Momzillas (10 page)

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.” Y
eah, 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.”

I seriously almost hurled. A carou-fucking-sel? Jeez Louise. Poor Violet literally got a doll chucked at her for her second birthday. My mom always said the fewer toys, the better, because it forced kids' imaginations to grow as they have to come up with new ways to play with the toys they have as opposed to constantly getting new replacements hurled at them. Sheesh. Finally, after ten more questions, Dr. Poundschlosser finished, saying that applications for his group meetings for the following year were available in the lobby, along with envelopes containing his brochures, and, always with a plug, that his new book would be hitting bookshelves in a month's time.

Afterward, as the crowd stood up to leave, I was about to make a comment about the lecture when I was silenced by Bee's gush that it was the most amazing thing she'd ever heard.

“And how brilliant is he?” added Lara. “I mean, how lucky are we to be in his regular group?”

“Yes, there's a huge one-hundred-person waiting list, supposedly,” said Hallie.

“What did you think, Hannah?” Bee asked.

“Oh, um, it was…interesting” was my tepid response.

“You know, we could pull some strings and get you in our group,” Maggie kindly offered. Thanks but no thanks.

“Oh, you know…I just kind of do my own thing. But thanks anyway.”

Hallie and Lara looked at each other, aghast. “I don't think you understand,” Lara said, horrified. “Half of this auditorium would kill to be in one of his groups.
Kill
.”

“I know, I'm sure, I'm just sort of getting my bearings and…” I watched as they stared me down in shock. “Maybe next year,” I lied. As if. No one's sending us carousels anyway.

Seventeen

Just when I thought I'd had a jolting enough brush with the excess of Affluenza, I found myself in the thick of an outbreak, staring at a dizzying, movie-about-drugs-type warped view of fire-eaters, jugglers, men-on-stilts, Las Vegas showgirls with pasties on nips and feather boas, Rollerbladers, acrobats, and clowns with rainbow afros. I was not at Ringling Brothers. I was at a three-year-old's birthday party. As in the old Studio 54, there were velvet ropes and tight security. People with black turtlenecks and headsets whispered into the stealth mics, touching base with the catering staff, the florist, the musical director, the emcee, the event planner, and the calligrapher, who was on hand to make any last-minute adjustments. It was a seated dinner for two hundred. Forget weddings, bar mitzvahs, fiftieth anniversaries: this was the most blowout fest I had ever seen.

Naturally, Violet was on cloud nine thousand, feasting on the sights and sounds and gorging on sugar to the point where she was so hyper and up I thought she might blast off through the gilded ceiling. There was a jumpy castle, a haunted house, a mini petting zoo, an aquarium, a make-your-own-sundae bar, a caricaturist, and a button maker. There was a face painter, a giant piñata, a temporary tattoo applier. The name Maxwell appeared in lightbulbs that flashed different colors ringing the room. As I drank in the sea of decked-out kids and parents, eating caviar and blinis while clinking Bellinis, I noticed the tower of gifts from Cartier, Ralph Lauren, Tiffany, and F.A.O. Schwarz. I thought three words:
Holy fucking shit.

Violet and I entered the second ballroom beholding the scene as a man dressed as a toy soldier checked us off The List. My daughter's eyes had never been wider. Within a nanosecond, she bolted off across the room, leaving me in the dust, alone with the designer-clad skinny moms and their banker hubbies, mostly in blue button-downs and khaki pants with navy blazers. Not one square inch of naked ceiling was visible—just a dense forest of balloons, each painted with giant
M
s. Every single surface had a bowl with a different single color of M&M's—a rainbow of candy that the kids were stuffing down their faces. Through a blur of hues I saw a hand waving across the room—it was Maggie, summoning me over.

“Hiii, how are you, Hannah?”

“Oh, fine. Josh is away for ten days, so it's a little hectic. I do not know how single moms do it.”

“Nannies!” Bee replied. I didn't bother telling her most mothers do it all themselves, no staff on call so they can dart out for a mani. I thought I'd change the subject.

“Oh, I wanted to ask you guys, do you have a good pediatrician for Violet?”

“It's all about Dr. Careth,” Maggie said. “He's so great. The top in the city.”

“And easy on the eyes, too,” added Bee. “Your kid's screaming from the TB shot, but you don't care 'cause the doctor's so gorgeous!”

Oh.

“He's great,” said Maggie. “If you have trouble getting in, give him my name. He's technically not taking new patients but he'll make exceptions for friends of patients. He's really the best.”

Naturally, I wanted the best for Violet. And I was psyched they were willing to help me, phew. Who knew you had to name-drop patients to get in?

“So Hannah,” started Bee. “I'm worried about you. We all decamp for the Hamptons soon, and you'll be, like, all alone. Maybe you should come up and stay with us. Then Josh can come on the weekends? We have a guest home you're welcome to.”

I was touched by the generous offer but there was no way I could leave Josh. I was already pathetically aching since he had left and I quite frankly never understood the long-distance marriage thing.

“We have a hens' party every Wednesday night with a hundred and twenty women, it's great!” Bee continued.

I am such a girls' girl, but somehow that did not sound so great to me. There was no way I would spend more time away from Josh than his work already dictated.

“Thank you. That sounds nice, um…maybe,” I started. Bee and Maggie looked at each other, clearly reading my hesitation. “I don't know, I just don't like being apart. I'm kind of dying this week.”

“How long have you been married?” Maggie asked.

“Three years, right?” Bee answered for me. “See, you guys are practically newlyweds! Park and I have been together for eight years, married for almost five. You'll get over that, you'll see.”

I nodded quietly, knowing damn well that would never happen. My parents had been married thirty-five years and barely spent one night apart; the whole commuter marriage thing with the wife and kids plopped three hours away was just so not a West Coast thing, and it was all very alien to me.

Hallie approached us, holding a flute of champagne. “Hi, girls,” she said, lifting her glass. “Cheers, ladies! I'm celebrating: Julia Charlotte is fully potty trained. Fully trained! Thatcher and I are delighted,” she bragged. “How's Violet doing on that front, Hannah?”

“Um…we're not quite there yet.” I'd brought it up with Violet but, with the move and everything, I didn't want to start pushing the potty just yet.

“Really?” Hallie asked, agog. “We started at seventeen months. You really should get on it. Nursery school application season is just about upon you!”

Violet came running up to us with Weston, Maxwell, and a few other kids, including Julia Charlotte, who then walked up to Violet and smacked her.

“Ow!” said Violet. I was horrified.

“You're okay, it's okay,” I said to Violet and Hallie, trying to play it cool.

“Kids will be kids,” she sighed, not apologizing for her supposed genius's brutal assault on my child.

Then a few minutes later, Julia Charlotte was pulling Violet's arm. When she suddenly let go, Violet crashed to the floor, accidentally knocking into Maxwell on her way down. It was so not a biggie but naturally the birthday boy burst into tears, screaming and crying. Lara swooped in to scoop him up, shooting me a glare.

“I'm s-so sorry,” I stammered. “Violet fell and accidentally bumped—”

“Come here, my sweet pea,” she cooed to Maxwell while rocking him, holding him to her Dior-covered breast. “That mean little girl hurt you. We won't let her hurt you again.”

I was stunned. My daughter gets whacked in the head and it's “Kids will be kids”! But when she was knocked into this fluent-Chinese-speaking pansy-ass boy, she's a mean girl. Fuck that bullshit. I gathered Violet up in my arms to get the hell out of that gilded circus.

“Maybe we should go,” I said, looking at Maggie and Bee.

“Bye,” said Bee, leaning in for an air-kiss good-bye. “Don't worry about Lara. She's just a little protective.”

As I walked out I caught sight of Hallie cuddling Julia Charlotte while Bee and Maggie refilled their chardonnay, and the party raged on.

AND BACK AT THE SEVENTEEN-INCH COMPUTER SCREEN…

Instant Message from: BeeElliott

BeeElliott: Hannah = lame.

Maggs10021: Why?

BeeElliott: I dunno. She bugs. Did you see how she was so not into Poundschlosser? I mean, the man is a god in child development. What, does she think she's such an expert mom and doesn't need him?

Maggs10021: I dunno, I can see how he might be overwhelming…

BeeElliott: Whatevs.

Maggs10021: Are you still going to invite her to join the NACHO committee? You should—she's nice, Bee. And she needs to meet peeps, etc.

BeeElliott: Okay, okay. I'll do it.

Eighteen

The next day was Sunday and with my hubby away I was alone with little to fill my day and keep Violet amused. Save for a quickie e-mail from Josh with three new porn titles he'd come up with (
Saturday Night Beaver
,
The Touchables
, and
For Your Thighs Only
), I was feeling very blah. Leigh was away with a band, I couldn't reach any pals in California, and so Vi and I just walked and walked around for hours and found ourselves at the park, where we plopped for practically the whole afternoon. I got more than a few weird looks from moms who would never let their kids near the sandbox, so Violet and I sat alone playing in the sand, which wasn't filled with syringes or anything…just sand. I pushed her on the swings and was amazed by how much she had grown, the little rubber swing with leg holes being my barometer, like an outgrown sweater, of how she'd sprouted. They'd had the same swings in San Francisco and I remembered snapping away at her first giggle-filled ride just after she'd learned to sit up. Finally I hauled her out and we made our way home, where she promptly passed out. I carried her onto the couch and put a big warm blanket over our legs. It wasn't so much that it was chilly but that I wanted a physically soothing thing to comfort me and sought the basics: blankie, Spaghetti-Os. As I slurped my bowl, I smiled thinking how all these women had personal chefs and I did too: Chef Boyardee. I sighed, wondering how reviled I'd be were Lara and Hallie to see me eating such Britney Spearsian foodstuffs.

Sundays, for some, are all about long strolls holding hands, fluffy French toast, and relaxed absorption in the obese newspaper, but for me they are gut-churningly dismal. They make me want to either string up a noose or go on an insane carb binge. I think they are haunted by that acidic pit caused by what I call the Ghost of Homework Past. There's residual nausea from years of dreading the school week and piles of assignments that dauntingly faced you after the cereal bowls were washed and the milk and OJ cartons were back in the fridge. But that afternoon, it was pasta instead of wrist-slashage, and as I inhaled my trashy eats, I looked out the large window onto the chaos outside, and started to close my eyes before I could cry out the tears that were sizzling on deck.

I remember when I was little, my parents would order in from Hunan Garden (eleventh commandment: Thou shalt order in Chinese on Sundays) and they'd be glued to Mike Wallace as that stressful
60 Minutes
clock would tick at commercial breaks and make me want to hurl my scallion pancakes. That effing giant watch. It marked my life ebbing away from week to week, each monster-second-hand flicker scavenging a beat of my heart.

Okay, so I was being a melodramatic teen. And now I was having a relapse, but without hormones and high school to blame it on. Except I felt like I was in high school, the new kid who joined midyear and who the teacher introduces to the whole class, telling them to “reach out” to the newcomer in the hallways. I had to chill. People moved all the time, they had husbands traveling and did all the housework themselves, boo-hoo. And despite my meal choice, I was in a decent apartment and not some hovel. I was blessed! I knew I had to stop wallowing. Plus, some women were in towns of population 547, not a thriving metropolis with a world of fun stuff waiting outside! But none of it called to me at that moment. I snuggled under my blanket next to slumbering Violet and grabbed for the other magic nerve-mollifying device: the remote control. But nothing was on. Preachers, news programs, yawnsville. Ahhh, Sunday, the vat of salt in my bloody self-inflicted wound. There I was, feasting on the Os and wondering where my life would take me, as I did hourly. I flipped through the channels silently praying to the cloudy heavens for a Molly Ringwald movie to soothe my weary, self-battered mind. In her loneliness, amid the slamming lockers of the rich and the heartless, I'd find my heroine whose pout-turned-smile would get me through the afternoon. But no Molly to be found, alas. And she, poor thing, had it rough with those jerky white-blazer schmucks and meanie trust funders, but they were sixteen, they had a whole life ahead of them! And I was almost double,
double
their tender age. I settled for the Food Network, my new zone-out addiction, and eventually fell asleep during a sauce-making demonstration.