Fourth Comings (12 page)

twenty-nine

“T
ry this on,” Bethany said, without further explanation.

“What is it?”

“It’s adorable, that’s what it is.”

It was a tiny T-shirt with two lip-smacking rainbow-sprinkled donuts encircling each breast.

“DONUT HO’?”

“It’s a play on words!” Bethany offered unnecessarily. “We’ll debut the new uniform with the launch of Papa D’s newest treat….” Shegrandly gestured at the plate set before us, on which there was an assortment of glazed, chocolate dipped, and sprinkled treats, the kind that PapaD’s most famous competitor has copyrighted as Munchkins. “DONUTHO’s! Get it?”

I got it, all right. I got that I wouldn’t have to perform the sort of sordid acts that my XXX namesake, Jessica Darling the porn star, is famous for. But I would be expected to wear a uniform that hints that I just might perform such acts if the price was right.

“I don’t see what the T-shirt has to do with me. You told me Grantwanted me for a job in marketing…or something.”

“Junior Vice President of Branding.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Grant needs bright, attractive women like you to tour target cities like Atlantic City, Vegas, Reno, maybe Los Angeles….”

“Wearing this?” I asked.

“Well, of course. We need you to meet with potential investors. We’re trying to penetrate an untapped market….”

“In this T-shirt, the untapped market will want to penetrate me.”

“Of course,” Bethany replied, not getting the joke. “This is a chance to see major growth in new regions….”

“Major growth in the nether regions.

” Then I let her finish for the next five minutes, during which I learned that Grant and Wally D’Abruzzi had even been bestowed the honor of “Best New Franchisers” in
Capitalist
magazine, with new Shoppes opening up all over the country, including some in the unchartered territories of the South and Midwest. And yet there was always room for improvement. Apparently, Papa D’s Donuts “exceeded sales projections” in the suburbs. It merely “met projections” in the exurbs. But it “underperformed” in urban areas. My brother-in-law was always looking for new ways to bump himself up to the top 99.99 percent of earners from his current 99.9 percent position, so this underperforming just wouldn’t do.

It was a vexing question: How could he increase customer traffic in the urban areas, where one could get coffee and handheld carbohydrates on just about any block? The solution, according to my brother-in-law and my sister, was simple: sex.

“Why do guys go to Hooters?” Bethany asked.

“Hot wings, hot chicks.”

“Exactly!”

“So…pastries and prostitutes?”

“We won’t employ prostitutes,” Bethany said matter-of-factly.

“You’ll employ girls to look like prostitutes….”

“And
provide peerless customer service,” my sister added.

“A lap dance with every latte!” I volunteered mock helpfully.

“Hmm.” Bethany pensively tapped her manicure on the countertop. “I think it would violate the city’s cabaret laws….”

She was still dead serious. This reveals an elemental cause of all our miscommunication. I am fluent in snark. Bethany only notices snark when snark grabs her off the sidewalk, throws her in the back of a sketchy van with tinted windows, drives to the middle of the Meadow-lands in the dead of night, and uses a heavy blunt instrument to smack her repeatedly about the head as it screams, “I’M SNARK. DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME? I’M SNARKY SNARKY SNARK!” And even then she’s like, “Ohhhh? Snark? Is that you?”

“Bagel and a blow job,” I continued in my gleefully facetious vein.

“We don’t sell bagels,” she said, ignoring my comment because the only thing my sister lacks more than a snark detector is a sense of humor. “Anyway, this is not a customer service position. You wouldn’t be
selling
the donuts. You’d be selling a
lifestyle
as a paid representative of the Wally D’s/Papa D’s Retailtainment Corporation on the franchise level….”

“If we’re working off of the Hooters model, would I pair my DONUT HO’ T-shirt with a pair of shorts?”

“Any ideas are welcome. Grant is always looking for ways to grow our business. He appreciates the brainstorming process….”

Yes, he appreciates the give-and-take exchange of ideas so much that he couldn’t even be bothered to meet with me in person.

“Ooh! Ooh! I’ve got it!” I said, wildly waving my hand in the air. “A pair of silver short-short-short-shorts…”

“Okay…”

“I mean
reeeeeaallly
short,” I said. “So short that you’ll have to consider providing medical benefits that cover, you know, certain
female infections.”
I whispered these last two words. “Shorts like these don’t exactly, you know,
breathe….”

“Great…,” Bethany said, losing interest.

“So picture a handprint on each butt cheek….” I smacked my own ass stripper-style—
SSSSSLAP! SSSSSLAP!
—to emphasize my point.

“I’m picturing it….”

“And in pink script: ‘HOT-N-STICKY BUNS.’”

“‘HOT-N-STICKY BUNS,’” Bethany repeated to herself, trying it out.

“Think about how
Playboy
has marketed its image to the masses,” I said. “DONUT HO’ T-shirts. HOT-N-STICKY BUNS trucker caps. DONUT HO’ lunch boxes. HOT-N-STICKY BUNS onesies…”

“I love it!” Bethany said, cheeks flushed. “See? You’re
perfect
for this job.”

“Bethany,” I said, my voice calm. “I’m joking. This whole thing is a joke.”

“Of course you’re joking! We’re all joking! It’s tongue-in-cheek!”

“It’s certainly tongue-in
-something….”

“DONUT HO’. HOT-N-STICKY BUNS. It’s all fun and sexy.”

“It’s sex
ist,
Bethany, not sex
y.”

Bethany set her still-steaming mug of chai tea on her gray marble coaster that was protecting her white marble countertop.

“If a guy wants to pay double for a donut served by a hottie in a DONUT HO’ T-shirt and short shorts, then why shouldn’t we profit from it?” she asked. “What’s so wrong about a woman using her feminine wiles for capital gain? This is a pro-female promotional campaign!”

This was a secondhand argument Bethany was making. I’m sure it was first made by her husband to gird himself for the inevitable protests from Christians and Friedan-model feminists and whoever else hasn’t had much to do lately since Howard Stern went satellite. And what better person to take this perverse pro-feminist argument public than a flat-chested corporate figurehead with a newly minted Ivy League degree? G-Money was an evil genius. He deserved every penny he had ever earned.

I couldn’t expect someone like my sister to understand why the DONUT HO’ promotion was just another pathetic example of “feminism” gone wrong. She has soared, swooped, and glided through life on the gilded wings of her golden good looks. I mean, it’s one thing to be a MILF and have other people refer to you as such in private. “
Now
there’s
a mom I’d like to fuck.”
But it is quite another to unapologetically and unironically refer to yourself and your circle of friends as MILFs, as my sister and her friends do.

I would love to lecture her on how embracing the porn aesthetic doesn’t liberate women, it only validates men’s right to objectify us. And objectification is objectification, even if the woman profits from it, and especially so if the profits come in the form of wads of bills stuffed into teeny G-strings. How is our gender ever going to be taken seriously if the tacit promise to give head is the easiest way to get ahead…?

(Oh my. I
do
sound like Manda. I’ll just stop right here.)

thirty

W
hat could be so bad about attending an end-of-summer barbecue in a beautifully cultivated garden atop one of the most envied brown-stones in Brooklyn Heights?

Ask the hostess. Bethany hates throwing parties. Oh, she’ll deny it. But she hates it. Whereas our mom totally gets off on being the sole person responsible for conceiving and executing her fabulous backyard-on-the-waterfront affairs, my sister totally freaks out, even when she hires professionals for all the traditional party-hostess duties (cooking, serving, cleaning, bartending, etc.) short of greeting her guests at the door.

True to form, my sister met me in full Stepford-on-meth mode.

“Jessie! You’re here! You’re twenty minutes late! I thought you’d never arrive! The MILFs are all here!”

(See? I wasn’t kidding about that MILFs thing.)

The MILFs came together through their husbands, all of whom met G-Money in business school or shortly thereafter while working as tireless young turks on Wall Street during the get-rich-quick tech boom of the late nineties. The threesome invited today had all wisely invested in Wally D’s/Papa D’s Retailtainment Corp. and were now enjoying their good fortune. The husbands spent the afternoon cavemanning the ten-thousand-dollar grill, marveling at the flames (“Ugga. Ugga. FIRE.”) and attacking large chunks of charred flesh with titanium spears (“Ugga. Ugga. MEAT.”).

Their wives were huddled together, wineglasses in hand, gossiping in bemused, beleaguered tones about their spouses’ Cro-Magnon display, conspicuously similar in an Atkins-thin and Blandi-blond kind of way. They were all simply yet expensively dressed. Their body-skimming luxe T-shirts were paired with linen gauchos or swingy, silk twill circle skirts. They wore leather thongs or ballet flats on their pedicured feet. They never over-accessorize. Perhaps a pair of silver hoop earrings, a beaded necklace, a jade bangle bracelet. Each knows that her ostrich-egg-sized engagement diamond is all the bling any tasteful woman needs.

(I had slipped your handmade ring off my finger and into my front pocket. I had learned from Bridget that it
would
be noticed, and I didn’t want to have
that
discussion in front of
them.
)

After careful observation, I have noticed subtle and not-so-subtle differences among these four women that make this group friendship possible. The distinctions comprise a complicated system of checks and balances, one that ensures that any individual MILF does not gain preeminence over any of the others.

My sister is by far the most beautiful of the four, but with her (our) humble middle-class roots and a B.A. from an undistinguished state school, she is undermined by a certain lack of cultural and intellectual sophistication. Dierdre earned a Ph.D. in art history from the University of Virginia, but makes no secret of her sexless marriage. Liesl is a Main Line Philadelphian and has multiorgasmic sex with her husband, but has achieved only an approximation of attractiveness through several painful surgeries and frequent tweaks from an alliance of on-call aestheticians. Meredith has a B.A. from Wesleyan, has sex once a week, and is naturally attractive, though not anywhere close to beautiful. A moderate among extremists, Meredith could upend the whole social order if it weren’t for the tribe’s tendency to gang up against her when she’s acting “know-it-all-y.”

I know I’m oversimplifying here. But I feel at liberty to do so because the MILFs have assigned themselves to similar stock roles. Get a few drinks in them, and it’s not uncommon to hear them refer to one another by the character names of famous TV foursomes. A handy reference guide:

BETHANY=CHARLOTTE=ROSE=SUSAN

DIERDRE=MIRANDA =SOPHIA=BREE

LIESL=SAMANTHA=BLANCHE=GABRIELLE

MEREDITH=CARRIE =DOROTHY =LYNETTE

And if one of them isn’t around, you should hear them fight over who makes the best Rachel, leaving the other two to make the desultory choice between Monica and Phoebe.

I once made the error of joining in on the game.

“Hey, Cartman,” I said. “Kenny wants to know if this wine is the same vintage as the Pinot Noir that Kyle uncorked for Stan’s birthday party.”

They looked at me as if I were a three-hundred-pound party-crashing crack whore who had just cannonballed into the Soho House swimming pool in an ass-flossing bikini. I didn’t make the same mistake twice.

The MILFs are stay-at-home moms (SAHMs) by choice. They can all afford to outsource the very best in child care, but take great pride in favoring occasional (and often blood-related) babysitters over full-time nannies. The four MILFs have produced six kids in all, two singletons (Marin and Driver) and two sets of twins (Pierson/Lene and Seamus/Maura). The children range in age from twenty-four months to four years old and are all remarkably poised and polite, yet not preternaturally perfect by any means. They are all capable of whining, bullying, and other bratty or downright brutish behavior, and I’ve caught the quick flash of relief crossing the faces of three of the MILFs when the fourth’s kid is “having a moment.”

When I arrived today, none of the kids was “having a moment.” All six were being happily entertained by the Non-Stop Party Patrol, a popular troupe consisting of a half-dozen Broadway-level performers who are also certified child-care professionals. Despite this 1:1 ratio for a party that will last four, maybe five hours at most, the MILFs don’t see themselves as outrageously decadent by New York City standards. No, they have made a very conscious decision not to be “one of
those
mommies.” This is a group effort. There’s no indisputable definition of what it means to be “one of those mommies,” and certainly no trustworthy authority on how to avoid being one. So like all successful cliques, the MILFs have designated themselves experts on all subjects of importance, eschewing conventional wisdom in favor of their own. They live by their own specific and ever-changing set of rules, which as a childless outsider I am totally incapable of following.

I’m sure they must be grateful to have other mommies to turn to in times of maternal crisis, but I can’t help but think that the MILFs have all become co—or rather, quad—dependent, shunting common sense for the sake of the group. To sustain their utopist microcosm of mommy-hood, one MILF cannot make a decision without consulting the others: Soy milk versus organic cow’s milk? Tory Burch Kids versus Gap Kids? Looney Louie versus the Non-Stop Party Patrol? And once a decision is made, the option that meets the MILF stamp of approval is deemed OTB, short for “only the best.” As used in a sentence:
Bethany hired the Non-Stop Party Patrol. They’re OTB!

OTB isn’t restricted to the realm of child-rearing. I’ve overheard Bethany on the phone seeking the MILFs’ taste-making OTB approval in great debates such as: Quinoa versus couscous? Pointy toe versus round? Restalyne versus your own ass fat? It reminds me so much of the Clueless Crew at the height of their persuasive powers in middle school, when one wouldn’t so much as put a butterfly clip in her hair without making a three-way conference call first. It must be exhausting to keep up with OTB. No wonder Bethany needs me to give her a two-hour break every day.

Today Bethany was soliciting opinions on something far more substantive than usual: her new business idea.

“Jessie! I was just telling everyone about my plans for the Be You Tea Shoppe!”

My sister hopes this will be the next moneymaker for Wally D’s/ Papa D’s Retailtainment Corp., and the first in which she will play more than a peripheral role. The Be You Tea Shoppe, as Bethany imagines it, will be a one-stop destination for grandmothers, mothers, and daughters to get makeovers and mani-pedis while consuming teeny-tiny sandwiches and sipping hot beverages with their pinkies up. It would also be very, very pink. Some visionaries get their ideas from great works of literature or music. I’m fairly certain that Bethany got her inspiration from that episode of
The Brady Bunch
in which Mike Brady is commissioned by a hottie crackpot named Gigi to design an office that looks like a pink powder puff.

“It’s Libby Lu meets Dylan’s Candy Bar meets Alice’s Tea Cup,” my sister gushed. “You know that cute place on the Upper West Side?”

The MILFs cooed appreciatively.

“Genius!”

“Just what this city needs!”

(And, of course…)

“OTB!”

“Well, go out of your way to tell your husband to tell my husband,” Bethany said pointedly. “Because he won’t listen to me.”

That Bethany doesn’t see any difference between DONUT HO’ and the Be You Tea Shoppe is totally beyond my comprehension. I might have even said this if the MILFs hadn’t suddenly turned their attentions on me. I knew what was coming next.

“So, Jessie,” asked Dierdre, “what’s new and exciting in your life?”

I played it coy. “Oh, nothing much.”

“Oh, stop it!” Meredith insisted.

“We’re boring mommies who live vicariously through you!” Liesl insisted.

“How’s that hot bad-boy boyfriend of yours?” Dierdre asked.

“Oh, didn’t you hear? He’s reformed,” Bethany piped in. “He’s a Princeton man now….”

“Oh, la-di-da,” Liesl trilled. “Your sister says your Princeton man is quite the swordsman….”

I shot my sister a horrified look.

“Jessie! I never said anything like that. Liesl, you tell her the truth.”

“No, she never said that,” she confessed. “No, I believe her actual words were ‘quite the cocksman.’”

“Liesl!” My sister jerked with irritation and spilled her Vintner’s Reserve Chardonnay on the slate patio.

I knew Liesl was lying. My sister would never use either term.

“Just tell us one of your stories,” Meredith implored. “We all love your stories.”

I am twenty-two years old. Single. No kids. These women have totally fetishized me.

“Okay,” I said, relenting. “A few weeks ago I was hit on by a drag queen named Royalle G. Biv….”

The MILFs clapped and whooped in anticipation.

Yes, ladies, gather round. It’s time for the boffo single-girl-in-the-city spectacular you’ve all been waiting for,
The Jessica Darling Show,
starring none other than that fabulous, funny twentysomething herself, Jessica Darling!