by Jenny Mollen
“Hi, Linda! Remember me? Jenny? Three manicures and two pedicures, please.”
Linda pretended not to speak English and motioned for us to sit down. After fifteen minutes, my mom and I were seated in the giant pedicure chairs that Linda was too cheap to fix the massage features on, while John went next door for coffee.
“Two iced coffees, black!” I called out to him, vacillating between two equally cyanotic shades of OPI.
Just as I relaxed into my seat, my phone rang. It was Jason. I was excited to share the news.
“Hey, baby! Guess who we just saw walking her dog on the way here? Baz! Can you believe it?! I told my mom it was like seeing Moby Dick. I honestly haven’t seen her in forever! How wild is that? And, baby? She has a short butch haircut again.”
Jason was boarding a plane for New York, so he cut me off and told me he’d call when he landed. I told him I loved him, to have a safe flight, and that I couldn’t believe he and Baz ever dated.
My mom snuck off to the bathroom, no doubt to remove her toe jewelry before I gave her shit. As she scampered past, I glanced over at the door to see if John was back with the coffees. Standing in his place, however, was someone else. Someone who upon second glance looked a lot like Baz.
“Baaaaz!” Linda cried out, like she was being reunited with her mother, whose visa finally came through.
My mind melted into the hot water soaking my feet, and for a moment I was unable to speak.
It took a few seconds for Baz to notice me, but when she did, I preemptively blurted out a loving hello. Baz looked at me like I was Hitler raping a baby.
She paused before grunting, “Hi.”
Linda walked Baz over to the pedicure chair directly across from me, where apparently her mom was waiting for her. Baz and her mother were getting pedicures directly across from me and my mother, and I didn’t even stalk them to arrange it! I felt like maybe I was being Punk’d, but Linda and I both knew I wasn’t famous enough for that. This was my karmic payback! And Baz’s mom just overheard my entire conversation with Jason about how her daughter looked like a butch.
Now Baz was implying with her gruff hello that we were no longer on good terms. I was shocked she wasn’t more excited to see me. Who wouldn’t be thrilled to be featured in an essay for Playboy.com? Aside from the omnifarious array of nubile implants belonging to women who aren’t old enough to have seen the original 90210, it is possibly the classiest Web site there is. I felt confused, ashamed, and misunderstood. It was like I was Kelly Taylor in Season Two, made to feel it was her fault for almost getting raped because she wore a sexy costume to a Halloween party. Slightly traumatized, I tucked my face back into my cell phone and pretended to be busy.
When my mom returned, she was still talking about Baz. “Can’t believe John saw her and I didn’t! If she’s such a butch, why do you think Jason dated her for so long?”
I felt all the blood leave my face as I glanced at Baz, busted.
Speechless, I picked up my phone and texted my mom the situation. “You are never going to believe this but in a weird twist of karmic fate, Baz and her mom are sitting in the chairs across from us. The ones with the working massage features!”
My mom looked at me stunned, like Donna Martin’s mom when she found out Donna wasn’t going to graduate.
“They just put on their shades! I guess they think now we can’t see them,” my mom wrote back.
I looked up again and noticed that both women were now bedizened in giant black sunglasses that looked like they were from Nordstrom’s “Blind People” collection.
“The mom looks like she wants to kill you,” my mom wrote.
“Should I say something? Are the glasses a fashion statement or is the mother really blind?”
“I’m not above clocking a blind bitch if I have to,” she replied.
John walked back in with our iced coffees.
“Hey, girls! How’s it going? Neither of you are getting that fungus-green color, are you?”
I stared at my feet and hoped to god Baz’s toes weren’t green.
“Her toes are yellow,” my mom wrote. “But the color sort of reminds me of baby shit.”
“Everybody okay? Did I miss something? You guys didn’t drive back by that poor girl’s apartment while I was gone, did you?”
My mom whispered something under her breath, which I assume was, “Shut the fuck up, and I’ll explain later,” because within minutes, John decided he was no longer in the mood for a manicure and went outside for a walk.
Meanwhile, the two seething Lt. Comdr. Geordi La Forges were engaged in furious texting of their own. I racked my brain, trying to remember my essay word for word. Was it perhaps more offensive than I’d thought? Did she somehow misinterpret it as not being slightly tongue-in-cheek? Were there perhaps some other offenses I’d committed that I wasn’t even aware of? I didn’t understand what could have provoked such anger. The way I saw it, I’d been good to Baz. I secretly took her under my wing after my husband rejected her. I got her extra work on my assistant’s short film. (I didn’t know in advance that there was going to be nudity.) And I even sent flowers when she finally broke down and got her boobs done (hopefully not for the short film). Why was she being so mean to me?
Since she seemed engrossed in her phone, I thought the easiest way to reach out would be through text. So, from less than five feet away, I took a deep breath and shot her a message.
“Are you mad at me?”
Baz stared up at me like I was Emily Valentine just after she’d doused the West Beverly homecoming float in lighter fluid.
So I did what anyone in my situation would do … I sent another text.
“Hike Runyon this week?”
Still nothing.
“Do you have a new boyfriend yet?”
Baz grew angrier by the second and eventually shut her phone off.
Realizing she needed time, I very maturely opted out of my complimentary five-minute neck rub and got up to go. My mom also collected her things before sending me one last text.
“I’m gonna walk past them again so they can see how perky my ass is for my age. Meet you outside?”
I nodded and secretly paid both my tab and Baz’s before leaving.
When Baz and her mom didn’t call to thank me for the pedis, I realized it was really over. In an attempt to show my own shortcomings as a human, I’d accidentally humiliated her. She had hit her limit. She didn’t want to be the Andrea Zuckerman to my Brenda Walsh anymore. She didn’t want to be anything to me.
From her actions, it was clear that Baz wanted off The Jenny Show and I had no choice but to comply. So instead of something degrading and final, like scripting a scene where the character jumps off the Golden Gate Bridge holding the American Pie boxed set, I opted for the cleaner, more classic soap opera ending where she simply gets carted off to rehab holding the American Pie boxed set. You know, so she can come back for the reunion episode.
8.
Chicks Before Dicks
It took me years to learn how to be friends with girls. And to be honest, I’m still not great at it. Not because I’m one of those whores who’s desperate for male attention, but more because I’ve always feared getting close to one of those whores who’s desperate for male attention. You know, the girl who if given the opportunity would fuck your husband right in front of you. And not like, fuck his brains out twenty years from now while your lifeless ashes sit in an urn on the living room mantel, more like accidentally fall on his penis after too much wine in a hot tub while you’re asleep (because she drugged you with Benadryl) on a bench next to them. There are just women you can trust and women you can’t. As a precaution, I’ve spent the majority of my life not trusting any of them.
I’m not saying that all women will stab you in the back over a man. Some will stab you in the back for other reasons. And to be honest, it’s not completely their fault. We live in a society that propagates the notion that a successful woman is hot; has perfect teeth a
nd hair; loves giving blow jobs; drinks beer but doesn’t gain weight; has a boyfriend she isn’t sick of after two years of him not proposing; looks young enough to still get carded buying cigarettes; dresses like she works for Anna Wintour; and never looks like she’s trying as hard as she’s actually trying to be motherfucking perfect.
When you put unrealistic expectations on people, they inevitably fall short, start to feel inadequate, and try to fuck your husband. It’s just science, people! As a result, the female species is at odds with itself. Every woman is a threat in some way or another because we’ve bought in to the lie that love and approval are given to only a select few. But those few are never girls you actually know. They are the elusive women of the Vanity Fair “Fairground” section. They are the strangers you secretly follow on Instagram. And they are the bitches you hear telling Giuliana Rancic they never break out. This feeling of falling short makes people desperate. And when women are desperate, they get crazy. Again, science!
I’m just as much a competitive psycho cunt as the next girl. As an actress, or actr-ish, I’m jealous of everyone, regardless of gender or age. Sometimes parents will ask me how they go about getting their kids into acting, and my first thought is never, Oh how cute! It’s always, Fuck your kid! I will fucking cut your kid! If they think they are just gonna waltz into a business that has bled my soul dry for over a decade and snag an NCIS: Los Angeles guest spot out from under me, they are gonna have to pry it out of my cold dead hands! No way! No fucking way!
As an adult, I’ve come to terms with the reality of my situation. I’m probably never going to be scouted at the mall. I’m never letting your toddler get in the way of my career, but I’m also never going to have upper thighs that don’t touch. Accepting my flaws and feeling less like I need to kill or be killed (except when it comes to your kid) has helped me sustain a handful of decent female relationships. None of which look anything like the unconditional bonds I see women having in TV and film, partly because women aren’t that simple, and partly because everyone’s love is conditional. The reality is—and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, here—even your best girlfriends can’t fucking stand you.
It’s not your fault. You just aren’t them; ergo, you have issues, issues that could be solved if you just heeded their advice and became exactly like them. Not that they are perfect. They hate themselves too. But trust me, they think they have their shit figured out more than you do at least.
Unlike men, women enjoy analyzing the shit out of something until they’re blue in the face. When one of my girlfriends gets up from the table to take a phone call, you better believe the rest of the table is discussing how she should change her life. And most of the time, they’re right. Nobody knows what a hot mess you are more than the other hot messes you call friends.
* * *
My biggest train wreck of a friend is Simone Chevallier. (She picked this name for the book, which I think says a lot.) Her nickname in college was Captain Blow Job. Simone is five foot eight with brown hair, green eyes, and a rack that could save you in a car accident. She’s the type of girl who dates two brothers at once, then doesn’t understand why she’s in trouble when they find out about each other. She’s stolen boyfriends, derailed engagements, and even inspired the occasional divorce. She never has a real boyfriend, but she’s always in a fight with some guy over text about why he only calls her after midnight. I don’t think Simone means to be such a femme fatale.… No, wait, actually I do. She has major daddy issues, is damaged as all fuck, and as a result, is one of the most fun people ever! She has a wicked sense of humor, loves drama, and is always up for an adventure. I met Simone in the sixth grade when my sister and I were shuttled off to live with our father in Arizona. Standing on the scorching hot playground in my J.Crew khakis and inappropriately warm button-up, Simone approached me boldly and said, “You’re pretty. I think we should be friends.”
She was shallow even then. Simone prizes looks above most things in both women and men. The night before my first date with my husband, Jason, Simone randomly spotted him out at a club.
“Hey, that American Pie guy you are supposed to go out with just walked into Le Deux,” she texted.
“Is he cute?” I asked.
“In like a Jewish way,” she said dismissively.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: Why would I be friends with a girl who obviously sounds like the type of whore bag I originally said I’d never get close to? Well, that’s simple. Simone is a different strain of whore. Which is to say, she has a specific type. While I only date men who look like rabbis, Simone strictly falls for men hot enough to fuck Herb Ritts. And because I’d never date a guy who looked better in my jeans than I do, I’ve never really had to worry about Simone trying to sabotage my love life. That was until years later, when Jason and I were happily married and his sister Veronica came out from Jersey for the summer.
Veronica is the baby of the family. She is five feet tall and a quarter of that is hair. She’s never been seen without eyeliner and has even been known to apply more before going to bed. Her skin is always covered in bronzer, making her look more yam than human. I once saw her cut a guy off in traffic, then pull up next to him, roll down her window, and call him an asshole. She chain-smokes menthol cigarettes, drinks her coffee with a minimum of seven Equals, and always has an opinion about everything. She’s like a mini Joe Pesci in the body of a mini Joe Pesci.
“Are you fucking serious with that one?” she asked one night, while we were in the kitchen preparing for a dinner party.
“What do you mean?” I asked, rummaging through the cupboards for little cocktail umbrellas.
“I mean I wouldn’t leave a girl like that alone in a room with my cat’s dick!” she said, slamming a shot of tequila straight from the bottle.
I peeked into the room and saw Simone dressed in a cherry red satin romper and sensible Lucite heels talking sports with two dudes she didn’t yet realize were the bartenders.
This got me thinking. Maybe I was giving Simone too much credit. How did I know what kind of respect she had for me when I wasn’t around? Maybe, after enough carb-ridden margaritas, any cock could become her Fun Dip spoon. I was now officially paranoid.
Later that night, after everyone had gone home, I approached my husband about a possible sting operation. My request was simple: Come on to Simone and see what happens.
“Are you nuts?” Jason asked.
“What? I don’t see what the big deal is,” I said, my face now covered in green zit medicine.
“Flip the roles. How would you feel if I asked you to come on to one of my friends?”
“Babe, be real. It’s already obvious all of your friends would want to be with me if given the opportunity.” I applied more medicine to a weird pustule forming next to my nipple.
Disgusted, he stared at me. “Your dad really fucked you up.”
“Don’t worry. I only want to be with you. You won me,” I assured him, trying to pop the pustule I’d now determined wasn’t a zit but an ingrown hair.
“I wasn’t worried.” He winced as I broke the skin on the pustule and pulled out a thin dark hair. “In fact, I think you totally missed my point. But whatever.”
It was obvious Jason wasn’t into my plan and needed some convincing—or rather, some passive-aggressive manipulating of his most deep-seated insecurities.
“You’re right. Who am I kidding? Simone would never be attracted to you. She only likes models. You’re not her type. Waaay too swarthy…”
A beat of silence filled the air. Confident, I said nothing.
“You don’t think I could get her?” he finally asked. “I modeled as a child, and before I met you, I used to fuck the hottest chicks!”
“Yeah, chicks who thought you were Jason Schwartzman. That’s who I thought you were.” I drove the knife deeper.
“That’s not true. All women love me because of my adorable personality. I’m irresistible. They expect me to be this dorky guy, but once
I start talking, they realize how cool I am and instantly fall in love with me. You did!”
“That’s because I only like dorks!” I said, getting into bed beside him.
To a certain extent, he was right. Women have always adored him. One of the many things that bond us is our mutual belief that everyone is in love with us. We both feel we could win over anyone, regardless of age, gender, or race. Even people who don’t want to love us. For instance, when someone ignores us, we never take that to mean they don’t like us. We just assume they can’t deal with the intensity of their feelings and have chosen to back away in order to avoid getting hurt. We are very healthy.
“Trust me, I can get any chick I want, including Simone!” he said, taking the bait.
“Then prove it.”
I knew I had him.
* * *
The following weekend, we planned a dinner with Veronica, Simone, and two other bitches I was pretend-friends with that summer. My suggested plan was for Jason to pick Simone up for dinner while Veronica and I hid in the backseat. (At this point, I was becoming something of a connoisseur when it came to backseat space, size, and comfort. And I was pleased to learn that my car was the one best suited to spying yet.) If she inquired about why he was alone, he would simply say that Veronica and I took a separate car because we were running late. I knew Simone wouldn’t ask questions. It was common knowledge that Veronica took a minimum of five hours to get ready for anything. And Simone doesn’t really give a shit about topics that don’t somehow circle back to her scoring model dick.
Two blocks before reaching Simone’s house, Veronica and I jumped in the backseat of my car and threw jackets over our bodies. Simone was already waiting outside her apartment when we pulled up, dressed in a pleated leather schoolgirl skirt, metal stiletto heels, and a low-cut wife-beater. Jason told her Veronica and I had taken a separate car and, as predicted, Simone got in without further question. We took a turn down an adjacent residential street and slowed down to 5 mph.
