I tried to explain to her how much I had enjoyed my own Catholic education and wanted my second son to be able to experience it and have spirituality and prayer on a daily basis, but all she heard was: “Black cock.”
I should pause and quickly explain a common practice that goes on with my colleagues at work. Whenever one of us is on a business call, or on with a doctor, someone will scream out an obscenity. “Black cock” happens to be the all-time favorite.
Mrs. Walls apparently did not know the proper response to this exclamation, so I pretended I had a cough and said, “OK, see you next Tuesday,” and hung up.
That evening I went to a seminar on “How Boys and Girls Learn Differently.” The instructor stated that girls were scoring higher in every single subject in every country and it’s because their brains work differently. He described it as a girl’s brain having a highway of multiple lanes going in different directions and converging and merging, making them much better at multitasking and therefore making them better students.
On the other hand, a male brain is just a sad, two-lane highway, where they can be easily distracted and end up in a big pileup.
He said that males typically hear better out of one ear, usually the right one. They don’t take in information as well when you are talking directly to them, but rather do absorb it if you sit next to their right ear. This started to make sense to me because when you are standing in front of them talking, men are distracted by your boobs, but in the car they retain more information.
When it comes to learning, boys do best when they’re seated up close and by a sunny window and you have to constantly feed them water. I started to wonder, Is this a plant or a child we are talking about? The instructor went on to explain that boys are inherently attracted to violence, and you should embrace and not discourage their weapon play. At this point I was wishing I had only given birth to girls.
As the seminar continued, everything about my boys’ behavior was making perfect sense. Several friends and family members have commented when they witness my boys wrestling and trying to shoot at each other, “Well, at least they’re not gay.” This offends me because I would kill to have a gay son to go shoe shopping with. Can’t at least one of them be gay? I thought. Who else is going to take me to a fancy brunch every Sunday twenty years from now?
I came home and I sat next to Peter and his right ear, handed him a glass of water, and relayed the information I had learned. I said, “When we speak to the principal at St. Ignatius on Tuesday, I’m really going to fight to get Brandon in and tell her all the reasons he should be there.”
“Whatever you do, please don’t start crying in the middle of the meeting” was Peter’s reply.
My mother called the night before the meeting and said, “You just march in there and you remind them how much money your parents gave to help rebuild the church after the 1994 earthquake.”
Peter and I took separate cars to the meeting, as I had to go to work afterward and Peter works from home. I got there first and calmly said to Mrs. Walls, “I think that Brandon should go to St. Ignatius’s kindergarten because . . .” And then my nostrils started to quiver, my mouth started to turn down, as I said, “We’re a Catholic family and we need to stay together. Peter and I were married here, I went to school here, you can’t separate Brandon from his big brother, Drake.” And then I spiraled. “Also, anytime you want, if you have a niece in town who’s a big fan, I can get you tickets to Chelsea Lately and have Chelsea sign books for you. Plus they can ride on Chuy’s motorized scooter . . .”
She deadpanned, “What’s Chelsea Lately?”
I said, “Oh, it’s the late-night talk show I work on. It’s on E!”
She said, “E! What’s that? I don’t watch cable, just PBS.”
There was no stopping the elephant tears now, and of course Peter walked in to see me with mascara running down my face. “Oh no, Heather. Really?” he said.
I blubbered on. “My point is that I’m dedicated to this school. I’m not like other parents here. I’m never going to go to a private, nondenominational school, even if I get my own sitcom on Fox, which, by the way, is channel eleven here, just nine away from PBS.”
Brandon on his first day of kindergarten at St. Ignatius. You can see how happy I am that he got accepted.
Peter thankfully jumped in and said, “Look, Mrs. Walls, there’s nothing wrong with Brandon. He just needs the summer to grow up, and he’ll be fine in the fall.”
“Yes, I agree with you, Peter,” she miraculously replied. “He did fine on the entrance exam. And I have his acceptance letter right here.”
Now, I try not to get so upset about the bumps in my kids’ elementary education. Brandon holds a pencil now. The other day Drake’s third-grade teacher showed me his school-issued iPad and his report on safaris, showing me everything he had researched on the Internet. It read, “How many rings around Saturn, Abraham Lincoln, boobs, capital of California, poo, Martin Luther King Jr., and sexual innuendos.” The last one concerned her, but I said, “Wow, Drake can spell ‘innuendo’?”
5
MY PERSONAL STYLIST
I adore Vera Wang. She is over sixty, looks amazing, has hair to her waist, and is a size 0. I was positively vibrating when I saw that she was going to be an interview guest on the show. A couple of weeks before she was scheduled to come to the studio, Tom, our executive producer, said, “Hey, give your dress sizes to Deb, because Vera wants to give you and Sarah Colonna some dresses to wear on the round table.”
I waited for Deb to follow up and, so un-Vera of me, I simply forgot about it. I never handed over my size info.
A few days later we had a fire drill that brought us to the parking lot. Tom said to me, “Why didn’t you ever give Deb your measurements? They’re sending a bunch of stuff to Sarah.”
It was one of the worst days of my life. I ran up to Deb and said, “I’m so sorry I forgot! I’m a four . . . can you relay that to Vera’s people?”
Deb said, “It’s a little late now. I mean, next week’s the Oscars. I’m sure she’s busy.”
I said, “OK. Well, see what you can do.”
Deb promised she would call Vera’s publicist the next day.
A couple of hours later as I was making copies of a script for a sketch outside of Sarah’s office, I heard her say on the phone, “Joe, just open the box . . . . Are there four dresses in there? I can’t wait to see them when I get home tonight.”
Sarah hung up the phone and I asked her, “Did the Vera Wang dresses get sent to your house?”
She replied, “Yeah. Joe says there are also three pairs of shoes. I’m so happy because now I definitely have something to wear to the E! after-party that we’re hosting post-Oscars.”
I thought I was going to throw up. Why hadn’t I given Deb my measurements? Maybe it was karma paying me back for the day I lied and called in and said I couldn’t make it to work because my sewer pipe broke and I was drowning in feces.
Later I went into Chelsea’s office, and on her computer screen was a photo of her on a red carpet. I said, “Wow, that’s a cute dress.” It was navy-blue satin, strapless, and fitted. She said, “Oh, it’s Vera Wang.”
I said, “Oh my God, you’re making me sicker.” Then I told Chelsea the story. I did bag on Deb for her failure to remind me, even though it was my fault entirely.
Chelsea was like, “Well, it’s not great.”
It was now a few days before the Oscars, and I had no time to go to Bloomingdale’s and look for a dress. So when I realized that I’d missed out on a figure-flattering, age-appropriate dress and Sarah was all set with her outfit, it just made me sick. The next day, the Thursday before the Sunday Oscars, Deb stopped me in the hallway and said she spoke to Vera’s people and there was a chance, but only a slight chance, that she might be able to get some dresses to me.
I couldn’t thank Deb enough. I was ecstatic. Just like Disney, Vera Wang dreams do come true!
A couple of hours later
I was watching a clip that we were considering putting in the show, and Deb came running in. “Heather, Vera Wang is on my phone right now and wants to talk to you.”
I jumped up and ran back with her to her office. Deb said, “Here, come sit on my exercise ball and talk into the speakerphone.” Deb pressed the button and said, “Vera, I have Heather here for you.”
I heard in a slightly affected Upper East Side accent with a little British thrown in, “Hello, Heather.”
I said, “Hello, Vera. It’s so nice to speak with you.”
Vera said, “I hear you need a dress for the Oscars.”
I replied, “Well, yes, but I’m not going to the Oscars. I’m just doing a little TV hosting gig on E!”
She said, “Oh,” and sounded a little bit disappointed. I mean, I have a good career, but I’m not exactly in the Oscar-presenter league.
“I really just need a cocktail dress,” I said. “Knee-length is fine. I loved the navy dress of yours that Chelsea wore the other night.”
She asked me if my figure was like Chelsea’s.
I said, “Well, we’re both a size four, but she’s a more athletic build. I have bonier arms and legs.”
She said, “Would you say your figure is like Angelina Jolie’s?”
I was taken aback. I said, “Well, I’m not that slim, and I don’t have tattoos. I like strapless, but not when it’s so tight against the skin where you get a vagina-armpit look.” I said this with a girly giggle, hoping we would bond, but Vera was silent. And I thought, Hmm. Vera doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.
Vera then said, “What’s your red-carpet style?”
I replied, “I’m pretty put-together.”
Vera said in a bit of a huff, “I’m trying to get a sense of who you are. What kind of animal would you be on the red carpet?”
I had to think about that one. And finally I confided in Vera, “I’m really not into animals. I’m definitely not a cougar, maybe a giraffe?”
She asked, “Are you available in the next hour? Because I can send my assistant over to fit you.”
I said, “Oh, of course, I’ll be here,” as I mouthed to Deb, This is so amazing!
Vera then said, “All I ask is that you agree to go on our website in the dresses.”
I said, “Vera, my pleasure. I love websites!”
She said, “OK. I’ll send my assistant over with two dresses, and whichever one you don’t wear to the Oscars you can keep and wear another time and go up on our website for that one too. All I need from you right now is a credit card. The total will be thirteen thousand dollars.”
For a moment I thought she was joking, but then I remembered she had no sense of humor.
My Vera dreams came to a bitter crash. How could she think I could afford $13,000? I work for E!
I said, “I’m sorry, I can’t afford that.”
She was like “Oh,” and right then a camera crew came into the office, followed by all the Chelsea writers and Tom, our executive producer. Everybody was laughing at me and then they brought in Sarah Colonna and said, “Meet Vera.” It was a total prank, from the start. They had little cameras hidden all over Deb’s office.
My only retort was “So I still don’t have a dress to wear to the Oscar party?”
That night instead of being fitted by Vera’s apprentice, the nice saleswoman at Nordstrom rang me up for a silver beaded cocktail dress that was $12,800 cheaper than “Vera’s.”
6
PLAYMATE MOM OF THE YEAR
I first met Nala back in 2006 outside of Drake’s and Brandon’s preschool. She was a natural brunette mom close to my age with olive skin and green eyes. I knew her kids, but she was kind of a mystery, she had two full-time nannies who brought her twins to school and to Mass on Sundays. But when I did finally run in to her, we instantly hit it off because she wanted to talk about my favorite subject—me possibly selling her house. I had been working in residential real estate since I was twenty to supplement my occasional auditions for a guest spot on a sitcom. It’s a great business for moms because you can make your own hours, and it enables you to be with your kids a lot. Nala and I exchanged phone numbers and when I got her address I immediately looked it up. It was a very large house for the neighborhood and she had said she wanted to get something smaller. Great, I thought. That meant potentially two sales.
That night I called her to set up an appointment to take a closer look at her house and discuss what I thought she should list it for. Within the first minutes of the conversation she really opened up and was quite amazing to talk to. She told me how when she was twenty-one she was actually in Playboy. I mentioned how I used to go to the mansion parties but once I got married and asked to bring my husband, they said no, and then stopped sending me invitations. Nala said how she and her husband still go all the time and she could get Peter and I both in as her guests. I guess spreading it all for Playboy has its privileges. She had met Ron, an investment banker, five years earlier and they got married after dating for just a few months. Ron was twenty-four years older than Nala. We must have talked for three hours that first night. We discovered that we hung out at all the same hot spots back in the day, and even had partied with several of the same Hollywood fixtures. However, I guessed that I had ended up in my own bed far more often than she had. I kept trying to get back to the selling of her house, but she didn’t really want to talk about it. In fact, she said, “Let’s have a playdate first with the kids. Come over at one p.m. on Tuesday with Drake. He can play with the twins, and you can see the house, and we can get to know each other better before we get into all the business stuff.” Perfect, I thought. Tuesdays were the day I had help, so I decided to leave Brandon with the nanny and have my playdate/business meeting.
When Drake and I arrived on Tuesday, a cute girl in her twenties, who was one of Nala’s nannies, came out to greet us. She was very nice and welcomed us in. After about fifteen minutes of no Nala I asked, “Is Nala here?”
“No,” replied the nanny, “but she said she’s on her way.” After an hour of being Nala-less, I started to get annoyed. I didn’t go there to hang out with a twenty-year-old nanny. I could have left Drake with Brandon and our nanny, the one I was paying, and actually gotten some work done. Once it got to be three p.m. and Drake was getting a little cranky, I said, “Well, we’re going to get going.” As I was driving out of her cul-de-sac, Nala was coming in. She rolled down her window to talk and said, “Hey, girl, where ya going?”
“Oh, Drake is tired,” I said.
“Sorry I’m late, but I ran into this guy who used to go to my gym and he really needed to talk.” If it weren’t for a potential commission, I would have never spoken to her again. A guy who used to go to her gym? What the fuck kind of excuse was that? It was so rude. But I put a nice smile on my face and told her how beautiful I thought her home was.
A few days later, I called Nala in an attempt to have a meeting with her husband about listing their house. Somehow that conversation turned into a girls’ night at the Mexican restaurant down the street from her house. She encouraged me to invite my friends, so I invited Liz and my other best friend Tara. The plan was that I’d pick Nala up at her home and then we’d meet Tara and Liz at the restaurant at 7:30. At 7:15 I rang her bell. I was pretty excited to go out. I had lost almost all the baby weight and was wearing a new black dress. Her husband opened the door. He definitely looked well into his sixties and not particularly attractive, but he was very nice. He said, “Nala’s getting ready. Here, I’ll show you to her room.” We passed what was clearly the master bedroom and he pointed to another room and said, “Nala, your friend Heather is here.” I walked in and there she was, going through a pile of clothes unable to decide what to wear. This bedroom looked just like what you used to see on E!’s The Girls Next Door where Hugh Hefner’s three twentysomething playmate girlfriends each had her own pink bedroom for the nights that Hugh was too tired to take his Viagra. Nala’s bedroom had pink walls, a big flat-screen
TV, a Hello Kitty bedspread, a pink princess phone, and tons of photos of just Nala and her girlfriends looking their best on a night out, but not one photo of her husband or her kids.
By 7:40 I said, “Nala, we were supposed to be at the restaurant ten minutes ago.” She said, “All right, let me just decide on what corset to wear. She chose one with hot-pink roses on it and I had to lace her back up. I felt like I was a lady-in-waiting for Marie Antoinette. She then proceeded to put on a fake ponytail and fake eyelashes, and placed her lip gloss in her crystal-encrusted Hello Kitty clutch. Just as we were about to leave, she said, “Shit, I need money. Daddy, Daddy, I need money.” She walked into her husband’s bedroom and he met us near the door with a wad of cash.
“How much do you need?”
“A lot. I want to treat the girls,” she said.
“No, you don’t have to do that,” I said.
She brushed me off and took three hundred-dollar bills. We were going to eat Mexican food, where even the steak wasn’t more than sixteen, and chips were two bucks.
At the restaurant Nala was very sweet to Liz and Tara, but they were a little put off when she talked about her dream to remarry her husband at the Hello Kitty headquarters in Japan. She ordered a triple Patrón strawberry margarita. First of all, who puts Patrón in a strawberry margarita and then makes it a triple? When her drink arrived, she took one sip of it and asked the waiter for another shot of silver Patrón. I swear I could smell the Patrón through the blended strawberries. Before I realized that Nala hadn’t had one bite of her chicken tostada, she ordered another four-shot silver Patrón strawberry margarita. Liz and Tara didn’t seem to mind. They enjoyed hearing about the grotto at the Playboy mansion and were fascinated by Nala’s mention of having an IQ of 175. I never really understood how IQs worked, but this would be like if Stephen Hawking had a baby with Einstein. It apparently doesn’t help with how well you handle your alcohol, because Nala was getting bombed. She kept saying, “I’m drinking my dinner tonight.”
My Inappropriate Life Page 4
