Maternity Leave (21 page)

I was out cold on my hammock when my Dad arrived, a few minutes late for lunch. Dad finished tax season a month and a half ago, and he was just now getting to his “Jenna” list, which he brought to lunch today. Dad’s lists are notorious, specifically, his grocery, movie, restaurant and tax lists.

When I was little, Dad bitched to my Mom about not having Fiber One when he specifically put it on the grocery list. Instead of going back to the store, Mom went on strike and told Dad to go himself and get whatever food his heart desired. The first time he ventured into the store, it took him seven hours. After that, he decided the problem with the grocery store was that it was not organized in the order in which the Rosen household ran out of food. He decided to create a list, in aisle order, of all of the products my family buys. He had his secretary type the list and ever since, one of her duties has been to update the list as new and exciting food products are introduced into the marketplace. This was a pain in the ass when I was a kid because if I wanted crackers, I couldn’t just write crackers on the list. I had to find it, highlight it, and specify which kind, how many ounces, and request either regular, low fat or fat-free. I haven’t seen the list in eight years but Mom tells me it’s up to four pages now.

Dad’s movie list is equally anal. Every Friday, the newspaper publishes a blurb about each movie currently playing and lists its average review from various critics. Dad reads these blurbs, then cuts out the movies he wants to watch. Next, he glues the blurbs onto his master list, which he photocopies in triplicate. He keeps one copy at his office, one at home and one in his fireproof safe. Every time Dad watches a movie, he crosses it off all three lists. He watches these movies in order and will not deviate. He is currently up to 1986.

His restaurant list is another meticulous compilation based on reviews in the Friday paper. I’ve always looked forward to trying one of the restaurants described on that list, but for the last seven years that I’ve gone out to dinner with my parents, Dad has never been in the mood for anything except a grouper reuben and sangria from BallyHoo’s Restaurant.

The final list, the tax season list, is actually a compilation of notes, email printouts, articles and records from the end of January to the end of April. This annual list begins when Dad becomes too busy during tax season to attend to all but the most pressing matters. If I don’t include a red flag in the subject line of an email between January and April, it goes into the “Jenna” tax season folder along with other “Jenna” documents. In May or June, he gets around to opening the folder to go over each item. Of course, the folder is a time capsule by this time.

“Did you get the exterminator’s phone number?” Dad asked.

“Yeah, I got it from Mom and he’s come twice since that email was sent.”

“Did you find Webster, Florida?”

“Yes. That was from my phone. I was on the road texting you on my way to a bike race I couldn’t find.”

“You think I’m helping you find a bike race so you can break your teeth again?”

“You’ll be happy to know I found the race and won.”

“What did you win?”

“A hundred and twenty bucks.”

“How much did it cost to fix your nose and replace the teeth you lost?”

“Out of pocket, five thousand dollars. What’s next on your list?”

“I saw this in
Parade
magazine, it’s an article on pet insurance. I thought you might want to look into it.”

“I saw that too. I’m good for now. Next.”

“Here, sign this so that you’re renewed with Triple A.”

As I signed, Dad said, “Here’s an email from you in February asking me to go to lunch with you. That’s safe to throw out.” He flipped to the next paper in the folder and said, “Yes you can borrow the kayak two months ago. Did you go?”

“Yes, at low tide. I pretty much walked the kayak through the mangroves. What’s next?”

“Here’s an article you sent me on Nalgene bottles causing cancer, you should have sent that one to me with a red flag for urgency.”

“You’ve been using them for years, what’s a few more months? Besides, the reverse study has already come out. Nalgene is safe again. Next.”

“What the hell is that?” Dad said.

I looked down at Sonny and said, “A penis.”

“Was the teacher Mom set you up with that bad?”

“Yes, actually, but I didn’t touch, let alone cut off his penis. That’s Sonny’s dildo and you don’t want to know where it came from. I actually haven’t seen it in a while, he must have unburied it especially for you.”

“Great,” Dad said, returning to his list rather than addressing the dildo in his granddog’s mouth. He said, “This one says you want to borrow my car in March. Oops, sorry.”

“That’s okay, I borrowed Jason’s.”

“How did he get to school?” Dad asked.

“He probably skipped school,” I said nonchalantly.

“Don’t take his car so that he can’t go to school.”

“He wasn’t going to go anyway. I kept him from getting into trouble elsewhere.”

“Does he really not go to school?” Dad asked, suddenly serious.

“Of course not. He doesn’t smoke, drink, stay up late or have sex either.”

“That kid scares me. Do you still need the plumber’s number?”

“No, Danny helped me,” I replied.

“Do you still need a warranty for your washer?”

“No, I just paid to fix it.”

“Why don’t you keep your records?” he asked, a little exasperated.

“Because you keep them for me.”

“I’m going to stop doing that and give you all of your files.”

He tells me this every year. I’m terrified that he’ll follow through at some point, so I quickly changed the topic and asked, “So, what movie are you up to?”

“
Ghost
. Have you seen it? It has Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore in it.”

“Yeah, it was my favorite movie in fourth grade. It’s good, you’ll like it.”

“Man, I could sit out here on your deck all day,” Dad said.

“You’re sixty, you own the company and you’re a month and a half out of tax season and still catching up. I say go for it, you can’t buy a minute.”

“I think I will. I’m going to sleep in the hammock for a bit. Can you call and wake me at one-thirty? I have a meeting at two.”

“No problem,” I said.

I went out to go back to the office and realized Dad had parked behind me. I let him sleep and just drove over my lawn to get out. I returned to work and started to get out of my car, but I felt like something was off. Son-of-a-bitch! I forgot to put my belly back on. I drove back home.

It was only one-twenty when I got home, so I decided to let Dad sleep for ten more minutes. I grabbed the belly from under the bed along with the maternity clothes I had worn to work that morning, changed and rushed back to the office. I was somewhat efficient for the rest of the afternoon to compensate for the time spent at the subrogation meeting and my long lunch. I was finalizing a letter to a client at three-thirty when I got a call from Dad.

“Thanks for waking me,” he said.

“Oh shit! Sorry.”

“Lucky for you, Sonny woke me up right on time when a squirrel had the audacity to be in a tree.”

“I told him to do that at one-thirty before I left. That’s why I didn’t call,” I said.

“Hey,” Dad said. “I meant to ask you, when did you get the trampoline?”

“A few days ago.”

“Why?” he said in his most judgmental voice.

“They’re fun and you never got me one when I was a kid.”

“That’s because they ruin your lawn and attract kids to come by and break their arms. Your insurance is going to cancel. How much did you spend on that thing?”

“Less than on my new remote control car.”

“You need therapy, Jenna, before you regress completely.”

“Thanks. Bye, Dad.” That went better than expected.

I called Danny and told him about my forced date with Sarah’s son Tony.

“Ha. You really are lucky in love.”

“I know, I have a gift.”

“This is the beginning of the end,” said Danny. “It all comes crashing down from here.”

“Have some faith. I’ll figure something out. In the meantime, I want to get out of here. Are you doing the St. Pete ride today?” I asked.

“Yes. I’m meeting Travis and Jesus at my house at four.”

“Great. Swing by my house at four-thirty and I’ll ride over with you guys. I’m going to finish up a few things here and take off.”

I left work early to go to the 6:00 p.m. group ride in St. Petersburg. As I entered the elevator to go to the parking lot, I came face to face with Ryan Smith from Italian Fest. I thought of jumping out of the elevator, but that would be too obvious. Instead, I faced the other direction. He didn’t seem to notice me let alone recognize me. My face was completely flushed and my hair was damp by the time we parted ways on the first floor.

I stopped shaking by the time I got to my car and was calm again when I pulled into my driveway at four-thirty. Prior to my pregnancy, I had to leave my office at five p.m. and kill myself to get to the start of the ride on time. But because of my “obstetrician appointment,” I’d left the office at four, enabling me to cruise over to St. Pete at a leisurely pace.

I met Danny and two of our friends, Jesus and Travis, at my house and we rode our bikes over to St. Petersburg. Jesus and Travis are both married, but constantly flirting with me. It’s playful, though I have a feeling that, were I inclined, it would turn from playful to serious pretty quickly.

“Hi, Mami.”

Jesus is Cuban. He came to America twenty years ago and speaks English well, but with a strong accent. He calls me, and every other woman under the age of sixty, Mami and asks them to call him Papi. This seems to be a common request among Latino males, so even though I don’t understand why the Spanish name for “dad” has a sexual connotation, I’ve come to terms with the fact that it just does. I really hope female Latinos call their real fathers something else.

“I told you, call me Papi,”

“I think Papi is a step down from Jesus.” I always pronounce the J when addressing Jesus.

“Why won’t you call me Papi? Don’t you like Cubans?”

“Sure, they’re great sandwiches,” I replied.

“No, the people!”

Travis chimed in and said, “She likes the dark meat.”

“No, no, no,” Jesus said, as oblivious to sounding racist as my grandmother. “You don’t date black people do you?”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not even comfortable with you guys using our water fountains,” I said to Travis.

Travis did a double take when I said that, then laughed and said, “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

“I’m just kidding.” I said, hopefully unnecessarily. To be on the safe side, I offered him a sip from my water bottle.

Instead of telling me not to worry about it or just taking a sip, Travis dumped it all over his neck and head to cool off, then gave the empty bottle back to me while cracking up.

This blatant but harmless flirting is common in cycling, which is a predominantly male sport in spite of the shaved legs and Lycra shorts. Objectively, I’m attractive. However, the only reason I attract so much attention in cycling is because I’m one of a small handful of female cyclists in the Tampa Bay area who can actually hang with the fast guys. All of us get hit on, both playfully and seriously. Occasionally, I forget that I’m the only game in town and let the compliments go to my head. When this happens, Danny likes to remind me that cycling is not exactly beach volleyball.

At the Tampa side of the Gandy Bridge, we met seven other cyclists and continued heading to St. Petersburg. The eleven of us continued at a conversational pace, though we took a time-out from talking to sprint to the top of the hill on the bridge. Technically, the “hill” is an incline on the Gandy Bridge that allows boats to pass under. However, in flat Florida, any encounter with any increasing gradient instigates a “king of the mountains’” competition. I beat everyone but Jesus to the top of the hill. I’m a good climber, but so is Jesus and he can wipe the floor with me on the sprint at the top. Fidel Castro had personally assigned an eleven-year-old Jesus to be a cyclist based on his superior muscle-tone and lung capacity. Even though he’s at least forty now, if not older, he’s been unchallenged as the best rider in Tampa since he defected here from Cuba in his late teens. Those commies know how to pick an athlete.

We coasted down the hill and resumed talking. It was nice to head to St. Pete at a leisurely pace. If I didn’t have my fake doctor’s appointment, I’d be pedaling into the headwind as hard as possible in order to get to the start of the ride on time. Like clockwork, as I marveled at my luck, my tire went flat. Travis, Jesus and Danny stopped and waited for me as I started changing my flat.

Technically, I know how to change the tube out of a flat cycling tire. However, it takes me forty-five minutes to complete the task instead of the usual three. Normally, Danny will change my flats for me, but he evidently didn’t want to look like my bitch in front of Travis and Jesus, because he just sat there and watched me fumble with it. After several minutes of watching me try to remove the tire from the rim, Danny said, “For God’s sake, this is like watching a monkey fuck a football! Give me that wheel.” A few minutes later, we were off and running with plenty of time to ride easy and conserve our energy until the start of the St. Pete Olympics.

The St. Pete cyclists take their rides very seriously. Very few of them attend official races. There’s no need to when they treat their Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday group rides as fierce competitions. Once, I cut in front of a rider we call “MMA” to avoid being hit by a car. MMA, who easily avoided crashing, responded by calling me a “stupid fucking cunt.” MMA got his nickname because it stands for mixed martial arts and he starts a fight two to three times on every ride, sometimes with cyclists, sometimes with motorists. He’s the only person I’ve ever seen fight in cycling shoes. It’s not an advantage, but he held his own. Even though I’m a girl, I would not put it past him to punch me in the face. Thus, while I don’t take his tirades personally, I try to avoid being within three bike lengths of MMA at all times.