Momzillas

by Jill Kargman

  “That over there?” said Bee, following my glance to their group of benches. “That’s Little Trinidad. The nanny hangout. The mothers usually sit on this side.”

  “Oh,” I said quietly, not quite knowing what to make of this. “They look like they’re having fun.”

  “Oh, oh,” said Maggie suddenly. “Six o’clock, look who’s coming.”

  Bee turned around. “Yup, somebody cue the Jaws music.”

  I turned to see a petite woman decked out with seven different visible logos. It was like the alphabet had exploded onto her five-foot-two frame, which was covered with a sea of LV’s, H’s, double C’s, and D&G’s.

  “Hiiiiiii, gals!” she said, her huge Gucci frames covering her tiny head. “So six weeks and counting to the speed dial! I am freaking out! Lester’s guys at the office are trying to write a code this summer that will break through the phone lines! I am praying!” As she clasped her ring-covered hands in exaggerated prayer to the heavens above, the glint of her bling almost blinded me. “If we don’t get into Carnegie, oh my gawd, I’ll just die. Die!”

  “They say if you don’t get your kid into Carnegie Nursery School, well, there goes Princeton,” smiled Bee tauntingly.

  Huh? What speed dial?

  “Keep your fingers crossed for me and little Stella Scarlett, ’k?” she said, leaving in a blaze of gold, gems, and zippers.

  “Whoa,” I said, amusedly watching her head to the swings in stilettos. “Who is that?”

  “Gagsville,” said Bee.

  “The worst,” added Maggie.

  “Tessa Finch-Saunders. She is such a spoiled brat. I heard she just bought her husband a Jasper Johns oil for his thirty-fifth birthday,” whispered Bee conspiratorially. “He’s in private equity. Loaded. She runs around throwing her money everywhere, so tacky. Very nouveau.”

  I nodded. I was intrigued by her, but more than that, I wanted to know what she was talking about with this Carnegie place. “So, um, what’s this nursery school?”

  “Carnegie. The best. On Ninetieth Street. It’s a feeder to all the best kindergartens,” said Bee. “Everyone goes there, I mean, the class lists could be a page torn out of Forbes!”

  “Uh-huh…” I felt my palms begin to sweat. “And what was that, like, speed-dial thing?”

  “They have thousands of interested families. Literally thousands,” explained Bee. “But there are only forty spaces. So they only print five hundred applications and they open the phone lines at eight A.M. the day after Labor Day for requests and you just have to just hope you get one. You have to get all your family to help you dial.”

  “Oh. Does West go there?”

  “Yes,” said Bee, proudly. “And Maggie’s son, Ford. It’s the best in the city. Someone donated a million smacks to get their kid in! It’s harder to get into than Yale Law, but once you’re in, you can write your ticket. But the first hurdle is getting though the phone line to get an application.”

  “Gosh, I didn’t realize I needed to win a radio contest to be able to even apply,” I said, shaken.

  “Yeah, it’s kind of nuts. I’m glad that’s all behind me, since siblings are almost always let in,” sighed Maggie. “I don’t envy you beginning the process. It sucks.”

  Gulp.

  “Tessa Finch-Saunders won’t have a problem, though,” said Bee, watching her far across the playground by the swings. “She sent her daughter to all the right classes. They always ask what Mommy and Me’s the child took. Plus, I’m sure she’ll send in her application along with a scroll of blueprints for a new wing.”

  “Like what classes?” I asked, fearing my hippie, barefoot Music Together in Berkeley wasn’t the rigorous academic syllabus the advanced New York two-year-old required.

  “Well, there’s a few really important prerequisites for this age: music, art, gym, languages. Maybe you should sign Violet up for a summer course?”

  “Okay, I mean…what did you guys do?”

  “Well, I did Lucky Me, I’m Under Three. But…there’s a three-year waiting list.”

  Great. “How is it a three-year list if you presumably go when you’re under three? By the time you get in, you’re over the hill!” I said, jokingly. Neither of them laughed.

  “You call and put your name down the second you know you’re pregnant,” said Bee, dead serious.

  “I called before I even told my husband I was pregnant,” recalled Maggie. “I peed on that stick, thong around my ankles, and the second that the line turned blue, I was dialing them.”

  “So…that’s out then.” I smiled, imagining Violet going through metal detectors to get to her public kindergarten because I wasn’t in on the fetal pre-pre-preregistration. “I guess my daughter will be home-schooled, serial-killer-style.” Then I thought about Maggie wearing a thong. Were they taking over women’s undies? I hated thongs. They felt like ass-floss.

  “Well, there’s a summer program at the Language Institute. You can sign up for that,” suggested Maggie. “It’s really key to learn a foreign language at this age because they develop an ear for the accent.”

  “Oh, and what about Milford Prescott Music School? They have a summer program, I think,” mused Bee.

  “We call it Juilliard ’cause they take everything so seriously. I mean, the kids are one and they’re already learning the difference between violin and cello sounds. But it is the best pre-preschool.” Maggie paused and looked at me. “Are you okay, Hannah?”

  My pale complexion had once again betrayed my inner emotional quakes. As stress seized my body, my cheeks flushed without fail, rendering me a blank screen on which all my worries could flicker across for the world to see in Technicolor. “I’m fine. I just…maybe I need to go, I’m still sort of, you know, jet-lagged and woozy.”

  “Oh, okay,” said Bee. “Maybe you should rest. I know we’re throwing a lot at you.”

  I quickly got up, head spinning, to venture home, but not to any comforting home I even knew. “Bye, guys. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Hey, wait,” Bee said, getting up from the bench to walk alongside me. “I know this is all very overwhelming. And Parker and I are here for you. Really. And I’m sure your mother-in-law will help, too—she knows tons of people. She’s lovely.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t cry. I chose to ignore the kudos for The Cube. “I just feel a little lost with everything here. I want Violet to have the best of everything, and I feel like I got on this track a little late.”

  “It’s okay,” said Bee, consolingly. “Listen. I have a good tip for you. It’s a broker. For your apartment?”

  “Oh, really? That would be great…”

  “His name is Troy Kincaid. His wife, Mrs. Kincaid, is actually the headmistress of Carnegie Nursery School. I am sure that if you buy a place through him, she will see to it that you will at least get an application.”

  I paused, wiping the sweat from my brow. “Can’t you, like, get arrested for that?”

  “No! It’s just how things are done. Take his card.” She unzipped a little metallic leather pouch from her bag and handed me a business card. “Call him. And we’ll see you at the Pierre Hotel tomorrow for the Little Duke and Duchess trunk show!”

  I nodded and waved, walking away as fast as my un-chic Chuck Taylors would carry me.

  AND ON A NEARBY TITANIUM POWERBOOK…

  Instant Message from: BeeElliott

  BeeElliott: Whatdja think?

  Maggs10021: She seems cool, actsh.

  BeeElliott: REALLY? You thunk? Yawnsville.

  Maggs10021: I feel bad for her—she def. needs our help w/ schools & stuff.

  BeeElliott: I know, she’s clueless! I heard her mom-in-law is kind of horrified that she’s so out of it and like sloppy.

  Maggs10021: I like her style—more downtowny but whatev, she dresses cool.

  BeeElliott: If you’re hanging out at a punk rock club. This is the UES, not CBGBs.

  Maggs10021: So are you going to write for her fo
r CNS?

  BeeElliott: Dunno. I can put in a good word I guess but I don’t want to blow chips on a non-friend.

  Maggs10021: Wasn’t her hub Park’s best man? He was a hottie.

  BeeElliott: He’s not my fave. Express train to Loserville.

  Maggs10021: Really? I remember him being totally DDG!

  BeeElliott: Lameissimo.

  Maggs10021: Hmm.

  Five

  If there’s one thing I hate, it’s the pop-by. On TV when I saw bedroom communities filled with gracious neighbors bearing muffins in a gingham-napkin-covered basket, I would cringe, vowing never to leave city-dwelling. So natch I was less than thrilled when I was bent over a box with sweat dripping from my brow when the buzzer from downstairs rang. The doorman announced my unexpected visitor as “Mrs. Dillingham”—God forbid she just say my mother-in-law was here. Shit! Thank goodness I spotted and stashed Josh’s morning good-bye note in a drawer—it had a list of would-be porn titles that we liked to come up with on our walks by video stores or cineplexes, it was sort of our thing, a running joke (e.g., Forrest Hump, Booty and the Beast, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Poon, etc.). With the list put away, in a human cyclone whirl, I put on some black buckled flats, tucked my gray vintage Blondie T-shirt into my black jeans, and shoved a brush through my hair so fast and furiously that I almost made myself bald. Just as I was applying a touch of Chapstick to my lips, the doorbell rang.

  “Hiiii,” I said. “Welcome to our new temporary abode! Sorry I’m so gross—”

  She didn’t challenge my self-assessment. “Hello.” She walked right past me, surveying the plain, ordinary apartment. The skyscraping view was definitely mesmerizing, the rooms spacious and clean, but it was one of those apartments where all the good ingredients still made up a crappy stew vibe-wise. For example, there was one of those cut-out rectangle thingies in the living room wall and ceilings that seemed especially low given the piles of cardboard boxes. As I saw her take in what I’m sure she presumed to be a total mess, I realized I didn’t feel well at all—my chunder was mid-esophagus and rising. Did I have some kind of social anxiety disorder like that drug commercial with all the warped, stretched-out faces? Why did I always get nervous around her?

  “So. Hannah, daaarling, you must be itching to get out of here! It’s positively claustrophobic! I detest these depressing postwar buildings, just horrible.”

  Oh, yeah. That was why—there was rarely a nice thing from her lips.

  “Violet is napping and I was just unpacking the kitchen boxes—do you want to come see her? She’s so cute, passed out in her little—”

  “Have you seen Bee Elliott yet? She promised me she’d help you with the school process. Lord knows it can be daunting.”

  “Yes, yes. I met her yesterday with her friend and they were really nice—”

  Lila sat down on our old Ikea couch but not before looking at it as if fearing it was stuffed with maggots. She tried to look comfortable but I knew she wasn’t. Her massive Fifth Avenue penthouse was immaculately and stunningly decorated by Ellie Cullman, and I knew she was practically wincing at our definitely unposh digs. The only thing worse than the home I was making for her son was clearly my outfit.

  “You always have such…eclectic style,” she said, staring at me nostrils aflare as if I were a stool sample.

  I didn’t know how to respond. I hate mean observations couched in faux compliments.

  “And speaking of which,” she said, delicately opening a pink shopping bag, “I have a few dresses for Violet. I know you tend to favor more…casual clothing for her. But this isn’t the West Coast, you know. People dress. And with your interviews for schools coming up this year, I figured I’d help you get some more…conservative looks for her.”

  I thanked her meekly. While the beautiful Made In Portugal dresses were indeed exquisite and definitely so generous, I knew they were a 3D memo to spruce up my kid. I love how she said people “dress,” as if in the jungle of California, our children run amok buck, peeing themselves. I knew what she meant in general; yes, children’s clothes back west weren’t as old-fashioned, and I did like the dresses. But you’d think I had Violet in leopard leggings and rhinestone tees that read “Daddy’s Girl.” I wasn’t tacky, just…chill. She wore simple cords and cute tops from the Gap, so sue me.

  “I simply want Violet to fit in here, you know, with the right families,” Lila added.

  I got up to get hangers for the dresses, which I carefully hung as I nodded.

  “Violet’s adorable, obviously, I mean she is truly Joshie’s clone!” she laughed. “But sometimes when you’ve visited she’s been a touch…bedraggled. And that ragamuffin thing can be sweet, but not in public, dear. We certainly don’t want her going to preschool interviews looking like une fille des rues.”

  I took a deep breath and tried to slowly and calmly exhale the steam that was building inside. I thought I’d erupt like Mount Vesuvius momentarily. Fille des rues?! My French was not parfait but I knew that meant “girl of the streets”—a street urchin. As if I made my ill-cared-for daughter look like tattered Cosette from Les Miz.

  “So we’re excited for your birthday this weekend,” I lied, trying to muster kind words for the woman whose face I wanted to bludgeon with a borrowed polo mallet from her crusty husband’s collection. “I’m excited to get out of the city.”

  “Yes, it should be lovely. It will be just us, thank goodness. Watts’s daughters were due to come from London and thank the Lord they decided to just see him next month in Bath.”

  For some weird sick reason I was oddly psyched that there were people she seemed to dislike more than me.

  “How are they doing?” I asked with fake interest; I’d met Watts’s daughters once—they seemed very sweet but were clearly out of their father’s life, as they had not only the Atlantic between them but also a chasm of intimacy thanks to a stepmom who would rather pretend they didn’t exist at all.

  “Nightmares. Just nightmares,” she said, shaking her head. “They came to New York in May, and Fiona sat us down and said, in very dramatic style, that she was convinced that Victoria was anorexic.”

  “That’s awful!” I said.

  “Oh, please. It’s all rubbish. Watts seemed quite worried and was practically about to call the plane when I said, ‘You know what I think, Fiona? I think for the first time in Victoria’s life, she’s thinner than you. And you can’t stand it!’ They’re quite competitive, you know.”

  “But…is she sick, or—”

  “No, no, no, you know, girls gain and lose weight all the time. Victoria’s twenty-four and pulling herself together, and Fiona is jealous, clearly.”

  I decided not to touch this with a thirty-three-and-a-half-foot pole.

  “And how is your husband’s health?” I asked, changing the subject. Watts had had a mini stroke a year before and I recalled Lila phoning us not from his hospital bed but from Swifty’s, where she stuck to her dinner plans with friends. Nice.

  “Fine, fine, you know. He’s pushing eighty, so…”

  “Mommy?” I head Violet’s groggy cry from the other room. I leaped up and went to the makeshift nursery to scoop her into my arms. “Guess who’s here?” (Lila insisted Violet call her Lila.) “Lila! Lila’s here! Say hello to Lila, sweetheart!”

  But Violet burst into tears.

  “Oh dear,” said Lila. “A lot of crying—”

  Which was normal since she’d just woken from a nap and was, ya know, two.

  “Sorry,” I apologized. “She’s still a little out of it.”

  Violet screamed and shook her little body in thrash mode.

  “Shhhh, sweets, Lila is here! Look! Lila’s here to see you!”

  “AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!”

  I began to sweat as if Violet’s cries were somehow a reflection on me.

  “I probably should go, then,” Lila said, rising to grab her quilted handbag.

  “Sorry—she just…she just woke and up and gets a little—” />
  “WAHHHHHHHH!!!!”

  “Well, all right then, I’ll see you this weekend. Hopefully she’ll be in a better mood!” she said, opening the door. And with that she was gone, leaving us in her Ferragamo-wearing Roadrunner wake.

  Six

  “Happy Hour”—what a myth. Five to eight P.M., the time many yuppies are happily clinking glasses in bars dotting the map of Manhattan, is what I call “Suicide Hour,” when I am so utterly exhausted I want to collapse, and it’s still at least four hours until my husband comes home. I watch horrible soul-slurping shows like Access Hollywood and then being curious about Angelina Jolie’s wild lovemaking in the Congo makes me want to kill myself even more.

  Violet, my little scrumptious love, who can do no wrong in my eyes, crumbles into a fussy munchkin and I try to keep her busy with books, but after five or six I feel so tired I ultimately cop out guiltily and pop in a kiddie DVD, i.e., baby crack.

  But that night, after an interminable day of unpacking boxes and nearly hanging myself with the very “ropes” Bee and Maggie had shown me as I Googled every nursery school in the neighb, I tucked Violet into her makeshift folding bed, sang her to sleep with soft rounds of “Twinkle, Twinkle,” and was so excited I could hardly wait. My best girlfriend in the whole wide world, the spoonful of honey that made the medicine of my move go down, was coming over, and for the first time in about a month I got a sitter so I could go out to a civilized dinner and catch up with the only sister I’d ever known.

  I met Leigh Briggs my first day of college. She was carrying a huge ficus tree, soil spilling out onto the flat stone path under a Gothic arch of our dorm. Leigh is my total übershrink/sage/partner in crime. She instantly struck me as a 1940s starlet. We bonded over boys, movies, and chowing, becoming pretty much add-water-and-stir insta-pals. She always offered wise (and sometimes old-fashioned) kernels of wisdom and was a true “lady,” like a stylish dame from yesteryear, but with a gutter mouth. To outsiders, she was mannered and proper but sharply brilliant underneath all the immaculate beauty of classic clothes and old-world grace. We had been, despite the three-thousand-mile distance over the last five years, joined at the hip, and aside from Josh, she was definitely the person I downloaded the most stuff to. She always made me feel strong and ready to take on anything. And she didn’t quite recognize me in my current state.