Mother on Fire: A True Motherf%#$@ Story About Parenting!

by Sandra Tsing Loh

  “What?” says Lynn.

  “I’m guessing…Women do knives down for safety, men do knives up for cleanliness?” Celeste wonders.

  “Yes!” I say. “But more importantly than that, do not pack together. Men and women: packing, total incompatibility. My husband, Mike, packs a car by placing each bag in the car as he packs it. I pack a car by packing and then methodically lining each bag up ALONG THE WALL next to the front door in sort of a necklace-like STRING OF BAGS so I can VISUALLY SEE WHAT I HAVE ALL AT ONCE. When the line of bags is totally complete, then the bags go into the car. So you can see how if Person A imposes his car-packing method on Person B…If while she is carefully COMPILING her string of bags—her own alphabet of bags—he starts removing the bags and putting them into the car willy-nilly, à la an I Love Lucy episode, slowly driving Person B mad, in a Gaslight-type manner—

  “I sound insane,” I cut myself off, suddenly.

  “Not at all!” Celeste says stoutly. “Bran and I divorced over a house. A really UGLY house.”

  “Well, and a few affairs,” Lynn adds.

  “Lying about the vasectomy,” Celeste observes, “that was another one.”

  Lynn exclaims, “Ah! And the hidden four million!”

  Celeste throws up her hands. “Scientology!”

  My cell cheeps. It startles me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s…kindergarten. We’re trying to get my daughter into—”

  “Absolutely!” the women cry, raising their hands. I flap open my cell and wade into a far alcove—that’s how big this infinity pool/Jacuzzi/spa thingy is: There are alcoves.

  It’s Mike on the phone. He is bubbling with excitement. They just got back from the Luther Hall “Meet and Greet”…

  “Did Hannah have fun?” I ask.

  “Sure!” he says. “It was actually sort of a…test.”

  “A test?” I feel a slight dimming of my perfect world. A distant…crow.

  “No, no, no,” he assures me. “She did great. They just asked her some simple questions…‘What’s your favorite ice cream?’ ‘Mango.’ ‘What was your favorite present you got at your birthday?’ ‘Uni the Unicorn.’ They gave her some drawings to copy, even this kind of crazy British flag thing, which she did. They asked her to write her name—”

  “What?” I put my hand over my heart.

  “She did great!” he says. “Wrote her first AND last name…perfectly!”

  “I’ve never even seen her do that at home!” I laugh, feeling my cheeks flush with warmth and relief.

  “They asked her to name some animals. She said, ‘Lion, tiger, hippopotamus…’”

  “Hippopotamus!” I exclaim.

  “Four years old, this kid is!” Mike exults. “We’re going to Sizzler!”

  “What? What?” Celeste and Lynn exclaim when I snap shut the cell and slosh back, beaming.

  I give them news of my daughter’s genius (“Lion, tiger, hippopotamus,” “Said her favorite ice cream was mango—bet they never heard that one!”) and they raise their glasses.

  “Cheers!”

  “That’s my marital secret,” I announce. “Delegation. He does his thing, I do mine.”

  “Hear! Hear!” they say.

  “Of course,” I laugh, “I make sure I do the IMPORTANT PART. I filled out the forms already, put down the deposit, secured the deal. He just does the follow-up. In that way I give him the…illusion of control.”

  “It’s what I do at work all the time,” Celeste laughs. “Give people what I call ‘a comfortable Siberia.’ With photos of palm trees taped over, masking the ice of their igloo walls.”

  “What school?” Lynn asks.

  “Luther Hall,” I say.

  Lynn and Celeste raise their glasses automatically.

  “Bravo!”

  “Good for you!” Lynn says. “My ex’s assistant’s son goes there.”

  “Schools in L.A. are impossible,” Celeste complains.

  “And so expensive!” Lynn agrees. “So overpriced. At least you won’t be paying an arm and a leg at Luther Hall. If I could do it over!” She turns to me. “Three children. Campbell Hall. Never again.”

  “Well, there won’t BE an ever again,” Celeste says.

  “Hear! Hear!” Lynn says stoutly, clinking her glass.

  “What was the…um…problem, at Campbell Hall?” I venture. In Los Angeles, it has come to feel weirdly personal to ask about specific schools. As if to say, where is the hidden stop to YOUR underground railroad? Can I and my party of fifty crowd into it? Into your secret bomb shelter? Got room?

  “Campbell Hall has JUST become so SNOTTY!” Lynn cries out. “That guy Ray Romano—Everybody Loves Raymond! He dropped ten thousand dollars at the auction to win this prime parking place on campus—not that he EVER drops his own kids off. I tried to park there last year for just a minute, I was running late, and they SNAPPED at me! Just SNAPPED! Three kids I’ve put through that school, full tuition, no breaks, and no, suddenly it’s Everyone Loves Raymond. It has become such conspicuous consumption I hate it. And the kids, I’m sorry—I just don’t think they’re that smart. It’s all jocks. They’ve got this equestrian program now, it’s an Episcopalian school, meanwhile everyone’s Jewish—”

  “You’re Jewish,” Celeste says.

  “I know, but in a way, not so much. Stephen Wise Temple—feh.”

  “I like Campbell Hall,” Celeste says. “Lovely campus. Very pretty.”

  “Right—said by a parent of Wonder Canyon.”

  “Wonder Canyon!” I erupt. “Where have I heard that name?”

  Celeste puts her hand up, waggles it. “It’s not really MY daughter. She’s Bran’s. Poor Skyler.” She sighs. “It’s really been tough for her.”

  “Wonder Canyon—it’s the super-gifted school up on Mulholland,” Lynn explains. “You have to be some kind of genius.”

  “Or have a father who gave the school two-point-seven million,” Celeste mutters, shaking her head. “You have to use whatever currency is in your pocketbook. Even though, sad thing is, I think Skyler herself would be happier out there on the flatlands, riding ponies.”

  And as the women chatter on, I realize, okay…

  If Pride and Prejudice were my life—and took place in L.A.—and schools were suitors—

  Wonder Canyon, clearly the stratospheric ideal, would be like Mr. Darcy.

  Campbell Hall would be like Mr. Bingley.

  And Luther Hall is clearly like (blat of flügelhorn) Mr. Collins. People are so staunchly “Way to go!” for me, “Your cancer’s in remission!” before turning back to their much more interesting Campbell Hall/Wonder Canyon business.

  The fact is, Luther Hall is a third-tier school.

  And yet, sipping wine in Napa on this exquisite day, sun on my shoulders, I’m not at all bothered to be bound to Mr. Collins…

  Who, after all, dwells on the estate of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Who while dull—and aren’t most people?—took pretty good care of him and, as I recall, was NOT a vegetarian!

  Like Elizabeth Bennet’s friend Charlotte Lucas, I’m happy to be anywhere at all! And hell, at least it’s not like I’ve run off with…

  Wickham!

  I mean, look at that creature in front of us. Off the grid entirely. Twenty-two, vulpine, eucalyptus-rubbed, in a fluffy white spa robe…the new mink.

  She is telling the young man squatting next to her, who is offering a Napa peach tartlet: “Hm-hm. We just arrived Sunday, we’ll be here for a week.”

  At which point a door opens and in a waft of steam he emerges, her date, who is about fifty years older and two feet shorter. He moves so slowly, painfully, practically wincing with every step…My goodness, this goes beyond what we expect from May-December relationships. Forget the sex, she must actually be deeding him body parts…perhaps a kidney!

  Whereas here I am with my gal pal Celeste, who shoots me a look and mouths, “Are you okay?” Then she tilts her head toward Lynn and gives a wry flap of h
er fingers, so much talking. She mouths another word: “Sor-ry!”

  I laugh, and shake my head: It’s okay.

  She squeezes my arm again, mouths: “Thanks.”

  We are now at dinner.

  “The tasting menu!” Celeste declares, waving away all menus. “It’s fabulous! Trust me!”

  I giggle, very happy to be her ho’. All I have to do is chat, listen, veg.

  By contrast, I feel sad for the vixen in the spa robe. The next table over, there she is, seated woodenly, with her horrible homunculus. And then after dinner she’ll have to first put out, then donate the kidney. It’s so much better in this postfeminist age, where WOMEN have money.

  It turns out, unlike Celeste, Lynn has, overall, had a FABULOUS divorce.

  “The first years were hard,” Lynn reveals. “Before I got a whole synergy working with the nanny, the au pairs, AND the grandmother. But eventually, Charlie and I realized it was easiest to just stay best friends. We actually have therapy together twice a week now, and yoga.”

  “No!” Celeste and I laugh. But then Celeste becomes thoughtful.

  “You know,” she says. “The other day…I actually had a nice conversation with Bran. I don’t hate him. I just hated being married to him, which makes me wonder…”

  She leans forward. “Do we even need husbands, every day, in our lives? Maybe they’re no longer necessary. I mean, the sex is…”

  Lynn’s face goes sly.

  “Oh! With anyone NOT your husband, the sex is better…”

  “Morgan!” Celeste screams.

  Lynn throws back her curly head and chuckles throatily.

  “Who is Morgan?” I ask.

  Celeste explains: “Oh, Morgan is just a thirty-one-year-old British bad boy who flies into town now and then, and then…flies away. On days when Charlie has the kids, Morgan comes over and he and Lynn have wild sex. And then the housekeeper changes all the sheets.”

  “All the frenetic sheet-changing!” I exclaim. “I simply don’t have the staff to do it!”

  We are now all laughing and yelling: “I’m drunk! I’m drunk!”

  The hot young maître d’ with his ponytail is eyeing us, smiling at us, enjoying us…Bowing slightly, he says, “I will bring a dessert menu. Just to—”

  “Look at you!” Lynn exclaims bawdily, practically taking—I kid you not—two fistfuls of maître d’ bun and squeezing! And he…

  Only laughs, raises a teasing finger. “Oh now. I could get fired.” Either he is honestly charmed by us or is just getting paid a lot—

  That’s the beautiful thing about good service—you can’t tell the difference!

  “And, oh my God, Morgan,” Lynn says huskily, leaning into the candlelight.

  “Thirty-one,” Celeste repeats.

  “Oh my God!” we scream.

  “Even at forty-nine he makes me feel like a peach…a delicious, juicy peach.”

  “28 Beads!” Celeste and I scream, at the same time.

  “Paolo the Swordfisherman!” I say.

  “But not gay at all,” says Celeste.

  “Oh no,” says Lynn. “He’s quite the swords MAN.”

  We scream again, but—

  “Is there dryness?” Celeste asks.

  “No!” Lynn says, swatting her. “For that there are vitamin E creams and aloe vera unguents—NEVER MIND. The point is, Morgan says he PREFERS older women. He thinks our confidence is refreshing, our laughing sensuality, our lack of inhibition. Two words…”

  “What?” we say.

  “Nude Pilates. Nude nude Pilates.”

  “Oh my God,” we scream.

  I say, “I sometimes wonder if my own husband, after eighteen years of cohabitation, has grown, well, too lazy to have an affair. Like me, my soul mate has developed a certain endearing reluctance to change out of his sweatpants and leave the house after five P.M., and all those kittenish young Sex and the City gals seem demanding, they require meals eaten sitting up in restaurants, chilled crantinis, vigorous discoing…If my beloved husband were to embark on an affair with a twenty-six-year-old, I would be hurt, of course, but also impressed…All that showering, the micro-trimming, the grooming, the continual anointing, of all the body parts…!”

  Lynn leans in.

  “Are you kidding? I find as I get older, the sex only gets more interesting. My fantasies only get more exciting. Whatever is politically correct, I imagine its diametric, polar opposite…and that is what is hot. It’s not Jodie Foster getting the Oscar for her brilliant acting—no, it’s all the victim movie roles she plays to get the Oscar, the waitress raped on a pool table by a bunch of rednecks—‘Yeah!’”

  “Euw!” Celeste and I cry out.

  “Or here’s another,” Lynn says. “THEY are a passel of fifty-something Kuwaiti businessmen—oil?—at some hideous downtown hotel with glass elevators. I am a nineteen-year-old blonde, slightly chunky, and bored telecommunications heiress with a taste for Amaretto sours. The oil men offer money for a private party. Thirty dollars? No. Five hundred dollars? Better. Two thousand seems a tad high. Five thousand is too much—for some odd reason (because the high price seems too call-girl professional, proper licensing in the state of Nevada and vaginal health exams now becoming involved), at five thousand dollars the fantasy loses traction.”

  “I’m still a sucker for Richard Gere,” Celeste admits, moonily.

  “Are you kidding?” Lynn retorts. “With our movie stars today…All that political idealism, earnestness, and altruism has become a real problem. I’ve never ONCE had a fantasy involving Richard Gere and Tibet. Brad Pitt these days seems completely desexed, what with the close-cropped hair, the relentless pussy-whipping by Anjelina Jolie. He is always trooping somewhere, saving Africa or something, hamstrung every which way by multiple BabyBjorns.”

  “Ralph Fiennes,” Celeste sighs.

  I turn to her. “Did you know Joseph Fiennes is now playing Martin Luther?”

  “Mmm!”

  “Ralph Fiennes,” Lynn declares. “I feel nothing for Ralph Fiennes now, or even back in The English Patient. Oh no…Only in his debut in Schindler’s List—forty pounds heavier, the chunky Nazi captain tying up young Jewish women in his basement…hot!”

  “People do change,” Celeste agrees. “I used to be so in love with the YOUNG Mel Gibson, before—”

  “Forget the YOUNG Mel,” Lynn barrels on. “I’m actually turned on by OLD Mel, the sheer BADNESS of him, anti-Semitically ranting by the side of the freeway, mad-dog drunk on tequila, his career in ruins…I could easily construct this fantasy where I am Cop Lady and Gibson is taking me right there in the squad car, oddly gleeful, pretending to flay me as in The Passion of the Christ. ‘D-girl! Go! Fetch my coffee!’ Hot hot hot!”

  Celeste and I look askance.

  “Too far!”

  Lynn raises an arm. “What-ever!”

  For dessert there are cheeses.

  “Oh my God!” Celeste exclaims. “That’s the problem with Napa. Never do they just give you a cheese. They’re always compelled to drape it with a fig, a lingonberry, or an herb.”

  “And then the whole mess is drizzled over a chop of venison, and julienned…!” adds Lynn.

  “And this whole place!” Celeste moans. “Auberge du Fenouil? Hotel of Fennel? I hate fennel!”

  “I just want chocolate smeared ON my cheese, with a bowl of Cabernet!” I say.

  And we fall over our cheeses, laughing.

  The next morning it is time for our treatments.

  Celeste has booked us not two-handed but four-handed massages.

  “A four-handed massage?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “What,” I say, “a kind of Leon Fleisher…four-handed massage?”

  “I think Leon Fleisher played piano with just the ONE hand,” Celeste says. “I think you mean a LABÈQUE sisters massage, Katia and Marielle.”

  “Or maybe it’s four people but they just put in the one hand!” I muse.

  Celeste
and I don spa robes and meet in the meditation room, which features a tinkling Zen fountain, crystal bowls of fruit, and of course the customary townhouse units of exquisitely appointed herbal teas.

  The names are all Mystic Meditation, Chamomile Rivulets, Orange Kaboom…

  “How come Orange is always kind of a Kaboom?”

  “I don’t even read these anymore,” says Celeste.

  “Au contraire,” I say. “I feel like I can’t actually HAVE the tea unless I read it. Like it may go down the wrong chakra or something. Or like I might choose the wrong mood alterer. Look at these. It’s all ORANGE KABOOM. MINT MIST CLEARER. SHOUT OF CHAMOMILE. OUCH: IT’S LEMON.”

  “GREEN TEA WITH MANY OTHER NON-GREEN-TEA THINGS attached to mitigate its essential unfortunate green teaness,” Celeste adds.

  “CALM INFUSION,” I say. “WHERE YOU ACTUALLY TAKE A TEN-CC. SYRINGE OF CALM AND INJECT IT DIRECTLY INTO YOUR STOMACH FAT.”

  “Perhaps Mel Gibson could come out with his own line of herbal teas,” Celeste suggests. “Hallucinogenic teas.”

  “MEL GIBSON MADMAN TEA,” I say. “Or OOPS, I SAID IT AGAIN: CHAMOMILE!”

  “CRRRAZY MAN LEMON,” she says.

  “Or HONKING BAZOOMS OF CHAMOMILE.”

  In the candle-lit hallway that leads into our massage rooms, we pass a bamboo plant upon whose thin green stalks hang small tiles with words on them, which you’re supposed to hurl into a glass urn of bubbling water. In this way, you’re able to mentally rid yourself of things like “GUILT,” “SADNESS,” “WORRY”…

  All my crows, I hurl into the fountain. Tile, tile, tile. Down they drop.

  And as I watch the white tiles lazily spiral downward, I feel my cares lift off my shoulders. I close my eyes, and for once, I can picture it…The unbroken white cliffs, on that perfect cloudless day. From beyond wafts the scent of pine, on a fresh breeze bringing with it a cool, calm…serenity.

  For so long has my life seemed this frenetic wild-goose chase of female searching, a psychic wind tunnel of worry, anxiety, and obsession. It feels as if I never know where I stand. I’ve never known what role I’m supposed to be playing, from age fifteen to age nineteen to age twenty-four to age thirty-one to…? Hello? What’s my job this year? Good daughter, promising ingenue, loyal best friend, foxy girlfriend, brilliant artist, understanding wife…I never know how moist my skin is supposed to be, how high my boobs, how much a liberated independent woman should be making, or how organic should be the snacks in my kids’ lunch boxes, the snacks they won’t eat. My whole life I’ve felt like a square peg in a round hole. Whoever I am, I should be someone else. Whereas secretly the real me is an ungainly blob, a blight on the face of the earth, pimply, in wrinkled sweatpants.