My Inappropriate Life

by Heather McDonald

  As the night went on, Nala started making googly eyes at a man who had to be well into his seventies sitting alone at the table across from us. After a few minutes of this, she went over and joined him. Tara and Liz were ready to call it a night, so I went over to Nala and the senior citizen and told her as much. Nala introduced me to him and I shook his liver-spotted hand. Just then the waiter came to me with the bill. Nala leaped up and grabbed it from my hand, saying, “No, no, no.” Then she coyly handed it to the old man and said, “Didn’t you say you were going to get this, Daddy?” I was shocked, not that she now had two daddies, but that this brand-new daddy, without a word, actually put his card down and handed the bill back to the waiter. After the bill was paid, Nala got up from the old man’s table and sat back down at our table, totally ignoring him while calling someone on her Hello Kitty–bedazzled cell phone. She put it on speaker and before the person picked up she asked us, “Who is up for going to Jack Nicholson’s house tonight? He should be back from the Lakers game by now.” Before any of us could answer we heard a man’s voice say, “Hello, Nala.” The second I heard it, I imagined Jack Nicholson in his famous black Ray-Ban sunglasses talking on his phone. Nala continued, “Jack, I got some gorgeous, hot young women with me who want to come over tonight. Can you tell Damon at the gate to let us in?” Gorgeous, hot, and young; that was stretching it more than the stretch marks still visible on my stomach and upper thighs. All four of us were over thirty-five, which is still young compared to sixty-seven-year-old Jack, but I doubt he’d be expecting us to drive up in our SUVs equipped with multiple car seats. “Anything for you, Nala,” the man said in Jack voice. “OK, Daddy, we’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Another daddy? I thought. Who doesn’t she call Daddy? Something told me she most likely didn’t have a real daddy. Nala then excused herself to go to the restroom. Liz tried to convince us to go, since it was clearly a once-in-a-lifetime chance to meet the star. I argued that he’d be expecting more than preschool conversation from us, which would then lead to an awkward scene of him lounging around watching TV while we tried to convince Nala to leave. I said to Liz, “Besides, what am I supposed to tell her husband if she doesn’t leave with me? ‘Sorry, after our innocent Mexican food we went to Jack Nicholson’s house and Nala decided to take a nap there. See you at school. By the way, can I list your house?’ No, we are not going, and I’m going to insist on taking her home.”

  When she came back from the restroom, she stopped a waitress and asked for another strawberry margarita with four shots of Patrón. The manager, seeing how wasted Nala was, intervened and said, “I’m sorry, miss, but I think you’ve had enough.” I joined in and said, “Yes, we’re leaving, thanks.” Then Nala slurred, “Why won’t you serve me? Is it because I’m Mexican? That is blatant discrimination, and I’m going to sue.” This was the first I was hearing that she was of Mexican descent, and the Mexican manager of the Mexican restaurant was dumbfounded. “Come on, Nala, we’re leaving,” I said as I grabbed the laces of her corset to help hold her up and pushed her outside. As we walked to the valet I whispered to Tara and Liz not to even mention Jack Nicholson, because I was pretty confident she didn’t even remember calling him (assuming, of course, that she even had), and if I could just pour her into my passenger’s seat, within a matter of minutes I’d be at her front door and be rid of her.

  The next day, Nala called me and told me how she totally threw up into her Hello Kitty toilet and apologized for getting so drunk. I said to her, “Don’t worry, it happens to all of us. So when can you, your husband, and I meet so we can go over the comparable sales in your area? I’d love to share all the research I’ve done for you.” I said it in my best Realtor-lady voice.

  “Oh, I got the twins’ birthday party this weekend, but after that we’ll do it. You guys are coming, right?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course, we wouldn’t miss it,” I said. (I still sincerely wanted to be her friend and not just sell her house.) “See you at one on Sunday.”

  The day of the party, Peter, the kids, and I arrived on time and were greeted by Nala’s husband, Ron, and all three of her rotating nannies.

  Nala was not there, but as more parents arrived and asked where she was they were told that she was finishing getting ready. Soon we were an hour and a half in and still no Nala. I started to feel sorry for Ron and tried to go along with the idea that it was normal for a mother to miss most of her twins’ fourth birthday party that was being held in her living room while she was in her bedroom. The nannies then led us out to the yard, where a large Dora the Explorer piñata was hanging from a tree.

  As the first child was being blindfolded to hit the piñata of Dora (let me say here that I don’t think it’s a great choice for children to see a four-year-old girl hanging from a tree and then bleeding out candy after being beaten with a bat by other children). I looked around and saw an older gentleman whom I recognized as a very successful record producer, a man well into his sixties. I knew this because when I was twenty-six years old, I had been on two very uncomfortable dates with him. Back then, my friend Lily was a practicing gold digger and she forced me to join her and her fifty-seven-year-old ear, nose, and throat doctor boyfriend to a charity event, where I was set up with the record producer. He was at the twins’ birthday party alone. I had no interest in telling Peter how I used to date for meals, so I did what any other married mother of three would do: I hid behind the Dora the Explorer piñata and avoided eye contact.

  Nala finally emerged from her bedroom looking quite well, wearing a T-shirt that read SHIT HAPPENS and a hot-pink tutu. Just as the nannies were handing out the goody bags. She came up to me and said hi and acted as though she hadn’t missed the entire party. I just went along with it and thanked her for inviting us.

  That night Nala called to tell me the old record producer, Gary, totally remembered me but didn’t want to say anything in front of Peter. She went on to say that she and Gary had been friends since back in the day when they used to date. It was Gary who introduced her to Ron. I had to give both men some props for being so mature and remaining friends all these years. I then attempted to make yet another appointment to discuss the listing of her home by saying, “When shall we meet about getting your home on the market? Right now inventory is low, so your home is sure to get a lot of attention.” Nala responded with, “Girl, I know. What’s up with Britney Spears these days?” And somehow I ended up with plans to go to a hot new restaurant in Beverly Hills with Nala the following Tuesday night.

  Once again, I offered to drive us because I knew I could stay sober enough to get us home. As she was putting on a diamond-encrusted Hello Kitty pendant, Ron came up to her and asked, “Do you need any money?” This time, however, she replied, “No, honey, Gary is paying.” What? Gary the old record producer is coming?

  I didn’t say anything until Nala and I were alone in the car, and then I freaked out. “Nala, why didn’t you tell me you invited Gary?”

  “Because I didn’t. He invited us tonight. He said you looked great at the party and really wanted to have dinner.”

  Well, this was going to be awkward. What would we even talk about? What’s happened in the world since 1997 when we saw each other last or if he’s had any hips replaced.

  “It will be fun and he’ll pay for everything,” she said.

  I replied, “But I’m married and I own a home and have a job and a savings account. I don’t need to go out with men I’m not interested in anymore just to get fed. That is the main benefit of being thirty-five and not twenty-six.” But Nala just laughed and reapplied her lip liner in my vanity mirror.

  When we got to the restaurant, Gary and a young guy around twenty-five were already seated at our table of four. Before we could even sit down, Nala ordered a strawberry daiquiri with only one extra shot of rum. Encouraged by this unexpected sign of restraint, I tried to be optimistic about the evening ahead. But by the time the appetizers arrived Nala was getting drunk and very argumentative with Gary.
I thought longingly about the bottle of Chardonnay I could be drinking on my couch, but started asking the twenty-five-year-old guy a bunch of questions. It turned out he was an actor and a Scientologist. Well, at least now I could finally get some answers about Suri Cruise and figure out what makes that little fashionista tick. Somewhere in between him answering questions about L. Ron Hubbard, the idea of a silent birth, and Suri’s innate talent for choosing fabrics, I realized that Nala had been in the bathroom for an awfully long time.

  Gary told me more than a few times how great I looked, and I told him I was happily married. Soon a waitress gently tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Your friend has been in the bathroom for a really long time and it is the only women’s room available. Could you please check on her?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, and I excused myself. As I got up to the second floor of the restaurant where the restrooms were, I saw at least six irritated women waiting in line. I don’t know why a big restaurant like that one had only one toilet for the women, but it did. I knocked on the door and said, “Nala, it’s me, Heather, open up.”

  “I’ll be right out,” she said. Nala then opened the door and the stench of regurgitated strawberries and rum was so overwhelming, I almost puked myself. As we headed down the stairs I heard a woman say to another, “Disgusting. We need a janitor in here, stat.”

  When we were at the valet, Nala said to me, “Gary is going to take me home.” At that point I didn’t try to fight it. I just wanted to get home to my real husband.

  The next day Nala called me and apologized for getting so drunk. “I don’t understand. First the Mexican restaurant and then last night. What is going on?” I asked with concern.

  “Well, I’m an alcoholic. I thought you knew that,” she said matter-of-factly.

  That night when I went to bed I started adding up the pros and cons of our friendship. The pros were her amazing Hello Kitty collection, which my stepdaughter, Mackenzie, who was eight years old at the time, was a huge fan of. And then there was that damned house that I was salivating to list and get a commission to refinance our roof. Gosh, I thought, maybe we could even get a solar one. People are shocked by the fact that I’m actually green and that I mulch. The other pro was more for Peter, and I felt it would be a great New Year’s Eve gift for him. Nala had said she could get us both invited to the Playboy mansion for their annual ball. Still, we had been warned it wasn’t like the good old days. Nala’s husband, Ron, told us, “Got to tell you about something just in case you’re thinking of it. There are lots of security cameras throughout the mansion now, so you can’t just sneak off to a room with another couple and do your business like Nala likes to do.”

  Ugh. I am grossed out by swingers because the only ones ever featured on documentaries about the subject are old hipsters with aging balls. I simply would never want to join that foursome. Also, what if you were to see them in the drop-off lane at school? How could you admit that you still had their thong and their casserole dish that they left behind the night before? “The four of us have to do it again. I really enjoyed having your husband’s penis up my ass.”

  But back to my friendship with Nala, there was more than just that one negative. In fact, I started to make a list and found myself jotting things down like a court reporter at Michael Jackson’s wrongful-death trial with Dr. Conrad Murray and all the reasons that he should never be allowed to practice medicine again.

  My just-slutty-enough-for-a-mother-of-three Halloween costume with my family.

  Two things came back to me from other mothers who had met Nala at a Halloween slash Drake’s birthday party I threw. One was while we were all trick-or-treating, an older woman who lives on our street said to Nala, who was dressed like a colorful and sexy Carmen Miranda (she had bought her costume at Trashy Lingerie), “Oh, don’t you look spiffy!”

  Nala quickly responded, “Did you just call me a spic, ho? Because I’ll go real Mexican on your ass.”

  Back at the house, my other friend was horrified when her three-year-old picked up what she thought was a candy from a Pez dispenser. Nala reached over and said, “Oh no, no, no, baby girl. This is one of my Oxycontins. This is my kind of candy.”

  And then there was my own list of her past activities that I didn’t quite admire in a friend. At thirty-five, if I’m going to be cleaning up puke, it’s going to be my own children’s, not an aging Playmate’s. So I told Peter I needed an out with this friendship. I told him to screen her calls and hoped she would get the message.

  For a year she didn’t get it, and I would text her back with one-sentence answers explaining how busy I was. Unless I was Ryan Seacrest juggling seventeen shows and a radio gig, did she really think I was that busy? Meanwhile, throughout the year I would frequently drive by her house to make sure that there wasn’t a For Sale sign on her lawn. In my Realtor blood, I knew if that one went on the market it would kill pieces of my heart.

  A week before the next Halloween, Nala texted me that she’d dropped off a gift and balloons for Drake for his birthday and asked if we’d be celebrating the occasion like we did last year. I was stumped. She just really didn’t get it. I texted back, “No, we’re not having a party this year, I’m just too busy.”

  Nala texted back, “Oh well, we enjoyed trick or treating in your neighborhood last year so much, the kids want to go back so we’ll see you on your street on Halloween night! Xo, Nala.”

  Shit. I was having a party, and she would see it. How could I explain myself to her? I finally manned-up and decided to tell her the truth. What can I say? Thank God for texting, or else I’d have had to actually call. I sent her a message stating, “I don’t think it’s a good idea that you trick-or-treat in my neighborhood because you accused my elderly neighbor of calling you a spic which she did not, and also your grown-up ‘candy’ might get mixed up with the Sweet Tarts.”

  I felt pretty good about my honesty and the whole situation until I received her text and read “I just got done talking to Ron that we finally wanted to list our house November first with you. But I guess we’ll have to go with Stephanie Marks from Coldwell Banker. Obviously you’re just too busy to give us the attention that our property needs.” Upon seeing this message I decided to do the Christian thing: I wished Nala the best and prayed that Stephanie Marks wasn’t allergic to strawberry margaritas or cats that resemble Hello Kitty.

  7

  ONE NIPPLE OUT THE DOOR

  The plan was always for me to be a breastfeeding mother, and while I was pregnant with my first son, Drake, I took all the prenatal classes including a special one on how to breastfeed. My mother had breastfed all of her children except for me. A week after I was born, my mom insisted on driving her car-pool days because, in her words, “I didn’t want to owe anyone anything.” She was so exhausted that she fell asleep at the wheel and crashed the car. Thank God all the kids were fine; however my brother’s hamster died, which wasn’t that tragic since no one even knew he had a pet. My mother’s nose was broken and she had to spend time in the hospital and her milk dried up, so I was only breastfed for that one week.

  As I pushed Drake out, the first thing the doctor said was, “Oh we got a cone head on our hands, get the cap before she sees him.” But it was too late. I saw his little scrunched-up face crying and his pointy head, due to being pushed out of my obviously super-tiny and extremely tight vagina. I only bring this up because I’m sick of everyone thinking that those of us who give birth the traditional way have big vaginas compared to their C-section sisters. The nurse put a little cap on him and Drake’s head was a normal shape by the next day. I put him on my breasts constantly for the next forty-eight hours and it would soothe him for a little, but he kept crying. He had lost six ounces because he wasn’t getting any milk in him, and he was very cranky. The La Leche League, a group of women who help mothers with breastfeeding, came to see me and told me they were concerned that Drake wasn’t getting enough milk and sent me home with an electric machine to pump my breasts.
About two weeks before I gave birth to Drake, I was watching Oprah. The episode was about how for the first time ever mothers were going to talk about how they hated being mothers. I watched and listened intently and I found the common denominator that made these women so miserable was that they all had very difficult and painful breastfeeding experiences.

  That night we put the machine on both my huge nipples at the same time so we could fill a bottle with my milk and see if Drake would at least take a bottle, but after pumping for ten minutes, nothing came out and I was crying in excruciating pain. Peter kept asking if we could just give him one of the Similac bottles that the hospital had given us for free, but I cried, “No, then he’ll never want my boob because it won’t taste the same.” Finally after a few more hours of him crying (and by him I mean Peter), I gave in and said, “OK, give me the bottle of Similac. Let me try.” The minute Drake’s lips touched the bottle’s artificial nipple, he was sucking like crazy. I had to pull it away so he could digest it. It was as if he’d just been released from Auschwitz, he was so famished.

  That night, my mother-in-law, who was helping us, woke me up at two a.m. and said, “Drake is hungry, do you want to try to breastfeed him again?” I said, “No, please give him the bottle.” And I then went back to sleep. It was such a great feeling knowing that he had four ounces, or two ounces, or whatever. I just loved knowing that he was eating. I know the Le Leche League will hate me for giving up after only three days, but I believe it is still a mother’s choice, and I don’t believe that a child is so much better off drinking breast milk than one of the wonderful formulas out there. That’s like me insisting that all margaritas be made with Patrón tequila. Is that really fair to Jose Cuervo?