“You don’t get it, Kit—she says living conditions can be so dismal and depressing overseas that she doesn’t like to spoil herself when she’s back in the States.”
Yeah, that doesn’t sound pompous at all. Seriously, why does Bets have such a soft spot for this hideous she-male?
“No chance of getting spoiled at the Super 8,” I mutter.
“Kitty, please,” Betsy implores. “Do this for me. Be cordial. She’s as important to me as you are.”
Doubt it, I think, but I keep that thought to myself.
After all, it’s Betsy’s day.
I settle back into my lounger and return to my magazine (and Britney’s desperate cry for help!) while Betsy pores over The Economist, occasionally tapping away on her BlackBerry. I should simply be in the moment and revel in my time away from the Littles.
I want to revel, yet I’m ashamed about how much I miss their precious faces. I had a panic attack yesterday when I picked up my purse and realized how light it was, unencumbered by spare Pull-Ups (not that Konnor needs them because he’s a BIG BOY, but just in case), clean socks, fresh y-fronts, sippy cups, granola bars, washed AND cut grapes in individual Ziploc baggies, antibacterial wipes, Matchbox cars, Kleenex, and my DSLR camera because you never know when the perfect photo op will present itself.
I’ve called home a few times since I’ve been here (read = nineteen) and it actually hurts when I hear that they’re having a blast with their grandmother. Don’t they miss their mama? I’m grateful Nana Baba’s such an important part of their lives, and yet I’m bothered that she can swoop in and take over without them ever skipping a beat.
Am I truly so easily replaced?
Especially by a woman who wears socks with Crocs?
I glance over at Betsy, my other soul mate outside of Ken, and decide I need to try harder for her sake. After all, we’ve been besties for more than ten years and I can’t be the sad sack bringing down the party because I’m unable to ignore the tug of my apron strings for three flipping days. Oprah says I need to Be In the Moment, so I decide to reframe all my negative energy by just appreciating my surroundings.
Here we go.
One attitude of gratitude, comin’ up!
I begin to take inventory. First, I’m thankful that this is a really beautiful day. Sure, it’s hot and a dry heat is still heat, but the water misters are blasting away in the palm tree above us and I’m ten feet away from a cool blue pool. How do they do that? Despite the broiling temps, the water’s still brisk enough to totally refresh.
Wait, I just realized that boys are always asking me “why,” and now I find myself doing the same thing. Awww! But if I’m concentrating on not missing them, I can’t dwell on their delightful inquisitiveness. Instead, I’ll ponder this icy body of water.
So . . . is there such a thing as a reverse heater, like a pool cooler? Or do they just toss in giant blocks of ice every day? No, that doesn’t sound right because what’s coming out of the jets is chilled.
What if—actually, no, it’s not important.
Maybe Oprah doesn’t want me to dissect why the pool is nice to be thankful, just that it exists in the first place.
Plus, the outdoor area is kind of amazing, which is one of the reasons Betsy insisted we stay here rather than the Four Seasons or the Bellagio. With the dense, lush foliage and the tropical birds and the cabanas masquerading as thatched huts, it really feels like we’ve been plunked down in the middle of an actual coconut grove somewhere, especially with the sound of steel drums playing in the background. And the air smells like mai tais!
Betsy says the Wintercourt Hotel is the most exclusive on the strip since there’s no casino attached. And how nice is it to walk in and not be greeted with the chings and chirps of a million one-armed bandits? Fancy pants! That, plus the unbelievably authentic artificial beach (complete with ocean breezes and rum-drink aromatherapy) and I really do feel like I’m somewhere more exotic than Nevada.
Okay, that minor sticking point is messing with my gratitude attitude, too.
Ken keeps promising me that he’s going to whisk me away to the Caribbean, but he’s been so busy it’s yet to happen.
I’ve been obsessively Googling this little beach I heard about from this really smug mother at Kord’s kindergarten. Brooke Birchbaum says there’s a place at the tip of Little Cayman that has luminescent pink sand! And it’s so secluded that she and her husband even had it all to themselves last year. The hotel staff packed them a picnic lunch and they spent the day snorkeling in the azure sea, eating the freshest fruit they ever tasted, and just reconnecting as a couple.
By reconnecting, I’m fairly sure she meant doing it.
Can you have sex in the sand? Or does that leave grit, like, everywhere? Is it good friction or bad friction? I don’t like Brooke enough to have this conversation. I should ask Kelly—she always knows this stuff. Regardless, I’d sure like to find out for myself because the Caymans sound like heaven. After she told me about her trip, I applied for a passport that I keep in my purse because the minute Ken decides we’re going, I will be ready.
I decide to nap and dream of pink sand beaches because it’s going to be another late night, but I’ve barely closed my eyes when Alicia flops into the lounger next to me. “Jesus! Why’s the water so cold?” she exclaims, wrapping herself in one of the plush teal-and-white-striped towels strategically placed on every chair.
Alicia’s another one of the bridesmaids. She and Betsy met in grad school and, up until she took a job in San Francisco and Betsy started working with Trip, they were employed by the same firm. As she’s pro–The Bachelor and anti–throwing food or drink at me, she’s good people. “I’m, like, all nipped out,” she says, pointing to her bikini top. “What’s up with that?”
“Right?” I say. “It’s bizarre. How do they keep the water so cold?”
Alicia notices our drinks and raises the flag on the back of her chair. “You’re drinking bloodies? Perfect! I could use a little hair of the dog right now. Ugh, why do I feel so shitty? I never got hangovers in college. I’d wake up in some frat rat’s bed and be naturally adorable, hair tousled just right, all smoky-eyed from mascara. Walk of Shame? More like Walk of You Wish. But now? I drink three glasses of wine at a client dinner and I spend the next day trying to keep my office from spinning. Shit, wait, I totally forgot about the body shots! Tequila! That’s why I feel like ass. Did you tequila-up, Kitty? You seem awfully bushy-tailed.”
“No, the liquor pools in my C-section scar and not my belly button so it’s too weird now,” I truthfully reply.
Alicia peers at me over her sunglasses, saying, “Kit, I will give you a thousand dollars if you never mention your C-section scar again. No joke. I have cash.”
This is the downside of being with women who’ve never had kids. They don’t understand that we moms aren’t complaining when we mention our sacrifices. I reply, “What? It’s part of the miracle of life. My scar’s a badge of honor.”
“As is telling me stories about how you ripped down there?” She winces and shakes like a Golden Retriever after a dip in the lake.
“The tearing’s not really a badge of honor. That just sucked and now every time I sneeze, I’m rolling the dice.”
Alicia holds up a hand. “Nope. No. Don’t say another goddamned word. I was so skeeved out that I didn’t fuck anyone for a month after you told me that story the first time. You think you’ve got scars? Well, I got news for ya, sister. I’m scarred, too. Mentally.”
“We’re all too old for body shots,” Betsy adds, yawning and stretching, each lean muscle rippling as she moves. “Still, last night was epic.”
Last night was, indeed, epic. We chartered a limo to take us to the theater where the Thunder from Down Under was performing (didn’t hate the show) (at all) and at one point, we were all hanging out of the sunroof, hooting and waving champagne bo
ttles like a bunch of kids in an eighties movie montage and not the adults we actually are.
“Pfft, speak for yourself. I plan to never be too old for body shots,” Alicia says, rubbing Banana Boat oil on her flat brown stomach.
“Welcome to Cougartown, population you,” Betsy says.
“Gimme a few years, but then, yes. Absolutely. I plan on going full Jackie Collins,” Alicia replies, likely contemplating all the leopard print she’s going to buy once she hits forty. “Hey, where’s everyone else?”
I tell her, “Gracie and Cilla went to float in the lazy river over by the children’s pool, I believe Devon’s sleeping—”
“With a bartender,” Alicia helpfully suggests.
“Seems likely,” I admit.
“So, who’s left?” she asks.
“Um . . . Melissa!” I say, snapping my fingers. I’d say I have mommy-brain today, but it’s really more like Veuve Clicquot–brain. “Melissa said she was going to hit the buffet. Wait, how did she not eat this morning? The spread was legendary!”
When we woke up, our personal butler (!) had arranged a ridiculous in-room breakfast for us to help soak up some of last night’s booze. We came downstairs to a mighty spread and were greeted by servers foisting goblets of fresh-squeezed juices and champagne on us. Personally, I avoided the cocktails, instead diving into the raw bar, laden with briny oysters and shrimp the size of clenched fists, bracketed by piles of cracked crab claws and lobster tails, surrounded by dozens of pots of different varieties of cocktail sauces and citrus mayonnaise.
At first, I felt a little guilty indulging in a seafood feast in front of the massive aquarium spanning the suite from the first floor to the second. I could have sworn the tiger shark was glaring at me with his unblinking black eyes, as he circled around in the tank, but then I realized he was probably just lusting after my caviar-topped blini. Who wouldn’t? (Also, I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing as shark sashimi, so it was fine.)
If the seafood bonanza wasn’t enough of a treat, what of all the perfect little petit fours from Vanille Patisserie, Betsy’s favorite bakery in Chicago? Or how about having our own personal chef in a giant white toque, crafting truffle-laden omelets on demand, and the mile of steam trays on the glass counter, brimming with favorites such as eggs Benedict and mini-quiches and prosciutto-wrapped asparagus?
For Betsy, none of the gourmet offerings could hold a candle to the simplicity of the authentic biscuits and sausage gravy flown in directly from The Ol’ Breakfast Joynt, our favorite late-night haunt at Whitney. She was teary when she realized what Trip had done.
Note to self: In my next lifetime, I need to marry a millionaire.
Betsy breaks out the biggest smile I’ve seen from her all weekend. Her teeth are ultra white and beautifully capped. (Well done, Ken!) “You know that means Melissa’s playing blackjack, right?”
“Really? Kinda early for gambling,” I note.
“Not at all. In fact, I’m shocked it took her so long to hit the tables. Must have been biding her time.” Betsy looks over both shoulders and then leans in conspiratorially to whisper, “Missy can count cards. She majored in math at MIT. Over the years, she’s paid for her house, her car, her tits, and her Stanford MBA with winnings.”
“Huh. Isn’t card-counting a form of cheating? Seems like . . . not the most ethical behavior for someone in the financial service industry,” I whisper back.
Betsy and Alicia exchange a look I can’t quite read—it’s not pity, right? Do they feel like I won’t understand? Oh, whatever. I think sometimes they hold back on business-y talk because they doubt I can keep up with them, being just a stay-at-home mom and all.
Please.
If they witnessed how I single-handedly saved the Chicago Park District’s Toddlers and Tambourines music program with my keen managerial skills and ability to delegate, they’d be hitting me up for advice.
“Wait, what about Jack? I almost forgot she was coming!” Alicia says. “Oh, my God, did you ever read the exposé she wrote about the conflict in Darfur? The way she risked her life to interview those rebels? Whoa. I literally cannot wait to sit down with her and hear all about it.”
I roll my eyes so hard I can see the inside of my skull.
“Are you two still having your little tiff from college? What was that, like, nineteen-ninety-who-cares? You guys aren’t over it yet?” she asks.
“If by ‘having a little tiff,’ you mean total and utter thermonuclear destruction, then, yes, yes, we are.” I glance over at Betsy, who seems pained. “However, despite my wishing she’d die in a fire, I’m planning to smile and nod, so if there’s an issue, it won’t be me who started it.”
Betsy’s spine stiffens and she very deliberately says, “Because it won’t start, of course.”
“Because it won’t start,” I agree.
I wish I felt as confident as I sound.
• • •
The Intrepid Girl Reporter is perched on the edge of the one uncomfortable chair in the whole place, a piano bench that appears to be crafted out of steel beams and icicles, because God forbid she allow herself to nestle into the squashy, U-shaped ten-seater couch where everyone else is. Her arm rests on the glass top of the piano to her side, next to her tumbler of plain water. Not even Evian! Just regular tap. Naturally, she droned on about how water is more precious than oil in the desert. Betsy nodded and asked a bunch of questions about access to wells and stuff, but she was just being polite. Personally, I had to excuse myself to go pummel a pillow in the room I’m sharing with Alicia.
And the hair! Holy crap! Her head’s practically shaved. Like, the full Sinéad O’Connor. She said she buzzed it off herself to get rid of the lice, as though that wasn’t the most shameful statement ever uttered in recorded history. Instead of being all “Cooties!” the rest of the girls kept telling her how brave she was.
Ugh.
Look at her, leaning on that piano like she owns the place.
“. . . then I’m on this deserted beach in K.L., watching the sun rise, and it’s as though the Lord himself were wielding an enormous paintbrush and—”
I interrupt, “I’m sorry, where?”
She narrows her eyes at me, as though I’m challenging her.
I’m not.
Well, not really. Much.
I’m just saying Miss World Traveler might want to ratchet the level of self-satisfaction down a thousand notches or so for those of us too busy raising fine young Americans to faff about on other continents.
I reach for the margarita on the table next to me, which the butler’s been serving in ginormous crystal tumblers. This thing must weigh five pounds. It’s like a fucking carton of milk!
Whoopsie! I just dropped an F-bomb! Bad mommy! I have to remember it’s flipping, not fucking. Little pitchers, big ears.
I actually have to use both hands to lift my glass to my lips. Like, my arms are tired from drinking these all night. (Or maybe the butler wanted to help me tone up, in which case, thanks, Jeeves!) Betsy catches my eye and I sip and smile beatifically, before innocently sucking the grains of salt off my upper lip. Nope. No problems here! Me and my other best friend Jose Cuervo are doing just fine.
“K.L. is Kuala Lumpur—it’s in Malaysia?” Is it just me, or did she say that extra slow, dragging out “Mahlaaaayshaaaaa” as though I’m developmentally delayed (we do NOT use the r-word; it’s on the Never Never list) and won’t understand her otherwise? “I assume you’re familiar? It’s the home of the Petronas Twin Towers. Anyway, I’m with a documentary crew and we’ve been—”
Blah, blah, blah.
Braggity-brag-brag.
Look at me! I’m Jack Jordan! I travel around the whole world with nothing but a notebook and my own moxie! I shave myself bald! I’m wearing nasty jungle boots, a ratty scarf, and a tactical shirt with lots of buttons, because I would rath
er die than dress appropriately for a bachelorette party!
She drones on. “. . . the chiaroscuro of the sunrise, which is the interplay between dark and light . . .”
How is everyone not barfing into their own handbags right now over the sheer pretentiousness of what’s coming out of her mouth? And the nerve of assuming I don’t know where Malaysia is!
“. . . it was as though a box of crayons had been left melting on the sidewalk. The burnt sienna oozed into . . .”
I know where Malaysia is. I am quite familiar, as a matter of fact. The night nurse my parents hired for us after I had Kord was from Malaysia.
I think.
No, I’m sure of it. Malaysia. Wait, excuse me, Jack, Mahlaaaayshaaaaa. That makes her Mahlaaaayshiaaaaan. I take a swig of my megaton of margarita to congratulate myself on remembering that particular factoid. Ekaterina didn’t last long, though. Did not care for how she’d bounce around the house in flimsy baby-doll jammies without benefit of brassiere. I mean, it’s not like Ken would even look sideways at another woman, but still. Best not tempt fate. Plus, I realized I could do it all on my own because I am SUPERMOM!
Woo!
Am I drunk?
Mayhaps I should slow down.
Cripes, I forgot how chatty this blabbermouth can be. Must have blocked it from my memory as, like, a protective mechanism. Forgot about how she used to grill me all the time. Do you know what it’s like to have someone question your every move? To comment on your every action? She was so weird—she acted like she’d never spoken to another girl before.
For more than a decade, she’s been saying that I’m the problem and that I don’t like women, but what’s so funny is that I had zero issue living in a sorority house full of them. Not a single issue. Maybe I didn’t have an actual best friend until college, but that’s only because I was always so close with my sister. I play well with others. I do. So, clearly it wasn’t me because I was part of a sisterhood. An integral part. She didn’t even get a bid!
The Best of Enemies Page 8
