Chapter 20
Later in the week I met Jennifer, Chad and Sophie for dinner at Mercer Kitchen. When I arrived, they were in the midst of a heated discussion about what classes they were going to take. They had a catalog from the Learning Annex and schedule of events at the Ninety-Second Street Y, and were reading highlights from classes.
“So you wanna be a porn star?” Jennifer read. “Learn the ins and outs of this exciting recession-proof industry.”
“Here’s one I want to take,” said Chad. “Dr. Evan Michilo can help you contact the dead. Do you ever feel like a loved one is trying to give you a message from the other side? Learn how to tap into your inner medium and receive wisdom from heaven.”
“You guys, I thought we were being serious,” Sophie said, fully on board with Jennifer. “Stop playing around and let’s find a few courses that really sound interesting to us.”
Taking a few courses would be the perfect way to fill the next two weeks before I left for California. The emptiness of my home was the worst environment for a guilty conscience. The loft was immaculate except for random thoughts of the men in my life that crept from every corner like roaches infesting a filthy kitchen.
Jennifer gasped. “Love this one. Bitchcraft for fun and profit. Have you ever wondered why the bitches of the world get all the power, money and sex? Learn how to harness your natural bitch power and use it for personal gain. No woman should be without the tools offered in this class. Wonderbitch Vilma Zeeter has been featured on Oprah, The Tonight Show with Jay Leno and Politically Incorrect.”
“This one sounds funny,” I said before I was about to read a class on “self pleasuring.”
“I wasn’t kidding,” Jennifer interrupted. “This would be a good one for all of us to take. Except you, Chad. I’ve always thought I was too nice for my own good. People take advantage of you that way.”
“Bitchcraft? For us?!” I asked. “Until last week, I was juggling a husband and a fiancé. Jennifer set up a gallery exhibit to sell my husband, a plan that Sophie fully endorsed. “Well, Sophie, you’re a bitch too.”
She was genuinely shocked. “I’m a bitch? How exactly am I a bitch, Prudence?”
“How exactly are you a doormat, Sophie?” I asked, gesturing to her fork poised to kill me. “I don’t think you’re a bitch, you’re just, well, you know. No one’s taking advantage of you, Sophie. You’re, you’re — you take care of yourself.”
She rolled her eyes, annoyed. “I am always putting other people’s needs before my own. I am the furthest thing from a bitch you’ll ever find.”
“Come on, you guys,” I said in an effort to make it seem as though the entire table were involved in this squabble. “Do you think men sit around defining themselves like this? ‘I’m a bastard. No, no, I’m really a martyr.’ They’re having fun, drinking beer, watching sports. They’re living life in the moment. Let’s take a lesson from them and forget about stupid labels. Let’s be more like guys.”
Silence.
“Why would we do that?” Jennifer asked as if I’d just suggested scouring the sale rack at Alexander’s.
“Because,” I said as if it were enough of an explanation. Realizing it wasn’t, I continued. “Because they are much happier. Men don’t over-think things the way we do, and because of that, they’re much more satisfied in life.”
“Oh sweetie,” Sophie softened and rested her hand over mine. “They’re idiots, that’s why.” Sophie spoke as though I were a child to whom she was reading a bedtime story. “Men are dog-shit simple, that’s all. Just because they’re happier doesn’t mean they have any good reason to be.”
“Okay, I think I’ve had about as much male bashing as I can take from the three non-bitches over here,” Chad said. “Sophie, take the class, clearly you’re a candidate for sainthood; it’s a wonder they haven’t made you into a statue at a convent. Jennifer, Prudence, who couldn’t use a little information on how to be better bitches? Hone your skills, girls.”
“The class doesn’t tell you how to be a bitch,” Jennifer explained. “It teaches you how to use it so you’re not like some sprinkler shooting water in different directions. You’re the hose that takes water through a tight cylinder and controls a definite stream.”
“Next Wednesday?” Sophie asked. “I’m in.”
A combination of boredom and fear made me sign up for the class too. What else was I doing? Did I really want to be the only untrained bitch in my group?
“And why am I not allowed to come?” asked Chad.
Jennifer read, “Absolutely no men.”
“Oh please,” Chad laughed. “Bet they have a real big problem with men trying to crash this one. I’m just so sure that’s how every guy wants to spend his evening, among a pack of black-belt bitches.”
* * *
On Wednesday night, we arrived early to get seats together for Vilma’s bitch class. She started at exactly seven-thirty despite the fact that women were still trickling in, struggling to find a place to sit. The room was filled to capacity with just under a hundred women who ranged in looks from mealy-mouth simp to whip-cracking dominatrix.
Vilma said nothing as she wrote on the white board, “Power.” Then right below it, “Money.” And below that, “Sex.” Then she drew one long red oval that encompassed the first letters of each word. “Get it?” she snapped.
Her words were delivered slowly and precisely. Every syllable threatened cruel derision. “Before you harness the power of bitch, you must first be a bitch,” Vilma began in a harsh tone. Vilma was a short, slender woman with bright red hair that was the same color as women’s penitentiary uniforms, and cat glasses with rhinestones at the points. She wore a deep red silk button-down blouse, black suit pants and sharp leather boots with heels thinner than knitting needles. On her blouse was a small gold pin of a bulldog with long eyelashes and feminine lips baring teeth.
“And to be a bitch, you must do two things. One, look like a bitch.” The class began furiously taking notes. “Two, act like a bitch. Let me warn you now, if you do not look like a bitch, then there is no point acting like one because no one is going to buy it. Ask yourselves, what does a bitch look like? Bad news, then good news. The bad news is that in order to be a bitch, you must be beautiful. The good news is that every woman has what it takes to become beautiful. It takes time. It takes money. It takes pain. And it takes sacrifice. But if you want to be beautiful, there is a way.”
So far, so good. Vilma didn’t seem like such a bitch after all.
“You!” she snapped and pointed her stick at a plump woman in the third row. Slowly enunciating each word, Vilma stated, “You are fat. Why?”
“Um, it’s genetic,” the woman answered. “My mother and my grandmother are both heavy too.”
“Nonsense. Your mother and grandmother are both fat because they have no self-control and these hungry heifers love Twinkies more than they value the power, money and sex they could have by being a bitch. So far, no one has had the guts to tell them that the only thing standing in their way of enjoying the good life of a bitch is their own blubber.”
I sank deep into my chair.
“You!” she demanded the attention of another woman. “With the straight brown hair and bangs. You’ve been wearing your hair like that since fifth grade, haven’t you?”
The woman nodded in agreement.
“And now not only do you have a wretchedly outdated look, but you’ve let yourself go gray. Three words of wisdom, and please don’t prove me to be throwing pearls before swine: Bitch cut. Dye.” Then she handed the woman a business card of a hair stylist who specializes in bitch hair makeovers.
“And you,” Vilma barked at another woman. “Why no makeup?”
Confidently she answered, “I don’t have time for vanity.”
“Out!” shouted Vilma. She waited. “Do you think I’m kidding? Bitches don’t have a sense of humor, nor do they have a sense of mercy. Get your naked face out of my class before I call the cops and
have you arrested for indecent exposure.”
This woman was awful!
After the woman left, Vilma continued unfazed. “We’ll have a whole section on the bitch wardrobe, hair and makeup, and I’ll pass out a resource directory where I list my contacts at every major department store, hip boutique and salon. Do not, I repeat, do not treat these people like servants. They are bitch missionaries and have the power to change your life,” Vilma said. “Oh yes, if you’re concerned about money, we have a special beauty improvement bitch loan of up to $10,000 through Chase Manhattan Bank. I know bitches in high places.”
Vilma took a sip of water and took a deep breath. “Now, if I have not made myself clear already, there are three things that women who harness their bitch power have that other women don’t — more power, more money and more sex. People exalt the bitch. They’re not sure why, but they yield to the bitch. Some of my colleagues say it’s fear of the bitch. Others say it’s awe of their confidence. I say, who cares? When you’ve got more power, more money and more sex, you shouldn’t waste your time trying to figure out other people. Enjoy your life.”
Vilma scanned the room. I was terrified that she would single me out as another bitch flunky, but instead she called me up to the front of the room with a note of friendliness. Like she found a kindred spirit.
“This is what I am talking about,” she said pointing to me with her stick. “What’s your name?”
“Prudence.”
“Nice. Snooty yet ironic at the same time. I like it. Now Prudence, as you can all see, is not a naturally beautiful woman, but look how she maximizes everything she’s got through her wardrobe, hair and makeup. And let’s be honest, Prudence, we’ve had a little work done too, haven’t we?”
“Yes,” I said softly.
“No need to be ashamed. You think enough of yourself to invest in your beauty. Good for you. Now class, note the suede pants and expensive buttons on her blouse. It makes a statement. That statement is ‘I’m rich,’ and believe me that’s a statement you want to make when you’re a bitch. The hair is fabulous,” she said, running her fingers through it. Incidentally, we had identical haircuts. “Notice the details. She’s got nice black hair,” she said, turning conspicuously to the woman with bangs. “And look how she wears these blue contact lenses. Next to the hair, they have sort of a satanic look, wouldn’t you say? Subtle, but a nice touch. Now, I’m willing to bet anyone in this room one hundred dollars that Prudence has a six-pack set of abs. Any takers?” She paused and scanned the room for hands. “No, well, let’s prove me right because I know Prudence, the poster child for bitchcraft, isn’t going to let us down. I’d guess she spends at least an hour at the gym every day.”
How did she know?
“Do you know how I know this?”
My classmates shook their heads. I saw Sophie smile and give me a thumbs-up.
“Because everything else about her appearance tells me that she is a self-centered narcissist who will do everything within her power to look good. If she can dye it, cut it, wax it, peel it off, exercise it or stick a collagen needle in it, sign Prudence up.”
She forgot the dead guy in my lips.
Vilma commanded, “We must applaud her for it.”
A room full of women cheered for me. My friends stood in the fifth row shouting, “Brava!”
“Prudence doesn’t let the fear of pain get in her way of looking good, does she?”
The class responded like an army troop, “No, bitch!”
“She’s not afraid to spend her money on her beauty, is she?”
Again they shouted, “No, bitch!”
“And when it comes to spending time on her physical appearance, does Prudence whine that she’s got more important things to do?”
“No, bitch!”
“Unbutton your blouse, Prudence,” Vilma said.
I was torn. On the one hand, the head bitch liked me and I didn’t want to let her down. On the other hand, I didn’t want to disrobe in front of a room full of strangers.
“Prudence,” Vilma said again, noting my hesitation. “Why do you work out? And don’t tell me it’s for your health.”
“No, Vilma, it’s vanity.”
“You work out because you want to look good. And you want people to notice you. Well, Prudence, this is a dream come true. We are all looking at you and want to gasp with awe and envy over your beautiful stomach. Unbutton the blouse. You are among bitch friends here.”
Oddly enough, Vilma’s pep talk convinced me to unbutton my blouse and tighten my abdominal muscles so they would look especially defined for my bitch compatriots.
“Nice, Prudence. I was right,” she said. “Two things. First, never undress on demand again. Bitches are in control. Remember, it’s power we’re after. Don’t let people find your soft spot and exploit it. Second, you need to wear sexy bras and underwear each and every day. That bra is not a bitch bra. Do we wear sexy lingerie for men?” she asked the class.
“No?” they answered uncertainly.
“No. We wear sexy lingerie for ourselves. So that when our boss is yelling at us or some idiot man is complaining about us, we can take silent comfort in the knowledge that we could kill them with the sheer sexiness of the push-up bra that lies beneath one thin little sheath of cloth. Just knowing this gives us power. Okay, Prudence. Well done. Button up and take your seat.”
When I returned to my seat, there was a note from Jennifer. “Bitch teacher’s pet.” This was the first time I had ever been shown favoritism by a teacher, and I wasn’t sure I enjoyed her attention. I couldn’t tell if Vilma selected me because she really liked me, or if she found me the most transparent person in the room.
Chapter 21
Reilly was due back from Germany that Saturday, and I wondered if I should call him to discuss our situation. He never mentioned what hotel he’d be checking into upon his return, so I decided to call him at the office after I got back from my trip to California.
If I waited until after my visit with Matt, it would give Reilly more than a month to cool off from the gallery party incident. And I would be rejuvenated after just having spent nearly a week away from the craziness of my life.
I startled as my phone rang. “Malone!” Matt said, shouting from his car. “What’s up, baby!” Then I realized that this insanity had a payoff.
“Hi.” I bit my bottom lip. “Guess where I’m off to in like two minutes?”
“Not your spanking seminar again,” he teased. “Malone, I am so scared of you after that one. What’s the message here? You think I need a take-charge woman?”
“This one’s even weirder,” I told him. “Cooking Without Recipes.”
“What the fuck?”
“Cooking Without Recipes,” I said louder and slower this time.
“I heard you, but I don’t get it.”
“You know, cooking a meal without using —” I began.
“It just sounds kind of stupid. You bored or something?”
Definitely the or something. If I stopped moving for a second, Guilt would pay me an uninvited visit and tell me what a horrible person I am. My mother always advised, “If you don’t like how you’re feeling, get up and do something else. Nothing like a busy schedule to get your mind off your problems.” I heard this phrase repeatedly during the summer of Matt’s departure from my life. Mom always used the same strategy to deal with her disappointments, and it seemed to work well for her.
Jennifer buzzed from downstairs, so I rang her in. I heard her trot up the stairs and knock on the door. “One sec,” I told her while I motioned for her to come inside.
“Jen’s here and we’re already running late,” I told Matt. “I’ll call you when we get back, okay?”
Jennifer picked up framed photos she’d seen a thousand times as I signed off with Matt. She wore a white chef’s hat and oversized movie star sunglasses. “Ready to cook?” I asked after I put down the phone.
“Born ready,” she said.
“Do you do anything low key?” I pointed to her hat.
“Nevah!” she shouted dramatically and posed with her arm reaching up my kitchen doorway. “I’m a six-foot black woman. Why even try to be inconspicuous?
“Must ask,” I started. “Where does one get a hat like that?”
“Benihana print ad. Even got the red kimono, which I must say makes me look like a sexy African geisha. I’m wearing it on Valentine’s Day.”
“Are there African geishas?” I wondered.
“Look, I’ll put my hair in a bun, stick a couple chop sticks in it, it’ll be cute. Don’t take me so literally. Let us go now, Prudence-san,” she bowed.
Jennifer was in an especially good mood these days because she had a new boyfriend. His name was Adrian, otherwise known as “The One.” Adrian was the new art director at Ogilvy, and the two immediately hit it off when he started there in January. Adrian is a classic film buff, and when they struck up a conversation, Jennifer told him she adored old movies too, hoping he’d invite her along to watch one. He did, but the minor problem for Jennifer was that she knows nothing about classic films. She called the Tisch film school at NYU and made fast friends with a professor. Every morning, Jennifer would call him and get a mini-lecture on the works of Orson Wells, Billy Wilder and John Ford. Not only was the professor charmed by Jennifer’s effort to impress her new boyfriend, it also inspired him as an idea for his newest screenplay. It reminded me of Reilly’s tour of the Carnegie.
Jennifer and I were late for the cooking class and rushed into the room apologizing. “So sorry,” Jennifer said, panting as we ran in.
“Getting a cab was like hand-to-hand combat,” I explained to the teacher. “Then we got completely locked up in some mess in midtown, which was absolute insanity.”
The teacher remained almost motionless. She looked like Gandhi with makeup and an old-school Farrah Fawcett hairstyle. “You are here now and all is well,” Gita said like a lullaby.
The Wife of Reilly Page 18
