Knock, knock, knock!
It takes about as long as I expected for the door to swing open: a full thirty seconds. But the sight is worth it to see the look on Janine’s hangover face.
The black mascara smudges under her tired eyes.
The wild hair.
“Aunt Neen!” Jacob yells as he launches for her legs, giving her a four-year-old sized knee hug before racing past her into the living room. He immediately makes himself comfortable, commandeering her television and a spot in the middle of her floor.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she croaks, eyes squinting in the light and hair sticking up in all directions. I silently curse myself for not having the foresight to have my camera ready for this moment. This is Instagram-worthy material.
“Language,” I chastise, ignoring her before pushing into the house. “Why do you go straight for the curse words? Is that any way to greet your best friend and her two precious babies?”
“Let me rephrase that, then,” she groans, running her fingers through her tangled mop of hair and whining like a sullen teenager. “What the hell are you doing here? It’s barely eight o’clock in the morning.”
“Eight twenty, to be exact. You’ve slept long enough,” I say, putting Sophie on the floor next to Jacob—he’s already dragged out the basket of toys from behind the living room chair that she keeps there for them.
Yes, Janine has a basket of toys behind a chair for them. Like they’re cats. World’s greatest aunt, right there.
“Why the heck are you up so early?” my best friend asks, shuffling to the kitchen and glancing over her shoulder at me. “You didn’t bring me a Starbucks, did you? Please say you did.”
“It’s a school day. And considering how many drunk texts I got from you last night, I figured if I didn’t wake you up, there was a good chance you would sleep right through work.” I mentally count to three and wait for reality to sink in.
“A school day… Wait. Oh shit!” she yells, darting from the kitchen towards her bedroom frantically. “What time is it? I have to be there in forty-five minutes and I smell like a fucking wine cellar.”
“Language! But more like a brewery,” I call after her. “What were you drinking last night, anyway?” I pick up the empty wine glass sitting on her coffee table and give it a sniff. Ugh! I hate that cheapy vino stuff she insists on buying. “What the hell is this, Two Buck Chuck?”
“Language!” she calls from her bedroom. “And don’t make fun of my choice in beverages. The cheap stuff is just as good as the good stuff,” she calls back.
A blur races across her bedroom and into the master bath. I pick up the discarded Styrofoam Chinese takeout containers and toss them in the garbage before Sophie or Jacob can get into them, along with her forgotten wine bottle.
The last thing I need is Janine bitching over wine spilled all over her floor.
Once I ensure the kids are settled enough and there aren’t any hidden goodies for them to get into, I saunter into Janine’s bedroom and plop down on her bed. I watch, leaning back and dangling my leg over the side as she frantically scrubs shampoo in her hair.
“I’m going to assume I’m not the only one you drunk texted last night,” I call loud enough so she can hear me over the running water.
“And you would be wrong,” she says from behind the curtain. “I double-checked my phone this morning. You were the only one I drunk texted.”
I snort, but she doesn’t hear me over the shower. “Uh huh. And how many people did you drunk email?”
Silence.
Ah-ha! So there’s more to this story than she wants to admit…
All I have to do is prod her a little. “Please tell me you drunk emailed GreatDane51.”
Nothing but the sound of running water responds. I try to stop my giggles, but I can’t help it. Laughing, I lie flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling and holding my stomach.
“This is just too good.”
“I can hear you laughing at me,” Janine says. “It’s not really that funny.”
“Oh, but I disagree,” I reply, turning my head to look at the kids, whom I get a straight shot of from the bedroom door. So far, they’re getting along and playing happily. “It’s hilarious already and I haven’t even heard any of the juicy details yet.”
The shower turns off and the curtain flings open. One thing I can never say about Janine is that she lacks confidence… modesty is not her strong suit. Especially when she’s trying her damnedest to be angry at me so I’ll leave her alone.
But I know her game, and it won’t work. Because not only is she not mad—not really—but she actually wants to tell me the whole story. She just wants to make a big production out of the details. Her theory has always been, what’s a good story without a little exaggeration and drama?
She should have been a theater major.
“Fine.” She walks towards me, grabbing a towel as she goes, drying herself off and moving towards her walk-in closet. “You know I don’t have time to tell you any specific details. It’s going to make me late for work.”
I roll my eyes and prop myself up against her tufted headboard. “Uh huh. You can walk and talk and get ready at the same time.” I mean, if I can get ready with five kids hanging off me and still get the older kids to school on time, she can do it while telling me an embarrassing story.
Janine hangs the towel on a hook, pulls on a pair of underwear and a bra, and then bends at the waist. Removing the towel from the hook, she wraps it around her hair in a turban and stands with a huff. “Fine.” On go a pair of pleated khaki slacks. “So I apparently got a little drunk, and when GreatDane answered my email, I responded. Are you happy now?”
She stands in front of her blouses, contemplating her options.
“Nope. And wear the jade-green one.”
She pulls the green shirt off its velvet hanger, slips it on, and buttons it while picking out a pair of heels. “He responded. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. The end.”
“Nope, not enough info. Gimme more. It’s been a rough morning with the twins. I have no idea why six year olds are so concerned about how they do their hair in the morning. They’re gonna come home looking like ragamuffins no matter what. So tell me something to make me happy.”
Janine turns to face me, hands on her hips. “You know what? You’re uncharacteristically obnoxious today.” She stalks to her bathroom, beige pumps clicking on the tile floor. “I’m so glad you find this entertaining.” A container of fancy face cream gets opened and rubbed in circles on her face. But she’s cracking; I recognize the signs. “I sent him the email and asked him on a date, just like you tricked me into doing…”
“Tricked you?” I ask incredulously and fluff one of her down pillows, repositioning it on the bed. There, that looks much better. “I did no such thing!”
“You did too. But you’re so good at it that you don’t even pay attention. It’s second nature.” One serum down, another one to go. I don’t understand all her fancy lotions and their singular applications. Maybe it’s because I don’t have time to stand at the bathroom sink and apply them all, one by one, while my children run wild in the other room. But I must admit: her skin looks great.
Lotions and potions all applied, she whips out her leopard-print blow dryer and bends at the waist, blow-drying while her hair is upside down. “Okay. So, honestly?” she yells over the wind. “It took me all night to get up the courage to email him. And then when I did, I was so nervous waiting for him to reply that to calm my nerves, I might have consumed too many glasses of wine… “
“Consumed? Chugged. Downed. Devoured…”
She chooses to ignore my snark. “Apparently, he responded sometime between glass two and me passing out. Wait. I didn’t pass out, I fell asleep. That sounds better, doesn’t it?”
“It’s semantics, but the same exact thing.”
“I fell asleep.”
“You can argue this all day long and it’s still the same. Hurry up with your storytelling. I have babies destroying your living room.”
We both peer out into the living room. So far, so good. Both kids are still alive and staying out of mischief.
“Anyway, apparently I responded.”
“I know that part already. Are you going to tell me what you said, or do I have to beat it out of you?”
“I said a whole lotta nothing important in my email. But what I did say is that I really, really love you and Jeremiah. And spelling is not my strong suit when I’m blitzed.”
I snort. “Well, I could have told you that. Don’t you remember playing drunk Scrabble in college?”
“Oh please, you know I always won drunk Scrabble. And drunk Trivial Pursuit.” Rolling her eyes, she puts on some mascara.
I throw my head back and laugh. “Oh, poor, drunk, college Janine. Stiltner and I let you think you won because your words were so piss-poorly spelled, they made us laugh.”
“You are such a liar!” Her jaw drops open and her eyes are dubious. “Seriously?”
“Guilty,” I say with a shrug, trying to be nonchalant.
“You asshole! Why didn’t you tell me? You know what, never mind. I hate you now.”
A laugh escapes my lips, and I cover my mouth to muffle it, still needing to get the details from her email chain. “So do you think you scared him off or what?”
“Surprisingly, no, I don’t think so. I don’t know what this guy’s deal is, but he was really cool about it. Obviously I’m mortified, but he got a kick out of it. And… we’re seeing each other next Friday night.”
“You bitch! Why didn’t you tell me that when I walked in the door?” I squeal and clap my hands together with excitement. “This is so great, Janine! I’m so excited for you! Maybe he’s ‘the one.’” Yes, I use air quotes around the one. She hates when I do that.
She scoffs, trying to act unaffected, hangs her wet towel back in the bathroom, tidies up the counter, and puts her hair product back under the counter. “I’ll be happy with one of a few at this point. But yes. I’m excited to finally meet him.”
As she walks back into her closet to rifle through her jewelry, I sneak in behind her, a black video camera catching my eye. Not the new-age iPhone version that all the kids are using. Nope. This is the old school kind that needs a tripod. “Hey, I need to borrow this.”
“Borrow what?” she asks without even looking over her shoulder as she fastens a bracelet on her wrist.
“Your video camera.”
That stops her dead in her tracks. She turns around slowly and stares me down with one eyebrow shooting towards the sky. “And why do you need my video camera you naughty little whore!”
“Shut up! Keep your voice down when you’re calling me a whore. My kids are twenty feet away.”
“Sorry,” she murmurs. “No really, though. Are you going to make a sex tape?” She whispers the last two words like they are the most taboo words she’s ever heard. Never mind that the idea was hers. “‘Cause that would be amazing. I approve.”
“No!” I can’t even look her in the eye, so I start fiddling with the camera, making sure the batteries are still charged. “I don’t know, maybe.”
“You are!” she squeals. “Yes!”
“I don’t know for sure yet!” I yell back at her. “I’m… considering it. But I wanted to be prepared just in case I get the nerve.”
“Hell yes! I can’t wait to see this video.” She starts rooting around near where the camera just was and produces the instruction manual and the tripod. “You’re going to need this.”
“Oh my god.” I’m horrified but reach for the items anyway, touching them like they’re laced with germs. “I don’t know if I can go through with this. And if I do, you are not watching my sex tape.”
“What? Where’s the fun in that?” she asks as she layers a few necklaces over her neck and drapes them over her top. A top I’m going to have to borrow for my next date night.
“Have you always been this big of a pervert?” I nab a ring from her jewelry cabinet and push it onto my middle finger, admiring its sparkle in the fluorescent lighting of her closet. “I’m stealing this for the weekend. Also, this sex tape is not for your personal entertainment. It’s for my husband’s and mine. If I can call watching my naked, jiggly ass on a wide television entertaining…”
Janine narrows her eyes stubbornly and juts out her bottom lip. “Hey, it’s my video camera. Therefore I retain the original copyright to any of the content taped using it. That’s got to be the Nine-Tenths-of-the-Law law or some shit like that.”
“That is not true and you are a pervert.”
“Says the woman who is getting ready to star in a homemade porn, sans Don Dean.” She walks over to me and hands me the camera’s power cord. “Here. You can’t make a good sex tape without charging up the equipment. Pun intended. And that’s a brand new cartridge or mini CD or whatever it’s called. Once you’re done making the video, I’ll give you the converter attachment so we can all watch it together.”
“No.”
“Fine.” She sighs, handing me a bigger CD with a weird hole cut out of it. “You know I’m only kidding right? Like I would watch you bumping uglies with your husband. How sick would that be? I would never be able to look you or Jeremiah in the eyes again. Like, ever.” She runs a hand through her wavy brown hair. “Just pop this CD in here and it’ll work in a regular DVD player. Which is good for you since I know your cheap-ass husband hasn’t upgraded to Blu-ray yet.”
“Says the woman whose video camera uses cartridges and CDs,” I mutter.
“Touché.” She turns back to the closet and grabs a cream cardigan, pulling it on over her silk blouse. “How much time do I have left before I have to be at work?”
“Um.” I look in her bedroom and eye the clock on her bedside table. “About twenty-five minutes.”
“Excellent,” she says. “That gives me ten minutes to slap on some more make-up and down a cup of coffee. Would you be a dear and start a pot?”
“Sure,” I say as I make my way out of the room, porn-making supplies in hand. “I didn’t have time to make any this morning, so I need some myself.”
As I make my way back into the living room, I get a strong sense of foreboding. I look around and the kids are nowhere to be seen. The only thing in the middle of Janine’s beige Berber carpet is a chunky puzzle and some wooden blocks. They’re scattered like a Hansel and Gretel trail leading to the kitchen.
“Jacob?” I call out. “Where are you?”
“In heya, mommy,” he yells back cheerfully, still unable to say his ‘r’s.
“What are you doing?” I start towards the kitchen.
“Sophie wanted a dwink.”
Oh… no.
I race into the room to find Jacob standing on Janine’s glistening granite countertop, teetering on the edge while trying to ease open the cabinet door where the cups are hidden from his reach. My precious little Sophie is sitting happily on the floor with a bottle in her mouth. A bottle full of…
Holy shit! Is that wine?
I grab the bottle out of her mouth and sniff, just as Janine walks through the door to see what all the commotion is. She looks at Jacob, then at the bottle in my hand, then at the bottle on the counter, scrutinizing how much is left inside it.
After a few seconds, she starts to chuckle. “Is she drinking wine?” I just stare at her with wide eyes, surprised by her lack of… surprise. Great. On a regular basis I leave my kids with a woman who doesn’t think it’s a big deal that my baby might have wine in her bottle.
Oh god. I’ve turned my baby into a drunk. She’s going to need a twelve-step program by the time she turns two.
“She wanted a dwink,” Jacob says with a proud smile. “So I gave hew yow juice, Aunt Neen.”
Janine stumbles over to Jacob, laughing the whole way, and puts him on the floor. “You sure did, buddy. What a good brother you are. Here, let’s get you some little kid juice while your mommy recovers from shock.”
Some days, I wonder how Child Protective Services doesn’t end up at my doorstep.And if this sex tape goes horribly wrong, I’m blaming Janine for this.