by Jill Kargman
“I guess it’s true, that joke…” I said.
“What joke?” he asked.
“Do you know what they call people who use the withdrawal method?”
“What?”
“Parents.”
—
So there we were on the corner of Seventy-sixth and Park, coming to grips with the fact that we would be parents. And that I would grow to be a fatty. We were both twenty-eight, and while I was lying like a beached whale on the couch eating Ben & Jerry’s, my friends were dancing on tables at Bungalow 8. While they were primping in size 4 dresses for a night on the town, I was watching the circumference of my thighs expand by the day. Them: Barneys. Me: Buy Buy Baby.
In other words, Harry and I immediately felt plunged from one club—nightclub—to another club—married folk—and then into the new clubhouse world of parenthood. We had to learn the new lingo, which I have to admit I resented just a bit: Bumbos and Diaper Genies and all this crap we supposedly needed. I looked at the airplane hangar–size hateful baby store and asked Harry what the fuck our parents did without all this crap. The way everyone talked about these special bottles and organic this and that, you’d think it was a miracle people survived in other eras.
I started to panic when I went to the baby shower of a fancy-pants acquaintance and all these women were talking about nursery schools and parenting books. I wasn’t going to read fucking parenting books! Snooze! What, was I supposed to cancel my Vogue subscription and sign up for Family Circle now? No fucking way! I started to worry that my identity might get funneled into the fetus. I didn’t want to be all about that.
And I had other fears, too. Vag stretching during childbirth, for one thing. And morning sickness made me scared, too. For several months I puked my brains out every day. And for a while there, I felt as if I had taken three Ambiens in the morning! Exhaustion.
But I soldiered on, as women everywhere do. In the end, as my belly got bigger and our first anniversary approached, I realized my pregnancy really helped us nest and was a fire under my (fat) ass to really make a home. Soon we would be a family, and I couldn’t defer dealing with the Crate and Barrel explosion that was my bachelorette pad, so we signed a lease on a fourth-floor walk-up and painted the baby’s room yellow, since we had decided not to know the sex. Now I look back and feel like a weirdo because I hate when people don’t find out! I want to buy them cute dresses or boy shit. (Notice how I didn’t say pink or blue? I’m so free of gender stereotypes!) But we stayed in the dark until the baby hit the light of the hospital room.
Before the baby was born, we decided to get away for our anniversary. Harry surprised me with a weekend at a hotel in the Berkshires, the hotel where we’d gotten engaged. We holed up and I got a prenatal massage and we ate like pigs and slept like the dead. After our first night, we told the manager how much fun we’d had and that maybe we’d make it an annual family tradition.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he said, looking at my swollen tummy. “There are no children under ten allowed.” Ah, okay, another club we wouldn’t be allowed into!
Oh well.
The next night, our actual anniversary, I ate so much I felt like I was preggo with twins—my actual nugget and the food baby. What a difference a year makes. My wedding night felt both five minutes and five years ago. So much had gone down. And it was amazing to imagine what the next year would bring. Now we’ve been together sixteen years and those days seem like eons ago. And while I obviously miss certain aspects like higher T&A and fewer crow’s-feet marching around my peepers, I’d never go back. In fact, if you offered me a DeLorean time machine with Michael J. Fox himself at the wheel, I’d take a pass. Such wonderful times lay ahead of me that first year, but also some of the most challenging and exhausting.
Sometimes people say they’re waiting a few years to have kids to “enjoy their alone time.” Diff’rent strokes for diff’rent folks, but I’m glad I shat out the progeny when I did, ’cause now we’re through the tantrum and diaper weeds, and I may be old, but I’m so elated to be on the other side of my own gladiator days of new motherhood.
“Gourmet deli” = deli
“Nightlife impresario” = douchebag
“I hate drama!!!” = I love drama!!!
The Hobbit film trilogy = Lord of the Rings film trilogy but with eye broccoli
“Vintage chic” = dead people’s clothes
“Cleansing bar” = soap
“Market price” = You’re fucked.
Sofía Vergara = the Charo of our generation
“Tzammy” = how all people named Tammy pronounce it
An enormous polo pony on your shirt = asshole
“At participating McDonald’s restaurants” = restaurants?!
“Twentysomething” = twenty-nine
“How was your weekend?” = I don’t care how your weekend was.
“Gluten-free baked goods” = main ingredient: cardboard
“Take care!” = Fuck off!
“Acoustic Soundgarden” = sex with a condom
“We’re avid art collectors” = We’re loaded.
“No pressure” = pressure
“I like functional but still want to have pizzazz!” = wearer of Toms shoes, glitter version
“Price upon request”= You can’t afford it.
“No MSG!” = extra MSG
“Post no bills” = Post bills.
“Creative differences” = Someone was an asshole.
“There’s a lid for every pot” = Two ugly people got married.
“I’m in a great space right now” = I’m more fucked-up than ever.
“We know the baby’s sex but are not telling anyone” = We are annoying.
“Separate checks” = separate beds
“Certified preowned” = used
“Thanks, it was my grandmother’s” = This bling be real, bitch!
I’m the opposite of Natalie Portman’s Nina Sayers. I’m no Princess Odette. I’m a black swan dying to become white. Especially as the mercury rises.
As many people know, I hate summer. All the motorcycle-chic black leather that my inner backseat Betty is yearning to wear is inappropriate until the fall. Everyone else embraces bold patterns that look like an FTD truck exploded, but I want to draw the blinds, curl up into a ball, and pray for September. I mean, how many fashion magazine layouts have you seen with the headline “Prints Charming”? I’m itching from the pollen already.
But what to do for my Morticia self come July’s heat waves that leave me sizzling on New York’s pavement? What do you sport when bold blooms just aren’t you? How do you get relief when your head is pounding from all the fashion pages filled with looks that suggest all the world’s designers looked to Crayola for summer inspiration?
Last summer I looked around and noticed all these frothy pale confections and had a bizarre new urge to pour some sugar on me. Since I obviously wasn’t gonna go neon, I went with white. Let the other gals rock the whole yellow-is-the-new-orange citrusfest; in summer, when my goth garb is rendered a shvitzfest, I must adjust appropriately. I don’t want to look like a total Cullen for three months, for crying out loud. So rather than turning to candy-hued ROYGBIV spectrum highlights, I hit the ivory coast.
My friends and family said: Huh? Have you kidnapped our Sicilian widow? Are you some alien impersonator?
I know. For someone known for almost militantly wearing mostly all-black ensembles, white may seem like the opposite of my fashion aesthetic. But it ain’t actually—that would be, say, oh, I don’t know…coral. The devil. Chartreuse. Gasp! Some hideoso-bright horror show. I can’t even tell you what teal does to me. You know how they say the opposite of love isn’t hate but indifference? For me it’s like that with color. The opposite of black isn’t white, it’s bright.
Now, many peeps dodge the doily for fear of looking cadaverous, or worse, like Fatty McSorley. But I think that is a myth. White doesn’t necessarily make you look wide. I mean, yes, some ladie
s go bride-orexic for the Big Day, but that’s because those photos will live on pianos and mantels until tombstone time (or divorce settlement), and not just because it’s white. Matrimony makes us all models for a day.
I personally miss the hell out of my wedding dress. It was the first time I ever felt great in white, and it’s lying stuffed with tissue in the Chanel coffin it came in sixteen years ago. I’d love to exhume it and feel that pure again. In fact, other women have told me they feel the exact same way, so I’m dying to have a huge black-tie party one day where we all wear our wedding dresses. It can be like Truman Capote’s ball but with veils and rice.
Not that I was, ahem, lily-white in that sense (read: slut bride). Just kidding, Harry! Virgin all the way! Well, would you believe off-white?
Now, with three kids I often shy away from powder-pure blank slates, as these tend to attract a chocolate paw print square on the boob. But for nights out, I might take the Santeria priestess plunge and delve into summer white. There’s something so clean, crisp, and fresh feeling about it.
Personally I dig the innocence of a flower eyelet or sweet lacy confection, but some of my pals think those motifs a snooze and asexual, too. But I disagree—they can be white-hot! I mean, doesn’t every guy have a sexy nurse fantasy? It’s the ultimate in naughty meets nice! Does anyone else remember that Tom Ford tight number with the metal horse thingy detail? A scorcher! Granted, I could never wear that one. Which is why I usually fear white.
White is often thought of as a color for tanned people or sun-kissed blondes; it could be accused of making people like me look washed out. But to that I say, so what? Powder me geisha and wash the shit outta me! Your hair and eyes pop even more when your skin and outfit blend; I think alabaster skin and white look great together! I say, this isn’t Rio de Janeiro, the globe hasn’t heated up that much, so embrace your SPF’d face by drawing attention to it even more! There is a valor to pallor.
Maybe everyone else will be tricked out in trend du jour fluoro shocking pieces, but fashion’s fickle movements aren’t edicts and I’d feel way more washed out in acid tones (despite my wistfulness for my Fiorucci neon-pink socks in the eighties) than I do in plain Jane pearl. And unlike the new “it” colors that replace each other like Kleenexes popping out of the box, white is evergreen. Timeless. Forever. And BTW, if the thought of white brings to mind frothy tulle or lace, you can always Kazimir Malevich yourself and go with a minimalist, stark, geometric version that’s more cool and utilitarian than sweet and romantic in shape. And if none of these options suit you and all these ideas still don’t appeal, take a deep breath and cross off the calendar’s gridded days like a prisoner and do what I do: Get psyched for Labor Day.
Victoria’s Secret is that she had seventeen abortions?
You’re allowed to have natural childbirth and not tell everyone?
There are still babies born named Monica?
Mimes will scream if you beat them?
Real estate ads are over-forty pornos?
My dad still calls it a television set?
AT&T stands for ass, twat, and taint?
A red Ferrari is a great way to show the world you’re an asshole?
It’s totally okay to be edgy and love rock but also Toto’s “Africa”?
French vanilla is the same as regular vanilla but with a superiority complex?
The number one cause of unwanted pregnancy is stupidity?
As a die-hard, born-and-bred New Yorker, I’m often asked how it is that I managed to circumvent a druggie phase, the assumption being that drugs grow on or are sold on every Manhattan corner. (They aren’t, but they are easy enough to spot anyway!) I have a simple two-word answer: Miami Vice. You could not draw a straighter line from drugs to death and destruction than that show drew for viewers every Friday night in the 1980s. Drug usage always led to a spray of bullets and a chalk outline in a dark alley. “You see,” my dad would warn, his eyes glinting through his professorial tortoiseshell glasses, “drugs ruin lives!” We got the message. But we loved watching the mess they made anyway. On TV.
But as much as Miami Vice helped steer me clear of drugs and addiction, it also led me down a path toward a short-lived personal style I have to admit to. For all my present devotion to black and an occasional summer white, I did have a mid-eighties color explosion, and Miami Vice is to blame.
To my family, it was more than just a TV show, it was a religion. The weekly cautionary tales spun an aqua-kissed underworld that beckoned to my tween self from the blizzards of freezing Manhattan. Everything was sun-drenched and sexy, with leggy, bronzed women dirty dancing against seemingly powerful kingpins or tough cops going deep undercover. It was a sultry style manual of the times. We were told the baby-oiled, Helios-kissed glow was healthy, which we now know put the lie in jai alai.
So there I was: pale, raven haired, and closer to the Central Casting for The Munsters than for Miami Vice. But I was ten. My brother was seven. And as Glenn Frey crooned, the heat was on. Willie requested a white blazer. I sported neon. Duran Duran blared through the apartment and the “Rio” video echoed the Vice look, featuring the same wind-whipped hair and boating odysseys. I went to school on a rain-splattered public bus wearing a drab uniform. How I longed for a tight turquoise Band-Aid dress! I was obsessed. And boobies. Everywhere. My classmates called me “flat plains of America” till I sprang swollen mosquito bites at fourteen, so I had an almost lesbianic obsession with the coppery cleavs the women showed off in their white spray-on spandex.
Most Jews say the eleventh commandment is Thou Shalt Order Chinese Food on Sundays, but we moved it to Friday nights for Vice viewings. While we cracked our fortune cookies in snowy New York, I could clearly see the futures of those lowlifes trying to outfox Crockett and Tubbs, cruel fates bloodily sealed in machine-gun shoot-outs by the docks, the same ominous music in the background. When the final title, “Created by Michael Mann,” appeared as the scene faded to black, so did the goosebumps, followed by a beat of silence (respeck!) and then an enthusiastic eruption by my family.
A couple years into our cult-level addiction, my little brother, Willie, who is blond and blue-eyed, was spotted by a casting agent in line at the movie theater. She immediately put him in a toy commercial and subsequently sent him on an audition to play the little son of Don Johnson (i.e., the Messiah) on the show we all worshipped. We were plotzing. I prayed on a stack of Zagat guides he would land the role. He had four callbacks and eventually lost the part, but it was a true pulse-pounding couple of weeks for the Kopelman clan—by then the show had reached its zenith.
But what goes up must eventually come down. Right as I was coming of age. I was starting to be allowed to take the train down to Astor Place and soon discovered the store Trash and Vaudeville. I bought my first black leather motorcycle jacket at twelve, and my inner Morticia stayed for life. As much as I had wanted to be the fuchsia-bikini-clad surfer chick, that simply was the opposite of who I was; between my Kabuki complexion and macabre humor and Tim Burton obsession, I abandoned the kaleidoscopic Kool-Aid for black coffee. I slowly jettisoned any lingering Miami dreams and embraced my own budding goth girl. I started to wear exclusively jet, yielding my mom’s nickname for me, the Sicilian Widow. I got my ears double pierced and got a pyramid-spike belt on King’s Road on my first trip to London. I was done with the glowing, sparkly hues of Revlon Silver City Pink and on to crimson lips. And here on the dark side I remain, clad almost exclusively in neutrals, wearing brights the last two decades only when coerced as a bridesmaid, and looking thoroughly exhumed from the grave every time.
Naturally, now twenty-twenty hindsight reveals to me that the colors that beckoned on the hit show—many unfortunate pairings of teal, turquoise, and salmon—look more like the hues on a tampon box than something I’d want to adorn my body. What I cherished as sultry from vintage Bain de Soleil ads, I now see as tanorexia, and no matter what side of the law you were on, there was an inherent douchebaggery to the eighties Miami s
tyle. Morticia’s animal likeness would be a black cat, a raven, a jaguar. Not a fucking flamingo. After all, despite whatever trendy colors weave their way down the runway, black always cycles back. You can’t say the same about men’s espadrilles.
People in teal cars
Of all the colors, why pick teal? It has to be linked to mental illness, or else a lack of taste so extreme the driver thinks it’s actually cool to reject the norm. When I see teal cars, I always look in the window and, sure enough, there are other telltale signs of instability: rabbit’s feet, nose-pick booger-smear, bad music blaring—without fail.
Satan/seitan worshippers
To me, the latter is the former. I mean, if you want to be a vegan, go for it! No one is stopping you! But do you have to preach about it all the time? I am one of the biggest Smiths fanatics ever, but after I saw Morrissey last year and he spent more time ranting about plant-based diets than singing, I decided my fandom was through. I’ll still blare the records but don’t need to shell it out for a love concert with footage of slaughterhouses in the background.
People who say “My baby is twenty-six months”
No, she’s not. I’m so sorry. She’s fucking two. Just say two, okay? Can’t you guys just round up or down? Maybe people feel the need to say their babies’ age in months to create a perfect yardstick to measure their progress versus other babies’, so you know how awesome they are: They’re twenty-three months and not even two and so verbal. Who knows? I always just said the age in years or said “She’ll be two in July.” Who wants to start doing math, dividing everything by twelve? The winner was a mom who told me her kid was thirty-four months. So…almost three. Needless to say, we weren’t close.
