Momzillas

by Jill Kargman

  “I hope you don’t mind my crashing.” Parker smiled, hugging me. “Bee said she had some girls’ dinner and West’s fast asleep. I thought she’d mentioned you were going to the hens’ night out, but then when Josh said he was meeting you I was happy to tag along. You look great, sweetie.”

  “I’m so psyched to see you!” I said, which I always was when I saw cute Parker. Although I must admit for some reason I felt…weirdly left out of Bee’s girls’ dinner. Maybe she told him she was inviting me and then decided against it? We weren’t even close friends, so I shouldn’t feel excluded and quite frankly I’d choose a night with the current company rather than that group, but whatever.

  Within minutes, any lingering thoughts of Bee disappeared as we were regaled by hy-fucking-sterical stories that had me almost peeing in my pants with laughter. First Parker told us about this crazy Swiss client, Count Alexei von Hapsenfürer, who was a seventy-year-old billionaire eccentric who lived in an Alps-perched château that was so remote you literally had to helicopter into it. The dude wore an eye patch from some shooting accident and lived alone in his hundred-room estate with his staff of seventeen and his pet monkey, Josiah, who wore cloth diapers secured with a diamond safety pin. He took shopping trips to Dubai on his G5 and had a tank of piranhas that he’d feed with his killings from hunting trips. Parker said he had a contraption that would lower in his newly slaughtered wild boar and seconds later it emerged with only the porcine skeleton left, gnawed clean by the small but ferocious fish.

  Then Leigh told us all this insane music industry gossip—she worked at Sky Records, a label owned by two druggie brothers who minted money and harvested Grammys. Between her tales of one country star who built a Texas-shaped pool in his backyard and a Brooklynite emo crooner who got caught banging a Lolitaesque sixteen-year-old who’d said she was twenty, Parker, Josh, and I were howling, doubled over with laughter.

  We all had the absolute best time ever, and when dinner was over I was sad to have it end. Later on that night, we climbed into bed, and I told Josh how much I missed working; Parker and Leigh had so many fun stories and experiences and I felt like I wasn’t really out in the world anymore. I was a shut-in with Grover and the gang. But I loved Violet and didn’t feel like I could leave her all day. And plus, who the hell would hire me? I had no clue what I wanted to do anyway, so it was all moot.

  “You can do anything, Han. You’ll get any job you want. There’s no one like you,” he said, kissing me. I didn’t quite feel reassured since I had no clue what would make me happy but I knew I was definitely soothed by his arms around me, which was becoming a rarity due to his late hours. And that safety zone would soon become even more remote.

  “Hannah, um,” Josh stammered. “I feel really bad about this, but you know that crazy guy in Switzerland Parker was telling us about?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Well…I have to go to see him.”

  “Like, there, in the alpine castle place? When?”

  “Well, it’s not definite. That’s why I didn’t mention it. But maybe Saturday.”

  “What? Like this Saturday? The day after tomorrow?”

  He nodded, reluctantly.

  “For how long?”

  “I just found out. He wants me to come for like ten days on some hunting trip. Parker usually goes but my boss said I should spend some time with him since I’m working on his account now.”

  “This sucks. I mean, he sounds like a character but he also sounds clinically insane. Now you’ll come home with an eye patch.”

  “Sweetie, I’m doing this—”

  “For us, I know.” I felt bad for giving him shit when clearly his hands were tied—in wild boar rawhide—but sometimes I just wished he’d have a normal job where you leave at six instead of nine. On a good night.

  “Hey, Han, you said you had some new porn titles for me—”

  “Oh yeah.” I smiled to myself, though I was still bummed. “Okay: Flesh Gordon, Frisky Business, and Wetness for the Prosecution.”

  He laughed out loud. “Very funny!” But he saw my grin slowly fade into a frustrated pre-departure missing of him. “Don’t worry,” he consoled. “I’ll be home before you know it.”

  Fourteen

  Lila cleared her throat delicately, placing a dainty hand to her thin neck. Her emerald ring was not unlike a billiard table. “Hannah,” she started in such a tone that I knew instructions were coming. “You know, to fully immerse yourself in life here, you’re going to have to join some of the right charity committees and junior boards.”

  “Mm-hmm,” I replied, eyeing Violet to make sure she didn’t smash one of the thousand antique objets that lined the Dillinghams’ penthouse. A maid entered the room and poured us scalding tea (did I mention it was 92 degrees out?) from a sterling teapot as I sat on edge, frantic with the thought that my kid would shatter a Tiffany lamp or Ming dynasty vase. “Well, I have been wondering how to keep busy,” I said.

  “Perfect. I’m seeing Bee’s mother for lunch next week before she leaves for Southampton. I’ll mention it to her because Bee has truly thrown herself into her philanthropies. You need to step up and make an effort in that milieu. It will be very rewarding. And to be frank, it’s not like you have much going on.”

  I didn’t mention that I was thinking more along the lines of working on something I could parlay into a career down the road, since she once scoffed at working moms as Bee and Maggie so vociferously had in the playground.

  “It’s truly necessary,” Lila advised. “If you want to meet the right group. Get into the right clubs. Be a part of everything. You can’t skulk around alone with Violet all the time. It’s not good for her and it’s not good for you, dear. You must—how shall I say this?—play the game.”

  I smiled at the now all-too-familiar expression. “So I’ve heard,” I responded, while darting Hermes-like to rescue a small silver-and-tortoise box out of Violet’s paws. “I know we have to face the same thing with schools this fall…”

  “Well, you be sure to follow Bee on that. She is wired and knows exactly what to do. She is such a great mother,” Lila said, starry-eyed. “Do you know she nursed West for a year? In my day, no one nursed, it was considered so bohemian, so hippie! But it’s back in vogue now, I suppose, and she was determined to be the best mother she could be, bless her heart. That girl is a gem. A true class act.” Lila had a girl crush on Bee! She would have been positively orgasmic had Bee wed Josh and been the dream daughter-in-law she could squire up Madison.

  I didn’t bring up that Bee said she had a live-in baby nurse, for which the going rate was $250 per day, during that entire nursing goddess period, which helps.

  “And you simply must must must go with her to one of those lectures—Doctor…Poundsomething—”

  “Poundschlosser,” I muttered. I was starting to think this guy was the Manhattan Mommy High Priest.

  “Yes. Please at least investigate it, you have nothing to lose. And you might meet some nice women through that as well.”

  Weary with the mandates from my MiL, Violet and I bid adieu to her gilded galleries of public rooms, and though the summer air stank to high heaven, I gulped a lungful, grateful for the fresh breath of freedom.

  Fifteen

  As I stare, zombielike, at the TV screen, I am wondering if the yellow-turtleneck Wiggle secretly detests children. Or whether he has, like, full bondage outfits and whips and chains in his closet. Four smiley Aussies can’t all be perfect and peachy—one of them has to have some serious skellies in there. Then I think, okay, gun to my head, with certain death if I don’t pick one, which Wiggle would I bang if forced? The thought was too disgusting. I mean, clearly Jeff the purple guy was out and the yellow-turtleneck guy was gross, too. Anthony? Ew ew ew. I had a husband I was attracted to, but I bet there were some moms who probably had a Wiggle pop up in a sex dream or something after seeing them seven thousand times. Vomit. I’d probably loofah myself ’til I was lobster red. The cheery quartet then b
roke into a line dance complete with added friends Dorothy the Dinosaur and a pirate, Captain Feathersword, as Violet joined in with the arm movements. I wondered how many moms were at that exact moment also enduring the stupid fucking songs but couldn’t change the channel ’cause their kids were in heaven.

  When the colorful foursome of glee signed off, bidding a musical adieu, I piled Violet into the stroller to buy a birthday gift for Maxwell, Lara’s son. At home a little Melissa & Doug wooden toy set is a surefire hit, but here I probably needed to amp it up a notch. So I went to Mary Arnold, which was our first stop when we visited with Violet when she was six months old; it was Josh’s childhood toy store slash utopia, filled with balloons and stickers and DVDs and toys galore.

  “Mommy, Elmo!” Violet screamed with glee on sighting the four-foot-tall red monster, and begged to be sprung from her stroller harness to wreak havoc. I let her out and walked down an aisle, searching for an appropriate treat for a three-year-old, when I saw Hallie, the redhead model mom, perusing the rack.

  “Oh hi,” I started as she stared at me blankly. “It’s Hannah, Bee’s friend? We met at lunch.”

  “Oh sure,” she said, so not sure. She was holding an art set in her hand.

  “Are you getting that for Maxwell? I was just picking something for him—”

  “This?” she replied, incredulous. “Oh no, this is for us. I got Maxwell two cashmere sweaters from Ralph Lauren, one red, one navy. So cute.”

  Oh.

  “I have no idea what to get him,” I said. “Three seems like a senior citizen to me!” No smiles. “Maybe get that rocking horse. He’s into all things equestrian these days ’cause of the grandparents’ ranch in Millbrook. They collect Thoroughbreds—Lara’s mom flies to Argentina to bid at horse auctions like all the time.” I turned to see a horse with a full mane of blond hair, a leather saddle, and a $350 price tag. Um, no.

  “I’ll figure something out,” I sighed, excusing myself to find Violet.

  After retrieving my daughter from her perch amid the dolls, I went up to the cashier to pay for a fire truck I’d found for Maxwell. It seemed cool enough, with real ladders and hardware. My rule was always that if I would be psyched to play with it, it must be okay for a kid.

  Hallie, as it turned out, was still in the store, with piles upon piles of educational toys, kiddie flashcards, and pre-K workbooks. They rang her up and she didn’t even look at the total as she blithely handed off her credit card.

  “Oh, Hannah?” she said, spying me approach. “You must come to a lecture I’m organizing, it’s part of a parenthood series organized by Dr. Poundschlosser—”

  “Oh, yes, Bee’s mentioned him.” Plus, Lila would be euphoric if I “threw myself in.”

  “He’s truly a genius. Anyway, he’s doing an Upper East Side lecture at the Y next Tuesday evening. You really would enjoy it. I take such copious notes, my hand is cramping afterward! Can you make it?”

  Was I free? Yes. Did I want to go take notes on how to parent? Not really. Did I want to be rude and put her off and piss off Lila for not making an effort? No. “Sure, I can come.”

  “Terrific. I’ll get your number from Bee and leave you the details.” Hallie walked out with three huge shopping bags. I saw her quickly relieved of her ribbon-tied load by her driver, who squired her away in her Cadillac Escalade.

  “Next,” said the woman at the register.

  It was my turn to pay, and Violet was begging for a toy. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry, but we barely have enough space for the toys you have, let alone another, love muffin.”

  “Pleeease?” She made her adorable pouty face cum smile.

  “Sorry.”

  “Okay, Mommy.”

  “I will get you a balloon, though, to tie on your stroller.”

  “Yaaaaaaaay!” Yelps of glee.

  “You can only get one, though—which color would you like?”

  “Umm…blue, please!”

  With that, the sweet woman behind the counter went to blow up a blue balloon for Violet. When she came back, she tied it on the stroller and looked at me.

  “You’re a good mother,” she said, looking in my eyes. “Most kids, they come in here and leave with whatever they want. These children are so spoiled I don’t know what they have to look forward to, I really don’t.”

  “Bigger toys, I guess. Real Porsches instead of mini ones…” I said, shrugging.

  “You keep doing what you’re doing. Your daughter is lovely.”

  I teared up, not knowing why I needed the stamp of approval at all, but as I emotionally mustered a cracking “Thank you,” I realized that this woman must see it all. Like the cool janitor in Sixteen Candles, she was probably the eyes and ears of the Upper East Side parents’ scene and somehow her approval meant way more to me than some Dr. Poundschlosser dude’s.

  The next night Violet and I hugged Josh so tight in our elevator vestibule it was as if he were off to Tikrit. I started crying as he mouthed out “I love you” through the closing elevator doors, but quickly swallowed away the cataracts on deck before Violet could see me in full Oksana Baiul–style waterfalls. I felt so pathetic and 1950s antifeminist, like I was going to crumble without Josh around for ten days. What was the matter with me? At Berkeley there was this super-strict Jewish lesbian group on campus called OrthoDykes and they all wore T-shirts that said, “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” I felt like a breathless fish out of my California waters anyway, and that bicycle was looking pretty good as he rode out that door. I had to get a grip and stop hyperventilating as if I’d been dropped in the Sahara with seventeen dollars and a compass. I was in the center of the universe (as Josh always thought of Manhattan), and I’d have to learn how to navigate it with my inner compass or die a shut-in collapsing from Wiggles exposure.

  Sixteen

  I approached the Y, where the sold-out lecture given by Dr. Poundschlosser was being held. In front of the building town cars and chauffeur-driven Mercedeses, Lincoln Navigators, and Cadillac Escalades were triple parked. Blondes were helped out of their SUVs by their drivers and scurried in, lest the faint drizzle frizz their immaculately blown-out hair.

  I entered the revolving door and saw a sign that read “Curing the Disease of Affluenza with Dr. Emile Poundschlosser,” as the hordes flowed past me with the soundtrack of stiletto click-clicks, air-kisses, and Chanel bags being zipped. I scanned the room for Bee, who I spied sitting with Maggie, Hallie, and Lara in the second row. I walked up to them but there wasn’t a free seat left for me, so I ducked into the row behind them and was alone until two friends in matching tweed jackets and intermingling eaux de parfum sat beside me.

  “Ladies,” began the esteemed doctor. “I’m very pleased you could all be here to join me.” Yeah, espesh ’cause the four-hundred-strong crowd each shelled out thirty bucks, I thought. “May I first ask, before I begin, that you please take this moment to turn off your cellular phones and pagers so as not to disrupt the lecture.”

  With that, every single woman whipped out a sleek Motorola Razr or a tiny silver phone, and the auditorium erupted in a brief symphony of whirrs and buzzes and rings. Black-Berrys were switched off, bags reclasped, and silence fell again upon the eager crowd, most of whom clutched Tiffany or Montblanc sterling pens and pads of paper for recording the golden kernels of wisdom Dr. Poundschlosser would share.

  “Welcome. We are here tonight to discuss a brewing, festering, contagious disease: Affluenza. In our zip code, it’s a pandemic. Yes, wealth has its burdens…” Oh please, I thought. There are people living in caves and mud huts and shitting in holes and dying of starvation, and this dude’s yammering on about the burden of privilege? Gagsville. “The weight of competition, the pressure of material goods, having the best things, winning placement at the top schools, living in the best apartments—it’s not just keeping up with the Joneses where we live. It’s keeping up with the Rockefellers.”

  Granted, I knew there were certain afflictions that
truly were rich people’s domain. You don’t, for example, hear much about anorexia in third world countries. And rich peeps did seem to off themselves a lot; just since our move, I’d heard of multiple heirs throwing themselves off Park Avenue balconies, skiing into trees in Aspen, or crashing their Duccati motorcycles. But as Poundschlosser droned on and on about how our poor kids had this huge uphill challenge of growing up in this hotbed of money, I was ill. These kids were so fucking lucky! Their every whim was entertained, their every desire granted. Their parents pulled strings to give them access to anything their little hearts desired, whether it was piles of toys at the register or toddler clothes worthy of a Parisian atelier. The dude was making me sick. I couldn’t believe I shelled out thirty smacks, let alone that Bee and her friends—and all the other disciples—paid thousands weekly to guzzle down this guy’s absurd pontifications and pick his brain. He finally wrapped up after thirty-five minutes of complete and utter bullshit. I scanned the crowd to see if I could pick out another soul who seemed disgusted or even bored, but all seemed positively rapt and under his spell.

  “And now I’d like to open the floor for questions. Yes? You in the camel shift dress!”

  Everyone turned to see a petite, chic woman rise.

  “Yes, thank you, first of all, Doctor, for that fascinating insight. I just wanted to ask, how do I avoid spoiling my son when his grandparents insist on certain luxuries? For example, my in-laws just bought a huge antique carousel for our back lawn in Bridgehampton. And we do have a lot of property, it’s not about the space. I just think it’s a bit much…”

  “Excellent question,” he responded. “Gifts can be outside your control, but you must take a stand and rein in certain purchases. Perhaps accept the carousel, but then make it clear that they should give only one gift per occasion—birthday, Christmas, et cetera.”