I'm Not Julia Roberts (6 page)

The parents are herded into the auditorium seats, and the show begins. After a few numbers, Roxie sees that, at Liv’s high school, “talent” is defined as singing off-key in body glitter or wearing as little as legally possible while shaking your thang to loud, monotonous music. Roxie slides down in her seat in horror while Tate not so secretly plays games on his cell phone.

Liv is the seventeenth act. She walks out onto the stage in her silvery blue unitard and fluffy white blond wig: Smurfette gone bad. Her expression is her usual, one of intense constipation, but beneath it her neck is long and elegant, her limbs belted with tight ropes of muscle. She begins to dance, and Roxie feels her own muscles tighten first in sympathy, then in surprise, then in wonderment. All she’s ever seen Liv dance were the pretty things, the sweet things,
La Bayadere, The Nutcracker.
This is rough ballet, broken ballet—it is the Tragedy of the Fallen Arches, the Ballad of the Barbie Feet—but the pain in Liv’s desperate gyrations, in her powerful leaps and contortions, is real and terrible and beautiful, raw and bitter as a mouthful of Baker’s chocolate.

Roxie grasps Tate’s smooth, dry wrist, but in her mind it is Alan’s dewy one. Look, she wants to say, to scream.
Look!
Can you believe it? Would you
ever
have believed it? She grips the wrist tighter in her hot little hand and knows that she has never seen a more brilliant performance, a more stunning debut.

DEAR PSYCHO

August 7, 2001
To: [email protected]
Fr: [email protected]

Mitch:

You know, I just got another stupid note from Beatrix, first one in a while. I was going to e-mail you some crap about marriage or divorce or relationships, but then I realized that I was sick of my own stories and sicker of my own half-assed theories and dumped the message (and Beatrix’s note) in the trash. Then it occurred to me that if
I
was sick of all this, you must be in your death throes. Sorry, buddy. Next time the Ex has a psychotic break, I’ll try to save the bitching for the therapist.

I just wanted to tell you one thing. The other day, I went out and bought some gym shoes. They were red.

Ward

Ms. Lupe Klein and Mr. Ward Harrison

Cordially invite you to attend their wedding

Saturday, April 21st 2001

1:00 p.m.

At the Chicago Botanic Garden

Reception to follow immediately after the ceremony

Mom, this is what the invite’s going to look like. Pretty cool, huh? It will also have this nice vellum overlay thingy that Annika picked out for me. And ribbons. Apparently, one
must
have ribbons.

Remember, we still have to go shopping for your dress (or pants suit, or overalls, or whatever it is you want to wear). Not black, though, OK? We’re trying to be festive here. . . .

Love, Lu

Posted on SPLITSVILLE.com, February 13, 2001:

Is this what normal feels like? Tired but not exhausted? Irritated but not incensed? Pleased but not ecstatic? Calm but not serene?

I guess I’ve reached the equilibrium I’ve been hoping for, right? The Ex is still an ass, but he’s a tiny one. Dear Husband is, well, DEAR—so supportive and so encouraging (ha! He even stepped in and told the Ex to get off my back, and so far, so good). The boys get along with their stepmother OK but are finally starting to see that she isn’t the coolest thing since flared jeans—I guess the novelty’s worn off! The job’s going great.

Anyway, things are good, and here I am, feeling weird about it, feeling mad about it. It’s been so long, too long. You guys all said adjusting could take years, but I didn’t want to believe you. I guess I
couldn’t
believe you. Five years to get the courage to get out of a marriage, and then another five years to recover from getting out of a marriage? That’s a quarter of my life!

God, I think I just gave myself morning sickness, and it isn’t even morning, and I’m not pregnant.

Anyone else feel this way? You work so hard, go through so much, and you don’t even get to be delirious with happiness at the end of it all. A lot of times you don’t even get the satisfaction of seeing your Ex miserable. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?

2Good2BeBlue

December 18, 2000
To: [email protected]
Fr: [email protected]

Mitch:

Another fight over the boys’ Christmas schedule, but this time that asshole Alan got on the phone to lecture me for “screwing with his wife.” You’d be proud of me, buddy, for what I didn’t say, like, he wasn’t too concerned about screwing with her when she was MY wife. But I don’t want to come to blows like we almost did a couple months ago. Lu was so freaked out that I thought she might call off the wedding.

Anyway, I was too tired to fight over the schedule, so I just let them have Christmas Day, even though it’s my day. We’ll celebrate Christmas in January. Or March. Who cares?

How are things with you? Still looking for another job?

Ward

November 26, 2000. Instant Messaging:

BeaFREE40: Britt! We miss you (all you guys)! What did you do for Thanksgiving?

SuuuperDawg: Not 2 much. We had pizza.

BeaFREE40: Pizza? Didn’t you just have turkey?

SuuuperDawg: We were hungry. We ate pizza.

BeaFREE40: When I called last night, Lu sounded like she was crying.

SuuuperDawg: No she wasn’t. She likes pizza.

BeaFREE40: Yes, she was. You know how you can just tell by somebody’s voice?

SuuuperDawg: No.

BeaFREE40: Come on, you know what somebody’s voice sounds like when they’re crying. Kind of thick?

SuuuperDawg: Huh????

BeaFREE40: What do you think she’s crying about?

SuuuperDawg: No clue.

BeaFREE40: Did she and your father have a fight?

SuuuperDawg: No.

BeaFREE40. Well, all I can say is that she didn’t sound happy. I told you that she wouldn’t be happy.

SuuuperDawg: Whatever U say.

Posted on SecondWivesSpeakeasy, October 23, 2000:

I’m leaving. I mean it. These people are crazy! All of them!

We’re all called to a parent-teacher conference, the four of us, my soon-to-be Dear Husband (who isn’t DEAR right now, or ever. I want to know why we all have to use the acronym DH on all these boards, anyway? I never would call my husband “Dear” even when he IS my actual husband, even when I don’t feel like killing him).

SO, anyway, we’re all there, my STBDH, the Ex, her grinning chimp husband, and me. The teacher shows us some notes that my soon-to-be stepson has been passing in class, all of them with cartoon drawings with people having sex on them. (Totally gross, I know, but aren’t all teenage boys kind of gross? It’s bad, but is it that bad? I don’t know! Help me!)

Anyway, the teacher flashes these nasty little drawings and the Ex starts yelling at us, accusing us of having sex in front of her kid or something (of course, the grinning chimp man is nodding sternly behind her). And then STBDH loses it, reminding them that THEY were the ones who were f*$%king around when DH was out of town, did they think stepsons didn’t know what was going on in the other room? The Ex and the STBDH keep going at each other—you were the one, no,
you
were the one—the poor teacher reduced to these little lamblike bleats of pain. Then the grinning chimp stands, hitches up his jeans, and tells my STBDH to knock it off. STBDH says—can you believe this?—“Make me.” Grinning chimp says maybe they ought to handle this situation like men. I’m thinking, what do you mean,
handle this like men
? What do men do in situations like this? Box? Arm wrestle? Duel at first light? Good thing that some other teachers heard the shouting and broke the whole thing up, otherwise, who knows what would have happened?

I have to say, I’m in shock. I can see the headline now: PARENT-TEACHER CONFERENCE SCANDAL: MEN ARGUE ABOUT WHO CAN PEE THE FARTHEST. I cannot believe the soap opera my life has become.

I have to get out of here.

LaVidaLoco

September 15, 2000
Beatrix Reynolds
N. New England Avenue
Chicago, IL

Dear Psycho:

a. Stop the useless threats

b. Get your head out of the gutter

c. Book a therapy appointment

d. Get a prescription

Ward

P.S. Here’s a check for $43.19 for school supplies.

September 10, 2000
Ward Harrison
W. Cortland Avenue

Chicago, IL

Ward:

a. The boys have come back to my house from yours repeatedly without having taken a bath or shower. You need to pay more attention to their personal hygiene while they’re at your house.

b. I have repeatedly bought Ollie new outfits that promptly disappear every time he visits you. He returns to mine wearing ripped clothing he’s outgrown. I want the boys returned to my house wearing the clothes I bought them. I won’t keep replacing clothing you’re responsible for.

c. Britt told me that he attended one of those park dances on Saturday. Do you know what goes on at these dances? The kids practically have sex on the dance floor! I find it highly disturbing that you’d be so irresponsible as to send our twelve-year-old to one of these dances just so that you and Lu can go out to dinner.

d. Britt and Devin have informed me that you and Lu have “made out” in front of them. I wonder if you understand how suggestible the children are at this age, and how vulnerable. Highly sexualized behavior that occurs at these dances you’re sending them to or at your home in front of them can confuse and overwhelm young boys, causing all kinds of problems.

You wanted to be a custodial parent, Ward. If you want to KEEP being one, I suggest you get your act together.

I’m still waiting for the check for your portion of the school supplies: $52.14.

Beatrix

August 30, 2000
Alan Reynolds
N. New England Avenue
Chicago, IL

Alan:

I think you’re under the mistaken impression that you have a role here. You don’t. There are decisions that Beatrix and I must make, discussions we must have, as the parents of our children. Advise Beatrix all you want on your own time, but I have nothing to say to you. I’m not impressed by the bullshit macho posturing.

Ward

August 25, 2000
Ward Harrison
W. Cortland Avenue
Chicago, IL

Ward:

I’m going to have to step in here and put an end to this insane letter writing. You’re upsetting my wife and my household, and I won’t tolerate it.

In the future, please direct all communications to me. (And you can be a man and pick up the phone.)

Sincerely,
Alan Reynolds

August 9, 2000
Beatrix Reynolds
N. New England Avenue
Chicago, IL

Beatrix:

First things first: Don’t send my wife any more of your nutball letters. After you bit her head off for buying the kids some CDs, well, let’s just say she isn’t interested in being your pen pal. Or your lackey. The next time Ollie forgets his gym shoes, you can get off your ass and drive over here to get them. Lu’s not a delivery person.

Second, Lu didn’t encourage any of the kids to call her “Mom,” that’s why they call her Loopy. If you want them to stop calling her these “pet names,” YOU can tell them how insecure you are.

Third. I had no say about the man you brought into my sons’ lives, and you have no say about the woman I brought into my life. Suck it up.

Ward

July 15, 2000
Ms. Lupe Klein
W. Cortland Avenue
Chicago, IL

Dear Ms. Klein:

I think that it’s time to establish some ground rules regarding my sons and your role in their lives. I understand that you’ve been encouraging them to call you “Mom,” and when they wouldn’t, you asked that they use some sort of silly pet name. I am their mother, you are their new stepmother—these are very different roles. It is your job to treat my children civilly and with respect, the same way you might treat a niece or nephew of whom you are fond. It is MY job to parent them. Do not expect that they will love you just because their father does. Do not expect that you will be “filling in” for me while they’re at your house; you are not qualified to make important decisions regarding their care. For example, Britt is NOT allowed to get his ear pierced. You have caused me much grief because you promised that he could get it done on his next birthday, and I had to be the one to disappoint him. You need to discuss these issues with me before making any promises.

I’m not trying to be difficult, I just want you to put yourself in my shoes—I don’t know you, yet I have to trust you with my children. Your respecting my position as their mother would go a long way in building that trust.

I hope we have an understanding.

Sincerely,

Beatrix Reynolds

P.S. The pants you bought Devin were totally inappropriate for school, and I returned them. Enclosed you’ll find a check for the purchase price.

Posted on SecondWivesSpeakeasy.com, March 19, 2000:

Hi, all. I’m new here—not a second wife yet but will be next year!—and have been reading a lot of the postings with great interest. I have a question for all you longtime second wives: When did you stop being afraid of the first wife? My significant other’s ex looks like the Michelin Man, if the Michelin Man was packing.

Also, when do you stop wondering why the first wife left your SO (well, aside from the fact that she must have brain damage)? Ms. Michelin’s second husband stands around grinning all the time, like a chimp with gas. What’s that about?

LaVidaLoco

December 14, 1999
To: [email protected]
Fr: [email protected]

You won’t believe this crap. Or maybe you will.

It’s my year to have the boys for Christmas Eve, so we planned on taking her to my parents’ for dinner and then Lu’s parents for dessert and coffee and a couple of gifts. (On Christmas morning, we have the boys till ten.) But when I tried to confirm the plans with Beatrix she pulls her Mrs. Hyde routine. She demands the boys for dinner on Christmas Eve and then wants to have them back on Christmas Day at 8:30 am so that they can all drive to Alan’s parents downstate. I said no way, it’s my day and the plans are set. So of course the psychobitch gets to work on the kids, especially Britt, telling him how hurt her mom and dad will be if they don’t see their grandsons on Christmas Eve, how bad Alan’s parents will feel, how the world will explode and baby animals will die and Humpty-Dumpty will never be put back together again. Poor Britt then begs me to change the plans because his mom will be angry. I called the bitch up and screamed at her to keep our boys out of it, and all she would say was: “This is what the boys want to do. Ask them.”

I hate that woman. I cannot imagine why I ever married her. Tell me, why did I marry her?

Ward

Posted on SPLITSVILLE.com, September 25, 1999:

So I knew this would happen, but I’m still not happy about it. The bimbo finally moved in. They haven’t even known each other that long, they’re not even engaged yet, but they move in together. I just think it’s so irresponsible, but when I said that to my mom, she said, “Well, YOU moved in with Alan.” Come on! It’s so different! I’ve known Alan for years! We were engaged! I didn’t pick up some bimbo off the street!

And you know what really bugs me? I’m knocking myself out, working full-time and then driving this kid to soccer practice, that kid to the dentist, and taking it and taking it from my oldest, who’s decided to become a mouthy teenager all at once, and my ex and his bimbo are waltzing around without a care in the world, with no responsibility for any of it. HE’s the one who fought for the joint custody! So why isn’t HE taking the kids to the dentist? Why is HE allowed all these weekend getaways?