The plan was, I'd go to Seascape to surprise the Summer Home Park ladies during their winter retreat, then fly to Oregon to visit Anne and Marc and help with their nearly 3-month-old, Duncan. I bought my airline tickets three weeks prior and assured Monstro that I'd miss him.
“At least I'll be on my period the week I'm away, so it's not like we'd be having sex anyway,” I offered as a consolation. We kissed goodbye at Bradley Int'l Airport and I flew to San Jose, rented a car, and drove to the Cats, my home-away-from-home BBQ/bar/roadhouse/former bordello at the base of the Santa Cruz mountains. My MFA friends were all late, so I followed Julie and John to their house once they arrived and got settled in their guest room, soon to be the baby's room. Their baby is due in 20 days and Julie looks amazing — all of her weight was baby.
“I started charting my temperature a couple of days ago,” I told them. Julie assured me it was a powerful weapon, which made me smile.
I spent the night there and drove to Seascape, a resort on the Pacific coast between Santa Cruz and Monterey, the next morning. Only the organizers knew I was coming, and when Mom saw me she dropped her fork, stood, said, “You little brat,” and gave me a hug. What a great surprise!
I had a few drinks that night, especially after Yvonne announced that “any newlyweds not drinking will be assumed to be pregnant.”
No period yet.
The other two newlyweds tied one on to the point that J. was sick all the next morning, and H, upon awakening, was still drunk. I went for a walk with the ladies, had a Mexican food (oh, Mexican food, how I miss the lack of you in Massachusetts) lunch with Mom, headed out for a couple of drinks at the bar with Auntie Mignon and a now-sober H, but had no drinks that night and got into bed around midnight after a late-nite dip in the hot tub and some ladies' Texas hold-'em.
No period yet.
Packed up the next morning (Sunday), scrounged the leftover food to take to Sherry Ann's, played Taboo until 1:00, kissed Mom goodbye and drove to Capitola. Sherry's place has an amazing view of the ocean, and we smoked Camel Lights and watched the Oscar red-carpet specials, swtiching between Star Jones and Joan&Melissa. Talked her friend Joanie off the balcony after we determined that Sherry's dish didn't get network TV, called Dish Network to subscribe to the Oscars, and got ABC right as Chris Rock was finishing his opening monologue.
“Sherry Ann,” I asked, “what if I'm pregnant?”
“Do you have any symptoms?”
“When do those start?”
“The minute after you find out you're pregnant.”
“Do you think it would be OK to drink a beer?”
“Oh sure,” she said. “One beer at the 14-day mark is good for the baby.” So I did. And I slept on couch cushions on the floor, and when I woke up I thought I smelled dog barf. It was too dark to see my temperature on the digital thermometer, but I took it anyway.
Still no period.
“Still no period,” I told Sherry Ann when she came out for a cigarette.
“How late are you?”
“Three days.”
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“I feel the overwhelming desire to pee on a stick,” I replied.