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Authors: Lynn Schnurnberger,Janice Kaplan

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BOOK: The Botox Diaries
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“How was the big date last night?” he asks.

“The date was great,” I say. “Just lovely.”

“What’d you do?”

Honestly? Scrubbed a sofa. Had my leg humped by a horny dog. Escaped.

Forget honesty. Why ruin the man’s breakfast? Besides, I haven’t got the stomach myself for the gory details.

“The usual,” I say vaguely. “Some drinks. A lot of talking. Dinner. You know.”

“Sure.”

He’d ask more, but Lily and Jen burst out of the playroom and Lily rushes to kiss her dad.

“Have a good time?” Dan asks, picking her up and swinging her around.

“Yup,” Lily says as Dan puts her down. “Jessie made beaded necklaces with us last night. Look.” She holds out the turquoise-and-pink ornament around her neck, which Dan admires appropriately.

“Last night?” Dan asks. “I thought Jessie was out.”

“She came home really early because she wanted to make necklaces,” Lily reports. “And she hadn’t eaten dinner, so we got to eat again. Frozen pizzas.”

Dan looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “Busted,” he says.

“Busted by an eleven-year-old,” I agree with a mock sigh.

But the girls have a different agenda. “Can I stay a little longer?” Lily asks, tugging at Dan’s hand. “I don’t want to leave yet.”

“Okay. Fifteen more minutes,” Dan says as the girls run upstairs. He takes off his jacket and tosses it on a chair.

“Want some waffles?” I ask.

“No thanks. I don’t want to bother you.”

“Don’t be silly. You haven’t had breakfast yet and I’ve plenty of batter left.”

He grins and a little dimple appears.

“I know, I know, I’m so domestic,” I say apologetically. “It’s just that—”

“No, I love it.” Dan cuts me off before I can start apologizing for waffles. I have to stop this. Last time Dan was over, I apologized because it was raining.

We go into the kitchen—normally I’d be embarrassed that I hadn’t cleaned up yet, but Dan doesn’t seem to mind—and I briefly whisk the mixture that’s still sitting in the bowl.

“What’s in there?” Dan asks, standing over my shoulder and peering at the batter. He’s tall, and when he leans in to look, my head bumps his chest. I catch a whiff of sandalwood shaving cream.

“The usual stuff. My secret ingredient is vanilla and some cinnamon and sugar.”

“Amazing,” he says, truly meaning it as he watches me spoon the batter into the waffle iron. “Around our house, defrosting Eggos is a big occasion.”

“It helps to have modern, expensive equipment,” I say and then realize he won’t know I’m joking. “Actually, I bought this relic for five dollars at a flea market last week.”

“Incredible. What a woman. I see why Lily loves coming to your house. Good breakfasts. Good company,” he says generously. I roll my eyes at the compliment and so he adds, “By the way, nice of you to rush home last night to play with the girls. Leaving your date and all.” He grins mischievously at me.

I sigh. “Okay, so the date was a disaster. Trust me, I had a lot more fun stringing beads.”

“What happened?”

“You can guess.”

“No, I can’t. I’m a forty-three-year-old guy with three kids. I can remember when disco fever wasn’t retro. What do I know about dating anymore?”

“Bingo,” I say. “Nobody who lived through John Travolta in a white suit should still be going on dates. Every time I get fixed up I feel like a complete idiot. Jen and Lily already seem more comfortable around new boys than I do. Of course they don’t have to worry about cellulite.”

Dan laughs. “Come on, Jess, any man would be lucky to get you.” He looks me straight in the eye as he says that with a sweet, sincere smile. I know he’s just being the loyal husband of my loyal best friend, but I blush anyway. “And any guy who knew you had that fancy five-dollar waffle iron would propose on the spot,” he adds.

“Give me a break. I don’t even think I want to get married again. Once was enough.”

“Really?” he asks.

I fiddle with a napkin. My great excuse for being the only single woman in the PTA is that I
like
being single. But Dan looks genuinely interested and I hear myself admitting, “I don’t know. The grass is always greener, right? I’m the one who left, but now that I’m on my own, all I can remember is the good stuff about marriage. So, yeah, in my heart of hearts I probably want someone to share my life with. Some dreamboat who’ll curl up next to me in bed every night. But, hey, I’ve been there, so I also know that the dreamboat probably snores.”

Dan scrapes a last bit of maple syrup from his plate. “Do I sense a little cynicism there? Was the first time around so bad?”

“Not bad. It had its moments.

“So what happened? He snored?”

I laugh. “Let me put it this way. We met on a beach at Club Med. I didn’t speak much French, and the only words Jacques knew in English were
Marlboros, bed
, and
You’re the most beautiful woman in the world
. You’d be surprised how far that got him.”

“Not surprised at all. Sounds like a better come-on than ‘What’s your sign?’ ”

“I probably fell for that one once, too,” I say. “But when it came to Jacques, I fell for everything. I was young and he was sexy. It was all so passionate. But five or six years down the road …” I stop and shrug. Why am I telling Dan all this?

“At least you got that great kid out of it.”

“Not even.” I stand up and start clearing his plate. “I adopted Jen right after we split. That was one of the big problems. I wanted a baby and Jacques
was
a baby. He didn’t want a family, so I left.
C’est la vie
.”

Dan doesn’t seem to know what to say.

“Hey,” I jump in. “At least my French got better.”

“For that you could have gone to Berlitz.”

I laugh. “That’s what I think every time I go on one of these blind dates.”

“I’m so sorry, Jessie. I’ve known you all these years and I never knew the details.”

“It’s okay. I don’t exactly broadcast it. Lucy’s probably the only one who’s heard the whole story.”

“Lucy. Oh, darn.” Dan gets up. “Thanks for breakfast, but I’d better get back. The boys will be home and Lucy has to get to an appointment.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know.” He laughs. “Probably a pedicure.”

First thing Tuesday, I’m walking through the kindergarten hallway at Reese Elementary School on my way to Fifth Grade Parents’ Morning and I’m already ten minutes late. But I can’t resist stopping to look at the collages tacked up on the bulletin board. They’re just too darn cute. The sign says
OUR IMPRESSIONS OF SPRING
, so I’m guessing this one puffy white cotton ball creation is an Easter bunny and not a melted snowman. Either way, it takes me back to when Jen was five and making these same funny, clumsy artworks. Can it be that Jen’s only eleven and I’m already nostalgic for lost youth—hers and mine?

I sigh and hurry on to the gym where I grab a cup of coffee and wave to a group of moms who are chatting animatedly.

“Jesse, come on over!” calls the ever-cheerful Melanie, who’s standing in the middle of the group.

“I’ll be right there,” I say.

I head across the room to where the breakfast goodies are—I jogged on the treadmill at six a.m. and now I’m starved—but suddenly Lucy comes rushing at me, her face lit with panic and her eyes popping as if she were being chased by a wild bull.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She grabs my elbow and starts wheeling me in the opposite direction.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Well, I need a muffin first.”

“Don’t go over there!” she says, in a loud whisper.

I look longingly over at the pastry table where a couple of women I know are replenishing the Danish. I try to turn in their direction, but Lucy grabs me with a hold that would bring Vin Diesel to his knees. She steers me to a corner of the gym and finally loosens her grip.

“For heaven’s sake, what’s the matter?” I ask.

“I can’t stand these mornings,” Lucy says. “All the women here hate me.” She pauses and looks around, then adds with emphasis, “Every—single—mother—in—this
—room
!”

“That would be something of a miracle,” I say with a shrug. “You can’t get the women in this room to agree on anything. Come get a muffin with me. Cranberry-apple would be nice. Maybe banana.”

“No!”
she says, sounding like a stubborn eleven-year-old rather than the parent of one. “I’m not going back there.”

I look over at the Alpha Moms who have her so alarmed and I know what she means. Cliquey girls don’t go away—they just get older. I’m always telling Jen that if she doesn’t have the Skecher hightops that everyone else is wearing her social life will
not
be over, as she so dramatically claims. But in their J. Crew uniforms of khakis, crisp cotton shirts, and muted-tone sweaters neatly tied at the shoulders, the moms seem to be sending a different message. Inadvertently, I look down to see if I’m dressed to code. Thank goodness I am.

My gaze turns to Lucy, who definitely didn’t get The Memo. She’s
not dressed like a mom—she’s dressed like she thinks a mom should dress. The hot pink sweater, which looks suspiciously like cashmere, shows more cleavage than allowed by Pine Hills law, and her jeans are tight, low-slung, and definitely not Levi’s.

“Aren’t those the jeans I saw in
In Style
?” I ask. “The ones that sell for something like five hundred dollars a pair, only in Beverly Hills?”

“They’re incredibly comfortable,” she says defensively. “Everyone I work with wears them.”

Work. So there’s the problem. The lightbulb goes off in both our heads at the same time.

“You know what’s wrong with the women in this room?” Lucy asks. “They hate all the mothers who have full-time jobs. They scheduled this little event so that none of us could make it. But here I am,” she adds, tossing her head defiantly.

“You’re paranoid,” I tell her, but even as the words are coming out, I realize she’s got a point. Nine to ten for coffee and ten to eleven-thirty in the classroom isn’t exactly the perfect schedule for anyone with a full-time job.

“You took the whole day off?” I ask, impressed.

“Oh, please,” she says. “That’s not the point. I’m here and nobody will even talk to me.”

“Who’d you try to talk to?” I ask.

“The women at the donut table,” she says, “who acted like I had the plague. The women I interrupted standing by the percolator, who were deep in conversation about how you shouldn’t have kids if you’re not going to stay home with them.”

“They didn’t mean you,” I say.

“No? Who did they mean? Hillary Clinton?”

She’s got me there. “Come on, Lucy, what difference does it make? You’ve got terrific kids. Lily. The twins. Those boys give teenagers a good name.”

“Yeah, I have great kids.” She grins. I hit a soft spot. “Really great kids. Smart and funny, all three of them. Shouldn’t that buy me some PTA points?”

“I think so,” I say as I spy the dreaded Cynthia Victor walking briskly toward us. “But here’s the person who should know.” Cynthia—former president in corporate America, current president of the PTA—is the kind of suburban supermom who never should have left Wall Street. She quit her job to raise her family. Now she coordinates Palm-Pilots with her daughter Isabella and fits in her kickboxing class between tennis lessons and town council meetings. Rumor has it that the year she was in charge of the Girl Scout cookie sale, she assured a “Troop of the Year” victory by ordering two thousand boxes of Thin Mints herself. When the kids had to make a building for social studies class, Jen concocted hers out of dominoes, toothpicks and a whole lot of Elmer’s glue. Isabella’s model, on the other hand, arrived at school with the label
DESIGNED BY I. M. PEI ASSOCIATES
clearly visible. Cynthia demurred at the time that “I.M. didn’t do it himself. I just called someone in his office for ideas.”

Now Cynthia’s obviously on another mission.

“Jess,” she says, “I’m putting together a little mother-daughter book club. Nothing fancy. Just six or seven of us. We could read some Nancy Drew together.”

My face must give me away—what self-respecting preteen would be caught dead reading Nancy Drew?—because she adds, “Or everybody can decide on the books together. I’ll just make sure to vet them first.”

“That sounds like fun. Jen and I just read the new
Harry Potter
together.”

“No
Harry Potter
,” Cynthia says firmly. “I don’t like that series.”

“Well that’s okay, too,” I say. Maybe two hundred million people are wrong about Harry. Then trying to draw Lucy into the conversation, I add, “By the way, uh, you know Lucy, right? Lily’s mom.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Cynthia says. But she looks at Lucy as if she’s never seen her before in her whole life and gives her the slow, head-to-toe once-over. Cynthia pauses dramatically when her eyes reach the tops of Lucy’s alligator boots. But instead of saying something snide about them, she turns pointedly back to me.

“So how about it?” asks Cynthia. “We’ll meet Fridays at seven.
Discussion will be from seven-fifteen to seven forty-five, and we’ll have snacks afterwards. Nothing too sugary. Just some fruit and crackers. Maybe cheese. Jen doesn’t have a cholesterol problem, does she?” she asks solicitously.

“Not that I know of,” I say. Another thing to put on the list. Get her hair cut. Buy Pumas for summer camp. Check Jen’s cholesterol.

“Lily’s a great reader, too,” I say, trying to snag an invite for my best friend and her daughter.

But politeness isn’t on Cynthia’s to-do list.

“With you and Jen signed up our little group is filled,” she says efficiently. “Perfect. See you Friday at seven sharp. My house, of course.”

And with that, she’s gone.

Lucy looks at me incredulously. “I told you. All these women hate me. Did you see that? It was like I wasn’t there.”

“Cynthia’s just like that. She has her own agenda. I think I’m going to call her and say Jen and I can’t do it.”

“No, no, don’t be silly. I don’t care. If anything, I’m out of town so much, it would be Dan who’d have to go with Lily. Might be worth it just to see how Cynthia would handle having testosterone at her mommy-daughter book group.”

BOOK: The Botox Diaries
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