“You sound like a dog breeder.”
She sighed. “You’ve violated the Eco-Chain. Again. I assure you, Andre will give you nothing but classic Relationship Terrorism: bad sex, passive-aggressive behavior, and verbal warfare.”
It was an interesting perspective.
But after putting up with the Bohemian antics of Lucius longer than was humanly possible, I thought, “Why not?”
The revenge techniques on an attractive mate differ between the sexes. From women, it’s nothing but: “Do you think she’s attractive?” “I bet you wish you were with her,” and “You don’t want to sleep with me because I’m fat.”
In addition, the less attractive woman may increase the revenge principal by keeping the couple (if sharing expenses) consistently in debt by spending 110 percent more per year than the couple earns, sabotaging the occasional career plan or goal of the mate, or the ultimate: having an in-your-face affair or two with a complete loser, just to show him that someone finds her attractive.
However, Andre’s revenge techniques were the classic male pattern. His intention was to make me believe that I was a mess. The dismantling took the route of a million small criticisms.
Did I know that I spoke too loudly? He began shushing me whenever he thought I was being too loud.
Then I walked too slowly. He started timing me—to the second—when we went grocery shopping to see how long it took me to get the milk and bring it to our cart.
Did I know that I would get a much better result if I wrote from my arm, and not from my hand? He tried to give me handwriting lessons.
And I never quite mastered his wine tasting techniques.
“Pour, look, swirl, smell, taste. Pour, look, swirl, smell, taste,” he yelled at me. Unfortunately, my technique was pour, drink.
Of course the sex was a disaster. I was blamed for his sweaty anxiety and general inability to perform.
“You’re just coarse and insensitive to my needs,” said Andre.
“What would you like me do?” I asked. “Dress up like a glazed donut?”
Three months after we got together, he walked into the living room and threw a sponge at me as I was preparing for my Real Property final with my study group.
“Jesus,” he said, “can’t you see that this is dirty?”
Six weeks later, he dropped a box with four glasses in it on the bathroom floor as I was dashing to an interview.
“THESE HAVE SPOTS ON THEM!” he screamed.
I should’ve seen the signs. He started examining my nails in front of friends. “Look at these!” he’d say with disgust. I think I knew things had gone too far when he threw out half of my wardrobe one day while I was in class.
“It’s time someone taught you how to dress,” he said.
But here he was, at Jennifer’s party. It was another chance to hear his opinion on everything.
I turned around, went back upstairs, and found Byron.
“You look stressed out,” said Byron. “Why don’t I give you a massage?”
“OK,” I said.
We walked into Jennifer’s freshly painted bedroom and closed the door. Fifteen minutes later the door flew open.
“Oh,” said a familiar voice, “there she is.”
Byron pulled himself off me. He was naked. My dress was wrapped around my neck.
Andre, Karen, and Susan stood there staring.
We attempted to take cover under a comforter. Just then, Jennifer walked by, did a double-take, and starting whooping with laughter.
“Let’s go,” said Andre. Karen and Susan walked out of the room. Andre started walking out of the room. He stopped at the door and turned around.
“You haven’t changed. You still have a taste for that pretty boy crap,” said Andre.
Byron put his clothes back on. I rearranged myself. He promised to take me windsurfing in Santa Cruz in the morning.
I went to get some water and found Jennifer shaking a martini.
She couldn’t stop laughing.
“At least you didn’t dilute your gene pool.”
“I see you’ve been talking to Marcie.”
“Well, you know Marcie,” said Jennifer, “she may be insane, but she’s not wrong.”
“I think Andre got what he truly wanted: San Francisco Civilian Royalty. I hear that she’s very nice,” I said.
“Your marriage would have been horrible,” said Jennifer.
My head hurt and I felt awful. “Does that even matter anymore?” I said.
Jennifer put her arm round me. “Don’t do this,” she said.
“Do what? All I know is that Andre is married and seems happy. And I’m still floating through the L.A. Eco-Chain, make that cesspool, of dating. And alone,” I said, and then covered my eyes with my hands. “Still alone.”
From across the room, I could see Andre opening the wine he had brought to the party. He poured a third of a glass, looked at it, swirled it, smelled it, and then tasted it. He poured another third of a glass and gave it to Karen. Karen glanced around the room and… did she sigh? She then picked up the glass, looked at it, swirled, smelled it, and then tasted the wine as Andre nodded his head.
I’m sure it was an excellent French Burgundy.
8
Revisionist History
Marcie called me with an unusual request. She wanted to borrow my wedding dress, the one I had bought for my wedding to Andre.
Marcie was five foot one. I was five foot ten.
“Well, if we were closer in size, it might be OK. But if I give it to you, I’m never going to be able to wear it,” I said.
“So what,” said Marcie. “At least I’ll put it to good use. No one thinks you’re ever going to use it.”
I thought about it.
“No,” I said.
“But I really need it,” she pleaded.
“I’ll be honest with you. For whatever reason, your request really pisses me off.”
I heard Marcie sigh. “Won’t you consider it? I really need it.”
“I did consider it, Marcie. And the answer is no.”
“God, you’re selfish,” she said and hung up before I could answer.
One day later, I got a call from Bettina, Marcie’s matron of honor.
“So the wedding dress…” said Bettina.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“You really should do more to help her,” said Bettina. “It’s not every day that your friend gets married.”
“Uh huh.”
“This is a good thing,” said Bettina, “because at least someone will use that dress.”
“Funny,” I said. “Since I paid for it, I was planning on wearing it.”
“You know, I think you’re forgetting how much she needs this dress,” said Bettina. “And you know how much this means to her.”
How could I forget.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t just about Marcie becoming a bride. That would have been fine and I could have played along, doing those fake bride-friend type things like telling her that her butt didn’t look too big in the dress and pretending to like the groom. For Marcie, this was about her finally reaching her life-long goal: Marrying into L.A.’s Civilian Class Royalty and becoming part of that unique group of L.A. women who: (1) married well, (2) never again had to work, and (3) staffed the volunteer committees of L.A.’s most exclusive private schools.
But there was a problem. Marcie, like every socially ambitious resident of Los Angeles, wanted to have “The L.A. Wedding.” This meant: (1) a wedding at the Bel Air Hotel with those damn swans that always managed to swim in formation, on cue; (2) a designer dress, maybe a Vera Wang; (3) a sit-down dinner for more people than you could remember; (4) a string quartet to play at the wedding and the reception; (5) $100,000 for flowers (at least); (6) the $15,000 wedding cake; (7) hand-engraved invitations; and, (7) high-end photographers and videographers. The price tag for this event could get to the upper-six figures quite quickly. For a five-hour party.
Well, it wa
sn’t just that Marcie wanted this. Marcie thought that if she was going to become part of L.A.’s Civilian Class Royalty she needed the L.A. Wedding. And Marcie and her parents couldn’t afford it.
Not long after my conversation with Bettina came the call I had seen coming from the moment I heard she was engaged.
As it was, I had spent years trying to play down my first career, that of a classical violinist. The way I looked at it, my experience as a musician had been a long journey in the wrong direction for someone from my profoundly non-musical background.
It had started when I was in fourth grade, when my elementary school offered violin. I decided that this would be fun. I quickly discovered that practicing equaled improving. One day I was a kid who couldn’t open her violin case. Not long after that, people were paying me to play at their weddings and parties. When I was twelve this was fun and I thought that I was special. When I was 22, after countless hours of practice, years of very expensive music lessons, and thousands spent for music programs in Aspen and Banff, I had a revelation: The thousands which my mother had paid for my musical education had trained me for a career in the serving class.
I had grown used to wearing a uniform that consisted of a black skirt with a white blouse. It no longer bothered me that I was to enter through the back door or that I was to be unseen, like the rest of the serving crew. But then some mother put her diapered two-year-old in front of us so that he would dance, and then clapped while we played a mid-Beethoven String Quartet while he jumped up and down. And then the bride asked us to play their special song and I suddenly realized that we, with our combined 80 years of musical training, were going to play The Pachelbel Canon for the 67th time that wedding season.
And then I knew: I couldn’t do this anymore. I realized that I could slip into middle-age and despite years of training and effort I would merely be part of the background noise, something which you know is there but try to ignore, like the clean-up crew or housekeepers. And my 20 years of very expensive professional training had prepared me to be a member of the unseen serving class.
So when I took the Law School Entrance Exam and got a pretty decent score I thought it was better to become an attorney and join a profession where you’re despised rather than pitied. I stopped playing at weddings, even when asked by friends, because I discovered that weddings were a lot more fun to attend than to work.
But that wasn’t going to stop Marcie. As it was, Marcie’s call came two weeks after I expected it.
“I was wondering if you had any other thoughts about your wedding dress,” said Marcie.
“No, I haven’t,” I said.
“Well, it’s really important to me that you’re somehow represented in my wedding.”
“That’s so touching.”
“Greg and I were wondering if maybe you would like to play at our wedding.”
“I haven’t played at a wedding in almost ten years.”
“I’m sure if you practiced no one would notice.”
“What makes you think your friends and family would know the difference?”
“They would notice. I’m sure you know that my family is very proper,” she said.
Properly Nuevo Dinero.
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Well, think about it, maybe you could start playing at weddings again,” she said.
I sighed. “I’m an attorney, Marcie. Why would I want to play at weddings?”
“I’m getting another call so…”
My line went dead.
And five minutes later on my cell, “You won’t even play at her wedding?” said Bettina. “What’s wrong with you? You played at mine.”
“I don’t do that anymore. It’s degrading.”
“What are you talking about? No one would even notice you,” said Bettina.
“That’s right,” I said. “They wouldn’t notice me until I tried to walk in the front door and then the wedding coordinator would yell, ‘The musicians come in the back door!’ When I try to sit down with you, the caterer will grab me by the elbow and escort me to a table in the garage.”
“Look,” said Bettina, “I’ll be honest with you. Marcie is way over-budget.”
“Really,” I said. “Why doesn’t she just elope?”
“Why should Marcie have anything less than the wedding she’s always dreamed of?”
“Because she can’t afford it?”
“Why should that stop her?” said Bettina.
Why, indeed.
Marcie, Bettina, and I had a unique relationship which congealed the day that Marcie met Bettina in our dorm room at art school. I was making lunch for Marcie, who had come to visit, when Bettina walked into the room while I was cutting Velveeta to put into an omelet for our lunch. Bettina saw the Velveeta and then eyed Marcie.
“You’re not going to give her that, are you?” said Bettina.
“Oh my God,” said Marcie, “that’s not even cheese.”
“That’s what I tell her all the time,” said Bettina.
“Thank God you’re here,” said Marcie, “and what about her dishes? They don’t even match!”
“I know,” said Bettina, “the first thing I did when I got here was buy a matching set.”
“For what,” I said, “so you could smash them in some feminist performance piece?”
They both looked at me, then looked at each other.
“You just need to show her what to do,” said Marcie.
“That’s what I’ve been doing,” said Bettina.
I rolled my eyes.
“Me too,” said Marcie, “since we were in elementary school.”
It was at that moment that I began to understand that Marcie was beginning her personal revisionist history, a transformation which would change her, Marcie (short for Marsha), a middle-class girl from Northridge who liked Shaun Cassidy, Hostess Ding-Dongs, and pink leggings, to Mar-cee (pronounced Mar-SEE), a preppie from South Pasadena who liked dressage, gin, and nothing but 100 percent cotton. She also became a self-appointed expert—on everything. There was nothing preppie, or to be honest, remotely upper class, about the Marcie I knew. I first met her at age 11 when her family moved to our extremely non-preppie neighborhood from Northridge, California. She, like me, went to public schools from kindergarten through high school and lived in a 3-bedroom, 1.5-bathroom, 1300-square-foot house, with a sister, a mother, and a father who worked as an accountant and drove a late model Ford.
But somewhere around the time that she graduated from high school a relative died and left her family some money. That’s when her parents packed everything and moved to South Pasadena. Marcie, however, never actually lived in South Pasadena, but around the time she met Bettina, Marcie had decided that South Pasadena was much more impressive than Northridge or our town. Thus the transformation to a proper South Pasadena preppie had begun, and all mention of her previous middle-class life was expunged from her official bio.
I was a little surprised that Marcie and Bettina got along so well, as Marcie represented the antithesis of everything that Bettina’s Lesbian Collective believed. But there was something about that meeting which was like watching two halves find a unified whole, as if Marcie had been separated at birth from her long lost twin, Bettina, and had finally found her.
They were both five foot one, brown-eyed, frizzy-haired, and about 35 pounds overweight. I was not part of that club.
“Small furry vicious things,” said my friend, Stefan, after meeting Bettina and Marcie at a party, “yeeech.”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “They’re nice girls.”
“Oh, Blanche,” said Stefan, “you’re not even from the same planet. In fact, I don’t think you’re from the same galaxy as those two.”
“But they’re nice girls—right?”
Stefan just looked at me, shook his head, and rolled his eyes.
Perhaps there was something comforting in seeing what was familiar to themselves. But I remembered that day as significant, as
the moment when Marcie, self-appointed expert on everything, met Bettina, her long lost twin. Their bonding point: How they should reform their problem child—me.
From that day on and over the next decade they kept in constant touch through daily emails and phone calls. Marcie would give Bettina advice for me. Bettina would report my activities to Marcie. They visited each other, shopped together, and joined the same gym, which they both mutually failed to visit. Marcie would throw Bettina a yearly surprise birthday party. Bettina, who knew Marcie hated surprises, would consult with Marcie for six weeks regarding the proper arrangements prior to the yearly formal birthday dinner that Bettina held for Marcie.
Over time they began to look like each other. One day I returned to my room to find Bettina, who never wore a bra, in a push-up bra. Her face was covered in foundation, rouge, mascara, and bright red lipstick. Her hair had been rinsed with red and cut to her chin. Her oversized men’s T-shirt and painter pants had been replaced with a tight red knit sweater and black Capri pants. Her hiking boots were gone. She was wearing heels.
This was an unusual look for a lesbian feminist who created performance art on the topic of oppressed women.
Clearly, Marcie had done one of her legendary makeovers.
“You look like Marcie,” I said.
“Oh, thank you,” said Bettina.
Both Marcie and Bettina shared the same tendency to gain weight. This caused them to vacation together, usually to the same spa boot camp—which they could not afford—where I saw the same seven pounds tortured off their bodies on a yearly basis during the last week of June. By July 15 they had usually gained back those seven pounds, as once they returned from their “vacation” half starved, a feeding frenzy of Mexican and Italian food would ensue.
By choosing to marry Greg, her boyfriend of five months, Marcie had put herself in a precarious position. She, herself, tried to pretend that she had the kind of upbringing which allowed her to think of money as an endless natural resource which she could dispose of like tap water. It was there for her to use, and such things as a credit limit—hers, her parents’, her boyfriend’s—never entered into her consciousness.
Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts Page 11
