Baking and Babies
Page 17

 
“You can’t be too safe with puppies, Molly, and stop calling it a mom-van. It’s a Town and Country which sounds much more manly,” I inform her. “The puppy can be nice and safe while we cruise around town AND he can watch Animal Planet on the built in DVD player that also has a satellite cable hook-up.”
 
Molly stares at me with a smile and I’m not sure if it’s because she still thinks I’m crazy or because I did something so decent and dependable to try and score more points for that dipshit Alfanso D. I know trading in my Mustang is the most insane thing in the world and I probably have started losing my mind after only a few hours with the men in Molly’s family, but after the first half hour of torture when they finally let me out of the trunk, they taught me a hell of a lot.
 
Like how having a child is the most important thing you will ever do in your life. And how it makes you grow up fast and changes your entire view on life. How it’s scary and nerve wracking and the hardest job you’ll ever have, but it’s also the most rewarding. I had to grow up a lot after my father died, but I’ve still spent the last few years refusing to settle down and jumping from one girl to the next because I thought that’s what I needed to do to be happy. Spending one day with Molly and her family has made me see there is a lot more to life than that and it makes me want more.
 
Jesus, maybe I really have gone insane.
 
“Good choice on the leather seats,” Claire says with approval as the women all move out of the front seat and over to us. “Cloth seats are a bitch to get amniotic fluid out of.”
 
“Amni-what?” I ask in confusion.
 
“Amniotic fluid,” Liz repeats. “It’s a yellowish liquid that surrounds the baby and gets all over the fucking place when your water breaks. Leather seats will be a plus if it happens while Molly’s in the car. You can just wipe the stuff right off.”
 
I nod, my eyes glazing over with thoughts of yellow, pee-like liquid pouring out of someone and getting all over my new seats.
 
“Plenty of leg room too, in case she goes into labor in the car and you have to pull over on the side of the road and deliver the baby yourself,” Claire adds.
 
Liz nods and it’s a good thing Charlotte is standing behind them and they can’t see the deer-in-the-headlights look in her eyes.
 
Claire smacks her hand a couple of times against the side of the van. “This baby definitely has enough room for Molly to spread her legs and push that baby out into your hands. You should probably throw a couple of towels in the back to clean up all the blood and the afterbirth.”
 
“Don’t forget the poop,” Liz adds. “There’s always a chance she’ll shit all over the place pushing that thing out.”
 
I know none of these things are really going to happen in my new vehicle, and definitely not to Molly, but that doesn’t stop my brain from seeing it all, clear as day and want to run down the street screaming at the top of my lungs.
 
Charlotte looks like she’s going to start crying and it would appear that I might get to see what these meat sweats are, going by the disgusted look on Molly’s face as her mother and aunt continue talking about bloody placentas and other things I would’ve been able to continue living out the rest of my days knowing nothing about, but I need to get out of here. It would probably be best if I go back inside the house and get away from all this womanly talk before I never want to have sex again.
 
“I think I hear Drew calling my name,” I suddenly announce, cutting of Claire when she starts talking about people who eat placentas for the nutrients and vitamins.
 
Dropping a kiss on Molly’s cheek and ignoring the dirty look she shoots me for PDA’ing her, I back away as quickly as I can. She watches me go with a look of annoyance on her face that I’m making an escape while she’s stuck out here listening to her aunt rattle off placenta recipes. I realize she’ll probably kick my ass for the easy and natural way I kissed her cheek in front of her family, like it was something I do all the time in the six months we’ve been fake-dating. Just like trading in my Mustang, I know it’s crazy, but it feels right. I can’t explain how after only spending a few hours with her I feel like I’ve known her forever instead of just fantasizing about her for two years from a distance. I didn’t even think about kissing her cheek, I just did it automatically, her aversion to public displays of affection be damned.
 
When I’m halfway across the yard and the older women start talking again, I see Molly mutter the words “chicken shit,” and I laugh, giving her a wink before turning around and jogging up the steps and back into the house.
 
After all the gross childbirth talk and girly feelings I’ve been having all evening, I need some intelligent, manly conversation. I need to talk about something intellectual and macho like politics or war.
 
“You cannot justify your reasoning because of an article you read online,” I hear Carter complain as I enter the house and head towards the living room where the voices are traveling from.
 
“The facts are right in front of you, man. You can’t shut down my theory just because you don’t share the same views as I do,” Jim argues.
 
Perfect! Just what I was looking for. A nice, civilized manly discussion that has nothing to do with the goo that comes out of a woman when she gives birth or anything else that will make me vomit.
 
“I’m telling you, I’ve seen the stats and maybe I’m in the minority here, but I’m going to have to side with Carter on this one,” Drew says with a sigh as I enter the room and find them seated around the coffee table.
 
“Perfect timing, Marco Polo,” Drew greets me with a smile. “You can settle this debate once and for all.”
 
I drop into the remaining empty chair and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and clasping my hands together between them.
 
“Lay it on me. What’s the topic? Presidential candidates? War climate?” I ask.
 
Drew looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “Uh, no. We’re talking dicks.”
 
“Bag of dicks, to be precise,” Jim adds.
 
I sit up slowly, wondering if I should walk back out of the room and pretend like I was never here.
 
“I’m sure you’ve heard the expression ‘eat a bag of dicks’, correct?” Carter questions seriously.
 
Drew rolls his eyes when I continue to sit here, planning my escape without answering the question.
 
“You know, like, ‘Eat a bag of dicks, you piece of shit!’” Drew yells in an angry voice. “Tell me you’ve heard it or I’m going to seriously regret giving you the privilege of seeing my amazing balls.
 
Not wanting him to mention those bald, wrinkly, scarred pieces of flesh again, I nod in agreement. “Yeah, sure. I’ve heard the phrase. Why?”
 
“We need you to settle this argument once and for all,” Jim states.
 
“Okaaaaaay,” I drag the word out cautiously and a little bit in fear.
 
“I mean, how big of a bag are we talking here? Like, Ziploc baggie or Hefty garbage bag? Because size really does matter when it comes to eating dicks,” Drew states.
 
“That is false and you know it!” Carter argues. “Eating a bag of dicks is eating a bag of dicks whether you eat ten or a hundred and ten. You’re still eating dicks!”
 
Jim nods, his face a mask of complete seriousness. “And if size really does matter, is this bag of dicks hot-dog-sized dicks, or cocktail-weenie dicks? Because I think I could handle a bag of cocktail weenies, no problem.”
 
“Of course you could, cock sucker,” Drew laughs. “We all know how much you like to gobble up those dicks. Nom, nom, nom!”
 
Carter lifts his hand and silently gives him the finger.
 
“I think it makes much more sense if people would just say ‘Eat a dick’, rather than an entire bag of dicks,” Jim says with a sigh. “It would cut down on so much confusion, and then we wouldn’t even be having this debate. Marco, what are your thoughts on the situation?”
 
I think I’d rather be talking about placentas right now.
 
Chapter 9
 
– Pee Hand –