Momzillas (9 page)

Maggs10021: I gotta find the # will e-mail it to you later…

Thirteen

I was playing on the floor in our furnished rental with Violet, wondering if we'd stay there forever, when my cute Barnard sitter, Amber, came in to take over. I told her I wanted to put Violet to bed, so Amber plopped and watched reality TV while I read Violet
Rotten Ralph
, a formative series from my childhood about a crazy cat that does everything to fuck up his owner's life (like take one bite out of every cookie at her party or graffiti his face on her dresses) but she loves him anyway.

After her little eyes closed, I snuck out and threw on my cardigan, knowing how freezing the subways were. On the train platform, a saxophone player was doing a slow rendition of Duran Duran's “Rio,” which was so odd, but I loved it. I tossed a dollar in his case, boarded the train, and was hurtled downtown in a matter of minutes.

I found Leigh at the bar drinking a colorful concoction.

“Whoa, what's up with the antifreeze cocktail?” I asked.

“It's absinthe. It's coming back after a one-hundred-year hiatus.”

“Random. But you look very Manet. Drinking away any sorrows?”

“Kind of. Bad date last night.”

“A date?! What about Craig?”

“After I saw you, I thought,
What the hell am I doing? Hannah's right, I deserve better
.”

“Good.”

“No. Because then I met this quote unquote movie producer at the shoot for this new band we signed, and he asked me out. So I go to his place, which totally looks like the bad guy in
Miami Vice
would live there—electronics, white leather couches, horrifying. Then, after he basically shoves his tongue down my throat and licks my epiglottis, I push him off and storm out.”

“Oh my God!”

“Wait. So I go home and Google his ass and it turns out, he's not even some big movie producer, he's a scummy trial lawyer who won the biggest Fen-Phen case ever, like two hundred million smacks. So he like funded a movie or two and plays this whole big-time producer role, but he's a total loser. There is no one out there, Hannah,” she said, crushed. Her dismayed look was one step away from tears, a major rarity for Leigh. “I'm so depressed there is literally not a soul. I am going to die alone.”

“No, you're not,” I assured her. “Guys worship you! At my wedding every one of Josh's groomsmen was like ‘Who is that?' But you were taken with schmuckfucker Assholicus Maximus.”

“Ugh, my ex-primate. What was I shooting to waste three years with him? I hemorrhaged precious time.”

“You are young, Leigh. You have plenty of time.”

“I don't for kids. I would love to be with a little pal the way you are with Violet. I mean, when I walk by the playground on Bleecker and Hudson, my ovaries literally start to ache.”

I thought about how amazing a mom Leigh would be. I have always believed that people run on different numbers of cylinders. Probably most people love their kids to their full capacity, but some run on fewer cylinders emotionally, like three or four. Leigh and I are ten-cylinder girls. After theorizing on the subject together many times, we concluded that the more you were loved, the more you can love. Leigh's ginormous heart and endless vat of love had her practically bursting at the seams—for a man to pour it on and a child to forever shower with devotion. The lack of a vessel to unload this well of feeling was paralyzing for her and it killed me, especially when I saw Bee and her friends, who, yes, loved their kids but also had full-time round-the-clock nannies so they could shop and lunch and compare their children and work out like maniacs.

“What's up with peasant skirts?” Leigh asked, staring down one offender and crossing her legs in her sexy black pencil skirt. “I mean, why do people want to look like peasants? I don't get it.”

“It's funny,” I said. “All these wealthy uptown mommies are wearing them and I thought the same thing.”

“These trends are so crazy. I look huge in those things but still people run and buy them even if they don't look good, which they don't. Most people look heavy in them, I think,” said Leigh.

“Not these moms,” I sighed, as I popped more salted nuts in my mouth. “They're all size zero. They all have personal trainers, Pilates studios, and when they drop off their kids at Carnegie Nursery School, they run around the reservoir for three hours until pickup.”

“Okay, maybe I don't envy your mom world,” Leigh said. Then her face brightened. “Look! There's Joshie. Wait—who is that
gorgeous
guy with him?”

I turned to see Josh walk in with Parker. Leigh and I got up to hug them all hello. Leigh barely recognized Parker from when she met him at our wedding; it had been more than three years and he looked a lot older now.

“I hope you don't mind my crashing.” Parker smiled, hugging me. “Bee said she had some girls' dinner and West's fast asleep. I thought she'd mentioned you were going to the hens' night out, but then when Josh said he was meeting you I was happy to tag along. You look great, sweetie.”

“I'm so psyched to see you!” I said, which I always was when I saw cute Parker. Although I must admit for some reason I felt…weirdly left out of Bee's girls' dinner. Maybe she told him she was inviting me and then decided against it? We weren't even close friends, so I shouldn't feel excluded and quite frankly I'd choose a night with the current company rather than that group, but whatever.

Within minutes, any lingering thoughts of Bee disappeared as we were regaled by hy-fucking-sterical stories that had me almost peeing in my pants with laughter. First Parker told us about this crazy Swiss client, Count Alexei von Hapsenfürer, who was a seventy-year-old billionaire eccentric who lived in an Alps-perched château that was so remote you literally had to helicopter into it. The dude wore an eye patch from some shooting accident and lived alone in his hundred-room estate with his staff of seventeen and his pet monkey, Josiah, who wore cloth diapers secured with a diamond safety pin. He took shopping trips to Dubai on his G5 and had a tank of piranhas that he'd feed with his killings from hunting trips. Parker said he had a contraption that would lower in his newly slaughtered wild boar and seconds later it emerged with only the porcine skeleton left, gnawed clean by the small but ferocious fish.

Then Leigh told us all this insane music industry gossip—she worked at Sky Records, a label owned by two druggie brothers who minted money and harvested Grammys. Between her tales of one country star who built a Texas-shaped pool in his backyard and a Brooklynite emo crooner who got caught banging a Lolitaesque sixteen-year-old who'd said she was twenty, Parker, Josh, and I were howling, doubled over with laughter.

We all had the absolute best time ever, and when dinner was over I was sad to have it end. Later on that night, we climbed into bed, and I told Josh how much I missed working; Parker and Leigh had so many fun stories and experiences and I felt like I wasn't really out in the world anymore. I was a shut-in with Grover and the gang. But I loved Violet and didn't feel like I could leave her all day. And plus, who the hell would hire me? I had no clue what I wanted to do anyway, so it was all moot.

“You can do anything, Han. You'll get any job you want. There's no one like you,” he said, kissing me. I didn't quite feel reassured since I had no clue what would make me happy but I knew I was definitely soothed by his arms around me, which was becoming a rarity due to his late hours. And that safety zone would soon become even more remote.

“Hannah, um,” Josh stammered. “I feel really bad about this, but you know that crazy guy in Switzerland Parker was telling us about?”

“Yeah…”

“Well…I have to go to see him.”

“Like, there, in the alpine castle place? When?”

“Well, it's not definite. That's why I didn't mention it. But maybe Saturday.”

“
What?
Like this Saturday? The day after tomorrow?”

He nodded, reluctantly.

“For how long?”

“I just found out. He wants me to come for like ten days on some hunting trip. Parker usually goes but my boss said I should spend some time with him since I'm working on his account now.”

“This sucks. I mean, he sounds like a character but he also sounds clinically insane. Now
you'll
come home with an eye patch.”

“Sweetie, I'm doing this—”

“
For us
, I know.” I felt bad for giving him shit when clearly his hands were tied—in wild boar rawhide—but sometimes I just wished he'd have a normal job where you leave at six instead of nine. On a good night.

“Hey, Han, you said you had some new porn titles for me—”

“Oh yeah.” I smiled to myself, though I was still bummed. “Okay:
Flesh Gordon
,
Frisky Business
, and
Wetness for the Prosecution
.”

He laughed out loud. “Very funny!” But he saw my grin slowly fade into a frustrated pre-departure missing of him. “Don't worry,” he consoled. “I'll be home before you know it.”

Fourteen

Lila cleared her throat delicately, placing a dainty hand to her thin neck. Her emerald ring was not unlike a billiard table. “Hannah,” she started in such a tone that I knew instructions were coming. “You know, to fully immerse yourself in life here, you're going to have to join some of the right charity committees and junior boards.”

“Mm-hmm,” I replied, eyeing Violet to make sure she didn't smash one of the thousand antique
objets
that lined the Dillinghams' penthouse. A maid entered the room and poured us scalding tea (did I mention it was 92 degrees out?) from a sterling teapot as I sat on edge, frantic with the thought that my kid would shatter a Tiffany lamp or Ming dynasty vase. “Well, I have been wondering how to keep busy,” I said.

“Perfect. I'm seeing Bee's mother for lunch next week before she leaves for Southampton. I'll mention it to her because Bee has truly thrown herself into her philanthropies. You need to step up and make an effort in that milieu. It will be very rewarding. And to be frank, it's not like you have much going on.”

I didn't mention that I was thinking more along the lines of working on something I could parlay into a career down the road, since she once scoffed at working moms as Bee and Maggie so vociferously had in the playground.

“It's truly necessary,” Lila advised. “If you want to meet the right group. Get into the right clubs. Be a part of everything. You can't skulk around alone with Violet all the time. It's not good for her and it's not good for you, dear. You must—how shall I say this?—
play the game
.”

I smiled at the now all-too-familiar expression. “So I've heard,” I responded, while darting Hermes-like to rescue a small silver-and-tortoise box out of Violet's paws. “I know we have to face the same thing with schools this fall…”

“Well, you be sure to follow Bee on that. She is wired and knows exactly what to do. She is such a
great
mother,” Lila said, starry-eyed. “Do you know she nursed West for a
year
? In my day, no one nursed, it was considered so bohemian, so hippie! But it's back in vogue now, I suppose, and she was determined to be the best mother she could be, bless her heart. That girl is a gem. A true class act.” Lila had a girl crush on Bee! She would have been positively orgasmic had Bee wed Josh and been the dream daughter-in-law she could squire up Madison.

I didn't bring up that Bee said she had a live-in baby nurse, for which the going rate was $250 per day, during that entire nursing goddess period, which helps.

“And you simply
must must must
go with her to one of those lectures—Doctor…Poundsomething—”

“Poundschlosser,” I muttered. I was starting to think this guy was the Manhattan Mommy High Priest.

“Yes. Please at least investigate it, you have nothing to lose. And you might meet some nice women through that as well.”

Weary with the mandates from my MiL, Violet and I bid adieu to her gilded galleries of public rooms, and though the summer air stank to high heaven, I gulped a lungful, grateful for the fresh breath of freedom.

Fifteen

As I stare, zombielike, at the TV screen, I am wondering if the yellow-turtleneck Wiggle secretly detests children. Or whether he has, like, full bondage outfits and whips and chains in his closet. Four smiley Aussies can't all be perfect and peachy—one of them has to have some serious skellies in there. Then I think, okay, gun to my head, with certain death if I don't pick one, which Wiggle would I bang if forced? The thought was too disgusting. I mean, clearly Jeff the purple guy was out and the yellow-turtleneck guy was gross, too. Anthony? Ew ew ew. I had a husband I was attracted to, but I bet there were some moms who probably had a Wiggle pop up in a sex dream or something after seeing them seven thousand times. Vomit. I'd probably loofah myself 'til I was lobster red. The cheery quartet then broke into a line dance complete with added friends Dorothy the Dinosaur and a pirate, Captain Feathersword, as Violet joined in with the arm movements. I wondered how many moms were at that exact moment also enduring the stupid fucking songs but couldn't change the channel 'cause their kids were in heaven.

When the colorful foursome of glee signed off, bidding a musical adieu, I piled Violet into the stroller to buy a birthday gift for Maxwell, Lara's son. At home a little Melissa & Doug wooden toy set is a surefire hit, but here I probably needed to amp it up a notch. So I went to Mary Arnold, which was our first stop when we visited with Violet when she was six months old; it was Josh's childhood toy store slash utopia, filled with balloons and stickers and DVDs and toys galore.

“Mommy, Elmo!” Violet screamed with glee on sighting the four-foot-tall red monster, and begged to be sprung from her stroller harness to wreak havoc. I let her out and walked down an aisle, searching for an appropriate treat for a three-year-old, when I saw Hallie, the redhead model mom, perusing the rack.

“Oh hi,” I started as she stared at me blankly. “It's Hannah, Bee's friend? We met at lunch.”

“Oh sure,” she said, so not sure. She was holding an art set in her hand.

“Are you getting that for Maxwell? I was just picking something for him—”

“This?” she replied, incredulous. “Oh no, this is for us. I got Maxwell two cashmere sweaters from Ralph Lauren, one red, one navy. So cute.”

Oh.

“I have no idea what to get him,” I said. “Three seems like a senior citizen to me!” No smiles. “Maybe get that rocking horse. He's into all things equestrian these days 'cause of the grandparents' ranch in Millbrook. They collect Thoroughbreds—Lara's mom flies to Argentina to bid at horse auctions like all the time.” I turned to see a horse with a full mane of blond hair, a leather saddle, and a $350 price tag. Um, no.

“I'll figure something out,” I sighed, excusing myself to find Violet.

After retrieving my daughter from her perch amid the dolls, I went up to the cashier to pay for a fire truck I'd found for Maxwell. It seemed cool enough, with real ladders and hardware. My rule was always that if I would be psyched to play with it, it must be okay for a kid.

Hallie, as it turned out, was still in the store, with piles upon piles of educational toys, kiddie flashcards, and pre-K workbooks. They rang her up and she didn't even look at the total as she blithely handed off her credit card.

“Oh, Hannah?” she said, spying me approach. “You must come to a lecture I'm organizing, it's part of a parenthood series organized by Dr. Poundschlosser—”

“Oh, yes, Bee's mentioned him.” Plus, Lila would be euphoric if I “threw myself in.”

“He's truly a genius. Anyway, he's doing an Upper East Side lecture at the Y next Tuesday evening. You really would enjoy it. I take such copious notes, my hand is cramping afterward! Can you make it?”

Was I free? Yes. Did I want to go take notes on how to parent? Not really. Did I want to be rude and put her off
and
piss off Lila for not making an effort? No. “Sure, I can come.”

“Terrific. I'll get your number from Bee and leave you the details.” Hallie walked out with three huge shopping bags. I saw her quickly relieved of her ribbon-tied load by her driver, who squired her away in her Cadillac Escalade.

“Next,” said the woman at the register.

It was my turn to pay, and Violet was begging for a toy. “Sweetheart, I'm sorry, but we barely have enough space for the toys you have, let alone another, love muffin.”

“Pleeease?” She made her adorable pouty face cum smile.

“Sorry.”

“Okay, Mommy.”

“I will get you a balloon, though, to tie on your stroller.”

“Yaaaaaaaay!” Yelps of glee.

“You can only get one, though—which color would you like?”

“Umm…blue, please!”

With that, the sweet woman behind the counter went to blow up a blue balloon for Violet. When she came back, she tied it on the stroller and looked at me.

“You're a good mother,” she said, looking in my eyes. “Most kids, they come in here and leave with whatever they want. These children are so spoiled I don't know what they have to look forward to, I really don't.”

“Bigger toys, I guess. Real Porsches instead of mini ones…” I said, shrugging.

“You keep doing what you're doing. Your daughter is lovely.”

I teared up, not knowing why I needed the stamp of approval at all, but as I emotionally mustered a cracking “Thank you,” I realized that this woman must see it all. Like the cool janitor in
Sixteen Candles
, she was probably the eyes and ears of the Upper East Side parents' scene and somehow her approval meant way more to me than some Dr. Poundschlosser dude's.

The next night Violet and I hugged Josh so tight in our elevator vestibule it was as if he were off to Tikrit. I started crying as he mouthed out “I love you” through the closing elevator doors, but quickly swallowed away the cataracts on deck before Violet could see me in full Oksana Baiul–style waterfalls. I felt so pathetic and 1950s antifeminist, like I was going to crumble without Josh around for ten days. What was the matter with me? At Berkeley there was this super-strict Jewish lesbian group on campus called OrthoDykes and they all wore T-shirts that said, “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” I felt like a breathless fish out of my California waters anyway, and that bicycle was looking pretty good as he rode out that door. I had to get a grip and stop hyperventilating as if I'd been dropped in the Sahara with seventeen dollars and a compass. I was in the center of the universe (as Josh always thought of Manhattan), and I'd have to learn how to navigate it with my inner compass or die a shut-in collapsing from Wiggles exposure.