconcerned with anything but herself. He begins to place things into his bag, meticulously arranging and rearranging them. They’re maps. Fold them, and let’s go, you mental patient.

At 10 p.m., I’m on the road home. Scott is pissed. "Why didn't you tell the to leave?"
I look at him. Is he serious?
"It's just not done, honey. This guy paid $2,000 to rent the place."
"Why do you always have to be the one to stay?"
"'Cause I'm the one on duty."

It's just as simple as that.

zzzz.... zzzzz.... zzzz....
I am blissfully asleep after yet another grueling 16-hour work day. I’ve had some insomnia since I got pregnant, and while I’m trying not to complain, I am pretty tired. But not today. I’ve slipped into the sleep of wonderland. I am floating, weightless.

zzzz...
zzzz....
zzzzz....
zzzzz....
...

A light explodes over my head and the bedroom door explodes inward!
“My god! I overslept!” shouts Scott from the doorway. I half sit up.
“What?”
I squint at him through sleep-crusted eyes. Then I groan and flop back down on the pillow. He’s sleepwalking again. I’d gone to bed and left him to read on the couch. He must have fallen asleep.
“Honey,” I ask rhetorically. “What time is it?”
“The clock says 8:15!” He nearly shouts.
Startled, I look over at the clock. I sigh. I flip the switch from the “alarm” setting to the “time” setting. It now reads 3:30. In the morning.
“It’s 3:30 a.m. You aren’t late for work.”
I cover my head with the blanket. The light is burning a hole in my skull.
There is a moment of silence, then I hear him rush through the bathroom, to the living room, and open the front door. Why?! Is there a Magic Time Man in the front yard? Why do we have 17 clocks in a 300-square-foot apartment if he doesn’t believe any of them? He sprints back into the bedroom, frantic and confused.
“It’s dark outside! I can’t tell what time it is!”
“How about 3:30 a.m.?” I mumble from under the blanket.
“I don’t know!”
I sit back up, blinking against the light of the giant fireball suspended over my head.
“You need to calm down and sober up.”
He stops at this, composes himself, and glares at me.
“I am perfectly sober,” he carefully enunciates.
Sure. I’m pregnant, not stupid.
“Baby, check the clock in the bathroom. That one is always right.”
He looks.
“It says 3:30.”
“Well, there you go. Come to bed. You have about 13 hours before you’re late to work. Again.”
He pauses, still uncertain.
“Honey, you’re okay. Turn off the light, and come to bed.”
“Okay,” he resigns. “But I’m going to smoke a cigarette first.”
Great.