By the Numbers (2 page)

I'm just going to say it—my daughters are the Mean Girls at the lunch table that is my life.

Here's what no one tells you in the parenting books—regardless of how many times you take an earlier flight home from your trip, giving up your business-class ticket to fly standby, squeezing into the middle seat between two gum-snapping, deodorant-eschewing, close-talking amateur sumo wrestlers just to capture on videotape your kid picking her tree costume out of her bunghole in the school play, and irrespective of all the years you pilot to work the Cheerio-encrusted, juice-box-filled, humiliation-mobile better known as a minivan solely for the children's safety and comfort (while rocking out to Radio Disney, which is so ubiquitous, you accidentally listen even when they're not in the car), and notwithstanding the dance moms and soccer dads and myriad other obnoxious booster parents with whom you have to make nice over the course of your children's quickly discarded and surprisingly pricey interests, it's entirely
possible that sixty-six percent of your offspring will grow up to be Regina George, despite your best efforts to love them, feed them, house them, and buy them the exact kind of light-up sneakers that will ensure their positive self-esteem.

(P.S. God help you if those sneakers aren't Skechers.)

Everyone in the room looks at me expectantly. Again, I normally don't have to explain myself with this intro. “I . . . I . . .” I stammer. “What I mean is—”

My mother, the septuagenarian vixen better known as Marjorie Bancroft, snorts audibly. She's imperious as a queen in her seat, handmaiden and mini-me Jessica at her side, both of them with coordinating upswept platinum chignons and both sporting Marjorie's signature red Passion by Chanel lipstick, impeccably applied and contained entirely within their natural lip lines. (How do they manage that? Every time I wear bright lip color, I consider just rubbing it on my teeth from the start, simply to get the inevitable over with.) They're consuming matching Gibsons, too. I've yet to understand the allure of a cocktail featuring an onion. What's wrong with wine?

While my mother isn't without charm (mostly when she wants something), she can turn into the demon spawn of Judge Judy and Lucille Bluth once that first cocktail hits her system. I swear I feel a chill go down my spine every day at 4:00 p.m., Central Standard Time, earlier on weekends and special occasions.

Marjorie drawls, “Penelope, darling, do sit down.”

Oh, and two drinks in, she forgets she's not British. I suspect this recent occurrence is due to the one-two punch of an influx of British snowbirds in her retirement community and her newfound fascination with
Downton Abbey
. Someone
wishes
she were the Dowager Countess is all I'm saying.

My knees buckle and I fall back into my seat without having explained my opening line. I glance at my cousin Patrick, who's at a table across the room with Auntie Marilyn, his mother; Uncle Leo, his dad; and Michael, his longtime partner. Patrick raises his glass in a mock salute and mouths,
Swing and a miss
, at me. I'd rage at him for not being supportive had he not specifically cautioned me about veering off-script earlier today.

“On a scale from one to ten, how sexy is tonight's outfit, with ten being the full Sofía Vergara? I'm talking sequins, sparkles, color, and no, taupe is not color. Nor is gray. I want to see Vegas, baby. I'm even lifting my moratorium on feathers. This is the first time you're meeting That Hussy, so you should glam it up.”

“Different hussy,” I reminded him. “Not the Original Hussy, remember?”

“Doesn't matter,” he replied. “They're all hussies.” Patrick has always been on my team, so the “tough love” he dispenses is a minimum of ninety percent for my benefit and ten percent for his own amusement, at best.

I asked, “Who do you consider a one on this scale, to make sure I have an accurate basis for comparison?”

Seriously, I wanted to set realistic expectations. I mean, I'm never going to be any kind of Kardashian for a variety of reasons, starting with age and ending with dignity. But I'd have been very happy to place the ten marker on the sexy scale at “Sandra Bullock” or “Helen Hunt” or “Diane Keaton a decade ago.”

I feel I should be awarded a bonus for my ability to do long division in my head, like when a figure skater automatically is scored on a higher scale for including a quadruple jump in her program. The math part of me has to be a selling point. Patrick says it isn't, but women don't appeal to Patrick so he shouldn't be the
arbiter of what counts. Plus, who never has a problem divvying up the bill equitably when the waiter forgets separate checks? Even when there are nine people at lunch and some ate the appetizer and some didn't, some had wine and some had water, and that one vegan only consumed a veggie kebab with tabbouleh and wouldn't shut up about not paying more than eleven dollars, no matter what? Who can always run the numbers, to the penny?
This
Penny.

He said, “Already I'm concerned you're placing the bar too low.”

“I specialize in data analysis! I must be familiar with all the parameters to make an accurate calculation!”

He sighed. “Fine. Um . . . ahh . . . I should have known you'd ask. How about Queen Elizabeth?”

“Her? A
one
? She's such a badass. Remember reading how she insisted on driving King Abdullah around her Scottish estate herself in a Range Rover? Such an elegant screw-you gesture, considering the Saudi Arabian ban on women driving. So British, and I mean
real
British. Not Madonna British. Not Marjorie Happy Hour British.”

I heard Patrick exhale on the other end of the phone. “No one's arguing that the queen's not a badass. On the scale of badassery, Liz goes to eleven. Only she could diminish the magnificence that is Kate Middleton, you know? Those post–Baby George volleyball shots where she still has a perfectly toned midriff? I die.”

“I love her so much,” I squealed, and I am generally not a squealer.

Patrick and I are obsessed with Kate Middleton, which makes some sense, considering how insane we were for Princess Diana back in the early 1980s. However,
one
of us wore Shy Di's feathery haircut better than the other,
ahem
, Patrick. During Royal Baby
Watch II, Patrick was calling me every hour to check in before Charlotte finally arrived. Mind you, he wasn't that invested with
my
children and he's Topher's godfather.

“Please. I love her more. If I could make a suit of her skin and wear it around, like Buffalo Bill, you know I would. But back to the queen—on the sexy scale of fussy hats, low heels, and dowdy dresses that don't show off the royal ta-tas, she's a one. Which tells me
you're
wearing a pantsuit tonight, aren't you? Don't lie, you lying liar.”

The downside of having a cousin who's more like an evil twin is never being able to slide anything past him. It's impossible to hide anything from him because he has a sixth sense. He was at my house the morning after I had sex with Chris for the first time, with two bottles of Tab and a box of melba toast, ready for the dish. I didn't even tell him; he just knew.

“I'm already going to be uncomfortable enough with Chris and the New Hussy, so let me just wear the one thing that makes me feel confident, okay?” I begged. “Please? I swear on my love for the duchess that it's my nicest pantsuit—it's designer and has pinstripes!”

“Fancy. Not.” But I could feel him capitulating. “Then it's Let's Make a Deal time. You are going to give me final approval for your mother-of-the-bride dress; that is nonnegotiable. I will need to see shoulder, thigh, or cleavage. Not all three; I'm sure the New Hussy will have that (not) covered. But at least one. You have to do this. Not for me. For you.”

“I promise I'll let you choose. I have two highly appropriate dresses—one's a rose red Carmen Marc Valvo sleeveless sheath with a peplum at the side, and the other is an Escada off-the-shoulder cocktail dress in navy with laser-cut lace covering a nude overlay.”

“Neither sounds horrible,” he grudgingly admitted.

“My God, it's as though Anna Wintour herself has given me her blessing. I'll let the saleswoman at Neiman's know neither ‘sounds horrible.' I'm sure she's been standing by the phone, waiting.”

“Ooh, sarcasm. Hit a nerve. Anyway, moving on.” His voice took on more of a cheerleading tone, like he was revving me up for battle, which he sort of was. “I want you to think of the next four days of wedding events like this—they're a marathon, not a sprint. Pace yourself, kiddo. Don't run balls-out for the first eight miles and then call it quits. You'll be tempted, but ultimately that won't be satisfying. Also, don't let the bitches get you down. Yeah, most of the bitches are related to you, but you're not going to let them get you down. You're going to repeat the words of the famous philosopher Jinkx Monsoon with me—‘Water off a duck's back.'”

“Water off a duck—wait, who?”

“Jinkx Monsoon. She won the fifth season of
RuPaul's Drag Race
.”

“Unfamiliar.”

“Then put it in your Hulu queue; it's must-see. One more thing. As your best friend, as your family, as your
consigliere
, I beg of you: no actuary jokes. Not kidding. They only work when you're with your nerdzilla consultant buddies. Trust me. When you get scared or nervous, you start spouting off numbers and statistics and it's off-putting to everyone who isn't a human calculator. Please just be you, except for the actuary part, because that is
what you do
, not
who you are
. Leave work at the office.”

So I can't say I wasn't warned. However, leaving work at the office isn't so easy for me. That's largely because Patrick is wrong; work
is
who I am at this point.

I mean, a few years ago, I had other roles—I was a wife. I was
a mother. Now? I feel like what I do professionally is pretty much the sum total of who I am. And I
love
who I am at work—I'm the one who's in charge, not just because of my title, but because of the respect I've earned along the way. I'm the one other consultants come to when they have a problem they simply can't solve on their own. I'm the person who ensures the project is completed on time and under budget. I'm the one tasked with keeping the clients happy.

When I'm in my office, I'm competent, I'm in control, and I'm in demand. And when I finally have a chance to work with the data, which isn't as frequent as I'd prefer because of my other responsibilities, I feel such a sense of calm because of the utter predictability of the numbers. And then, at the end of the day, I come home and I'm . . . nothing anymore. What other purpose do I serve?

While I take responsibility for misreading the room tonight, I'm not sure I should be faulted for trying to introduce the one part of my life that's going exceptionally well to a situation that's so patently uncomfortable.

Topher, my only considerate offspring, pats me on the back and hands me a fresh glass of Riesling as I slink down into my seat. He smiles at me, and I see my own hazel eyes and same sprinkling of freckles mirrored on his kind face. I clutch the glass and glance over at Jessica. She has her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her cheeks sucked in, her lips pressed into a line, and she's scrutinizing the whole room, visually assassinating anyone who dares make eye contact. Patrick informed me this expression is called her Resting Bitch Face. I dare not meet her gaze, lest she turn me into a pillar of salt, all Lot-in-the-Old-Testament-style. (A quick deviation, if I may? Why salt? I'm a good Episcopalian, and I never figured out
why his punishment was being turned into a pillar of salt. To me, that seems random.)

I quickly turn away to admire Topher's profile, noting how the corners of his lips are permanently tilted up, like he has a delicious secret, and is always on the verge of a full-on grin. That he inherited from his father. He has the sort of face that makes people comfortable approaching him for directions. I'm sure they'd request he watch their bags at the airport, were that allowed anymore. Before I realize what I'm doing, I run my hand over his wiry light brown hair, and he presses his head into my palm, exactly like Barnaby used to do once we finally realized that all we had was each other.

I'm thankful for a thirty-three percent success rate with offspring who have a fondness for me. He's such a good kid, through and through. Levelheaded and fair and honest. (My genes, obviously.) I have to wonder if he's cut out for the world of high finance—I certainly wasn't. How long did I last? A minute? I'm surely the only person who looks back on Black Monday as one of the best days of her life.

As for today? Not such a good day. I wonder how many times I'm going to replay this mortifying scene over again in my mind. A lot, I predict. Perhaps this gaffe will replace my stress-dreams where I've forgotten to study for my accreditation exams or show up for them naked.

“Penny can tell you when you're going to die because she beats the odds for a living.”

I snap out of my reverie. Chris, who'd been seated at the polar opposite end of the room from me—at my request—is now standing. (Actually, my request was that he not be here at all. Ignored—thanks, Marjorie. All the decades she considered him beneath
me, now she has to come around?) For a second I don't even realize it's him; he just seems like some handsome stranger attempting to dissipate the awkwardness and not like the person I'd most want to kick in the thorax.

Honestly, he doesn't look terribly different from when we met so many years ago. There's a fair amount of salt and a dash of pepper mixed in with his short blond curls, and there's considerably more wear and tear than when I spotted him for the first time in my tenth-grade speech class, but overall, he's not so changed. If he were a car, he'd be considered classic and not a junker. He'd have one of those fancy vintage license plates the State of Illinois issues.