Knocked Up Read online

  “I promise to love you forever and ever if you just shut the hell up already.”

  Fine then. You just had to say so. Dealing with me now is nothing. Just wait until I’m in my seventh month.

  I also feel like I have to explain myself to the fiancé. We haven’t had sex and he’s been here two nights. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t been a willing participant in any of my fat conversations. I can pretty much guarantee we will not be doing it tonight, either, and he leaves tomorrow morning. Because we don’t live together, we should technically be having a heck of a lot of sex when we are together, but I am simply not up for it. My “mourning” sickness seems to come on strongest at night.

  Not that he wants to have sex with me, either— I haven’t been the nicest or easiest person to be around this weekend. I keep making him fetch things for me. How often is too often to use the “I’m pregnant!” line on the father of your child? “Can you get me an orange? I’m dying for an orange. But I feel too sick to get out of bed to get it myself. Please?” And because he is a good, kind man, and because I am pregnant, he will. “Can you peel it for me too? It just tastes better when you peel it for me. And I’m pregnant,” I’ll whine. I wonder, however, when he’ll catch on that mostly I’m just lazy.

  So I felt I needed to say something before he goes back home and finally realizes that his secretary is actually pretty hot. “I’m really sorry I don’t feel like having sex,” I said to the fiancé. “I’m just feeling so tired and bloated and yucky. Don’t hate me. Please don’t hate me.”

  “I would never hate you. It’s okay. I understand that you are not feeling well.”

  I’m too tired even to attempt to give him a blow job. If I were a really nice fiancée, I’d at least do that.

  I had hoped to save the next little piece of information I threw out to him, but I felt so guilty about not being very affectionate with him all weekend and about his leaving tomorrow that I decided not to wait.

  “You know, in the fourth and fifth month of pregnancy, I’m going to be all over you. I’m supposed to get really, really horny then. I’ll make it up to you tenfold in a couple of months.”

  I think he said something like “I can’t wait.” I’m not sure, though. I had already started to fall asleep.

  APRIL 1

  I am fat already. I’m convinced the fiancé is going to start having an affair with his secretary. I know it. I just know it. I’m going to be stuck at home, big, fat, and ugly, in a city where I have no friends, and he’s going to be getting it on with his blond bombshell of a secretary on the desk at his office. Okay, I don’t know for sure that his secretary is blond or a bombshell, or if his desk is even big enough to have sex on. But she probably is sexy.

  I had to check. He’s back at work now, so I called him at his office.

  “Hey, is your secretary blond?”

  “Beck, is that you?”

  “Yes. Is your secretary blond?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Listen, just answer the question. Is. Your.

  Secretary. Blond?”

  “No, my secretary is not blond.”

  Oh.

  “Well, is she sexy?” It was very important. Yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought, This really isn’t me asking. This is Pregnant Me asking. This is a whole other me. A new me he will just have to learn to love.

  “You have nothing to worry about. You’re way better looking.”

  “So you’re not going to have an affair with her or anything, right?”

  “God. Where do you come up with these things?”

  “I don’t know. I just do. Do you hate me now?”

  “No, I don’t hate you. But I have to get back to work. Is that okay?”

  “I knew it. You hate me.”

  In less than two weeks, I can tell people. Hurray! It’s probably the pressure of keeping this secret that’s turning me into a wacko.

  APRIL 4

  Again, eleven o’clock on a Thursday night and, professing a headache, I’ve left Heather, Lena, and Shannon at the bar. When you’re the only one not drinking among a group of friends who are, it’s not nearly as much fun. Cranberry and soda, or orange juice and soda, or Perrier with lime just doesn’t have the same effect as, let’s say, a mojito.

  Because Lena is the only one who knows about my “condition,” she has been helping me out when we go out with Shannon and Heather.

  “I’m going to pour my wine into your glass when you’re empty, okay?” I whispered into her ear when Heather and Shannon weren’t watching. This was our backup plan. The original plan—for Lena to order for us, out of earshot of anyone else—had failed miserably. Lena ordered a cranberry soda for me, but the bartender handed the happy-colored drink over in a glass as big as the glasses they serve fountain Coke in at Pizza Hut. Apparently when you order Pregnancy Punch in a bar, they serve it in the biggest mother of a glass possible.

  “Beck,” said Shannon, taking in the colossal cup,

  “I think the bartender screwed up your order. That is definitely not cranberry vodka.” When it comes to ordering alcohol, my friends are geniuses.

  “I think you’re right. Idiot bartender. I think I’ll go back up and order a glass of wine. They can’t screw that up.”

  Which is when the backup plan came into effect. It also went disastrously wrong, because Lena, who gets drunk on half a glass of wine, was now drinking both my wine and hers. When Lena started showing off her ability to do backflips in the bar, I knew it would be best for everyone if I just left.

  APRIL 5

  Noon

  “Oh God, I have The Fear,” said Lena when she called. She didn’t even say hello. “We can’t, under any circumstances, do that anymore. I cannot be a trough for your wine. I think I was doing backflips last night. Was I? Was I?”

  “Yes, yes, you were. But don’t worry. You were pretty good. I had no idea you were that flexible. It’s amazing you’re still single.”

  “It is amazing I’m still single. But, seriously, I don’t want to wake up hungover ever again. I can’t do it. I’m going to turn into an alcoholic and end up in rehab. You’re just going to have to think of another way to hide that you’re not drinking.”

  “Fine. I will. I think people are on to me anyway.” Like most women around age thirty, my friends, like me, have become increasingly suspicious of anyone we know who has recently jumped on the sobriety bandwagon.

  “Shannon and Heather asked me point-blank the other night if I was pregnant,” I said.

  “They did? What did you say?”

  “What could I say? I kind of just laughed and said no.”

  “When are you going to start telling people?”

  “Really soon. In just over a week. If I can last.”

  “If you can last? What about me? I’m a drunk now because you got knocked up!”

  It’s all about Lena, after all. Not about poor, pregnant, unwed, not-allowed-to-drink, I-don’tknow-how-I’m-going-to-get-through-this me.

  4:00 p.m.

  My breasts are giving me away.

  “Did you get a boob job?” asked Helena, my aesthetician, today, when I went in for an underarm wax. “Your breasts are massive!”

  “Do I look like the type of woman who would get a boob job?” I responded. “Make that, do I look like the type of woman who could afford a boob job?” I said as I handed her a fistful of quarters for a tip.

  In the end, I had to tell Helena the truth. You can’t hide anything from your aesthetician. It’s like an unwritten rule or something. After all, the woman who gets closest to your private parts is one of the closest women in your life. Not telling the truth to your aesthetician would be like lying to your priest.

  “Wow. They are really, really, really big,” she said.

  “Okay, enough! Leave me and my melons alone. Stop staring! You’re making me feel uncomfortable.”

  The truth is, I can’t stop staring at my breasts either. They are fantastic. The
one downside is that there are two types of men in this world: Breast Men and Ass Men. The fiancé is an Ass Man. He doesn’t appreciate big boobs. So, for the first time in my life, I have big breasts and no one in my life to appreciate them. Except Helena, which doesn’t really count. Still, I love my new breasts. They are fabulous. I want to keep them forever and ever. Maybe I should start saving for a boob job.

  APRIL 6

  Suddenly everything has to do with babies. All around me is talk of babies, babies, babies. Is this a new development? Or is it like when you cut your hair to have bangs and you start noticing every other woman out there with bangs?

  I was at a house party last night when my good friend Marci, who is a producer on the six o’clock news for one of the main networks, pulled me aside. I consider her my “smart friend,” meaning I never willingly get into discussions about politics or fuel emissions with her. But I was more than happy to be dragged away from everyone else I knew. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I am convinced that all my friends are now paying way too much attention to what I’m drinking—or, rather, not drinking. I was holding a glass of untouched red wine. Just a few more days, I thought to myself. Just hold off a few more days.

  “Come with me to get my coat,” Marci said to me.

  “Wait, are you leaving already?” I asked. I had just arrived.

  “Just come with me.”

  We headed upstairs to the main bedroom, where people had piled their coats on the bed.

  “I just needed to tell someone,” she said, “that I am s-o-o relieved.”

  “About what? What’s going on?”

  “I just got my period.”

  “Okay, so?”

  “Well, remember that guy I went to visit in L.A. a couple months ago?”

  Of course, I remembered. Marci had met a guy at a party who was living in L.A. He had invited her down to visit him for a weekend. She had been super excited. But after having an incredible first night with him—meaning they had great sex—he broke it to her that he was interested in someone else. We had long conversations following that weekend, about how a man can sleep with you while being interested in someone else, how men generally have a talent for breaking up with you at the most inappropriate and impolite times. It was almost as bad as being ditched on Valentine’s Day or your birthday.

  “Well, we weren’t so careful. And my period was almost a month late! I just got it here, tonight.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. I was relieved because she was relieved. But at the same time, she seemed kind of down.

  “Would it have been the end of the world if you had found out you were pregnant?” I asked her.

  “Well, that’s the thing. I was thinking about it, of course, because I was so late. If I had been pregnant, I probably would have had the baby. I think I could have done it on my own.”

  At this point I knew I had to fess up about what was going on in my life.

  “I have to tell you something, Marci. I’m pregnant.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes, but please don’t tell anyone just yet. I’m planning to next week.”

  “I won’t. I promise! This is so exciting,” she screeched, giving me a bear hug. Marci is a good friend.

  “Are you both just thrilled?”

  “Well, it was a bit of a shock, but, yes, we’re very happy,” I said, saying what you’re supposed to say.

  “Well, Beck. To tell you the truth, I kind of knew something was up.”

  “You did? Why? Because I wasn’t drinking?”

  “No, but the other night when I saw you at Triumph, you were wearing this low-cut shirt and your breasts looked massive. I thought that either you were pregnant or you were PMSing really badly.”

  I might be able to hide that I’m knocked up, but hiding my knockers is a whole other story. It felt good telling Marci, especially since now I know that even “smart” friends have accidents.

  APRIL 7

  Before I share my pregnancy with the world—a.k.a. my media friends and my bosses—there was one person I needed to tell first, my Zaida. I got into an argument with my mother over who should tell my ninety-year-old grandfather about the condition I’m now in—meaning the pregnant-without-a-husband condition.

  “You tell him,” I told my mom.

  “No, you tell him. Why should I tell him?” she asked.

  “Because he’s your father!” I argued.

  “But it’s your baby!” she argued back.

  I could see her point. I mean, I am going to be a mother. At some point, hopefully sooner rather than later, I am going to have to grow up and do things I don’t want to do, like yell at my teenager for stealing the car. But just as I can’t see myself doing that, I can’t see myself making my grandfather faint either.

  “I’m going to call him right now and get it over with,” I told my mother.

  “You’re brave,” she said before hanging up.

  I knew I definitely had to put a spin on it, for his sake. But I don’t think “Hey, Zaida. I’m doing what Elizabeth Hurley, and Rachel on Friends, and Miranda on Sex and the City, and Madonna, and Julianne Moore, and Goldie Hawn all did—I’m going to have a baby before getting married! Everyone is doing it this way now. Even Colin Farrell has done it this way!” would work.

  So instead I called and told him that I had news and that he had better sit down.

  “Are you sitting down?” I yelled into the phone. He is ninety, after all.

  “No,” he said.

  “Will you sit down?” I yelled again.

  “No.”

  You can’t force a ninety-year-old to do anything he doesn’t want to do.

  “Okay, then. Well, guess what?” I shouted, trying to sound excited. “You’re going to be a great-grandfather! Isn’t that incredible? You’re going to be a great-grandfather,” I repeated. I figured that would give him some bragging rights.

  “Why? Who’s pregnant?” he asked. Maybe I should have been more specific.

  “Me! I’m pregnant!”

  “Well, how do you like that? Congratulations are in order, I guess. This is happy news, right?”

  “Yes, Zaida. It is happy news.”

  “So are you going to quit work now?” he asked.

  “Ah, no, Zaida. Women still work nowadays when they’re pregnant, you know.”

  “So are you getting married now?”

  Argh!

  Ronnie, my parents, and now my grandfather are all over me to get married. Listening to them tell me to get married just makes me want to go on a long beach vacation. The other day Ronnie insisted again I should be married before giving birth.

  “You should get married before you have a baby,” she began. “Studies have been done.”

  “Oh yeah? What studies?”

  “Studies showing that children feel more secure when their parents are married. Kids ask questions, you know. One day, your child is going to ask why you and Daddy aren’t married or weren’t married when she was born.”

  “Ronnie!” I said in disbelief. When did she turn so, well, conservative on me? Is this what having three kids and a husband does to a woman?

  “My mother is a teacher. In her class this year there are three students with lesbian mothers! Do you really think it’s that important that the fiancé and I don’t have a piece of paper saying we’re married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. I promise to get married by the time the kid speaks. Wait . . . when do kids start speaking?”

  The cold hard truth is that I don’t want to get married fat. Now get off my still-bony back.

  APRIL 8

  Supposedly, or so I’ve heard, during pregnancy your hair is supposed to get thicker and shinier. I’m still waiting for this to happen. I’m still waiting for my Pantene Pro-V Brooke Shields hair. Supposedly, Sexy Young Intern has great hair. And she’s not even pregnant!

  APRIL 9

  Still waiting . . .

  APRIL 10

  Still waiting. In
fact, I think my hair looks worse than ever, and I suddenly have three pimples. What’s the point of being pregnant if your hair looks like crap and you get acne as if you were thirteen again?

  APRIL 15

  It’s time to tell my boss I’m pregnant while assuring him that Sexy Young Intern will not be needed to take over my job. Just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean I’m not cool and hip. I know I’m not the first woman to ever get pregnant, but it feels like I am. Why? Because it’s me who is pregnant. That’s why. But first, I get to tell my friends, which I am looking way more forward to anyway.

  APRIL 16

  I told Heather, and it was fantastic! There’s nothing like flooring your oh-so-cool friends into silence. She was shocked but seemed happy for me. Did I even detect a slight hint of jealousy? There’s nothing like having your oh-so-cool friends slightly jealous of you. It doesn’t happen very often, so you have to enjoy it when it does.

  “Okay, we have to go out and celebrate. Tonight. I don’t care what you say,” she told me, surprising me with her kindness.

  Which is how I ended up telling two perfect strangers and Heather’s boyfriend, Charlie, before telling my bosses and most of my friends.

  We met Charlie and two of his friends at a restaurant for dinner. I had made Heather “promise” me she wouldn’t tell a soul until I had told a few more people myself.

  “Have a drink,” Charlie and the two other guys, Jim and Seth, kept demanding over dinner. Seth, I noticed, was very cute. Maybe it was just my hormones?

  Finally, after the third offer—with much joy because I no longer had to keep the secret—I practically yelled out, “I’m pregnant!”

  I pretty much stunned the table into silence. But I got a free dinner out of it because, as they professed, I was now “eating for two.” They all kept asking me questions, too, like “How are you feeling?” and “When did it happen?” and “Do you have any cravings yet?” I felt like I was a $1,000 centerpiece at Liza Minnelli’s wedding.

  Seth, whom I had just met, insisted that they all walk me home after dinner. “You can’t walk home alone. You’re pregnant.” Though I think he really just felt kind of badly for me once he found out that the fiancé was living in a different city. It’s okay—I’ll take pity. Having people walk you home is better than walking home by yourself.