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!
&nbs
p; thirty-one
“I’m friendly with someone sort of famous….”
“Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace!” My sister had heard this story already, but was up for it again.
“Cinthia Wallace?” asked Meredith. “The party-girl-turned-writer-turned-philanthropist?”
“The same,” I said.
“The one who just got a huge inheritance from her father?” asked Liesl.
“The same.”
“You know her?” asked Dierdre skeptically.
“Yes,” I said with a sigh.
“How?”
“Look, do you want me to tell the story or not?”
“Yes!!!”
“Anyway, she asked me to join her at this event called Shit Lit that’s held once a week in this cabaret slash club on the Lower East Side.”
“What club?” Meredith asked.
“Why do you care?” Dierdre snapped.
“You won’t know it,” Liesl added.
“I might,” Meredith said.
“You haven’t been out clubbing since 1998,” Dierdre replied.
“It’s called Come,” I said.
Meredith pretended to contemplate whether she was familiar with this club. The others mouthed “I told you so” to one another.
I pressed on. “So at Shit Lit, performance artists and actors and writers read from the worst books ever written.”
“Like what?” Meredith asked.
“Always with the questions, Dorothy,” cracked Dierdre.
“Someone read from Leif Garrett’s autobiography, I Wasn’t Made for Dancin’: The Ups and Downs and Ins and Outs of the Ultimate ’70s Pinup. And every Shit Lit includes a segment known as ‘Thirty Seconds of Pat Jamison,’ which is a dramatic reading of the worst paragraph in the latest bestseller from Pat Jamison’s hacktory.”
“I kinda like his books,” my sister said. “They’re quick reads.” She looked at the others for support. Liesl seemed with her, Dierdre and Meredith against. I doubt my sister will read another Pat Jamison paperback.
“So Hyacinth Anastasia Wallace wrote a book when she was seventeen, all about going undercover at a suburban New Jersey high school.”
“I remember that book! Came out a few years ago. Hot-pink cover.” Meredith again.
“Right. Well, it was my high school she wrote about, and me and my friends in particular.”
All but my sister gasped. “Omigod!”
“Anyway, it turned out not to be much of a big deal because the book sucked and the movie they made it into sucked even harder. So Cinthia was there to read from that book.”
“What was the name of the book again?” Bethany asked.
“Bubblegum Bimbos and Assembly-Line Meatballers. And as I said, it really sucked. Perfect for Shit Lit. So the master of ceremonies is this cult hero of the downtown demimonde known only as Homo Hitler. He looks exactly like der Führer, only his Nazi uniform is a lovely shade of lavender and his swastikas are striped with queer-friendly rainbows.”
“No way!” they all cried.
“Yes way,” I replied. “And he flits around the stage and lisps, ‘Sieg heil, bitches!’”
The MILFs gasped with laughter, then formed an even tighter circle around me, pressing me for more details.
“So I’m sitting at the same table as my friend Cinthia and a few others. Homo Hitler introduces her, and she gets up on the stage to thunderous applause. Her seat doesn’t remain vacant for long because it’s a packed house. I look to my left, and this towering drag queen has swooped down and taken the spot beside me in a whirl of sequins and feathers. He extends his manly, manicured hand and introduces himself in this super-deep voice that doesn’t sound female at all.”
“Royalle G. Biv!” My sister can’t help herself
“And I take his hand and tell him my name. And then Royalle booms, ‘You are a darling!’ And I roll my eyes. Then he’s like, ‘How many times have you heard that line, right?’ And I tell him that I’ve heard it many, many times before, but never from a man wearing a sequined evening gown. And he goes, ‘Well, dearheart, there’s a first time for EV-ER-RAY-THANG!’”
I notice that my sister lip-synched EV-ER-RAY-THANG.
“Then Royalle winks at me, no small feat considering each individual false eyelash is the length of a swizzle stick.”
This got some giggles.
“Royalle does not make an attractive woman. If she were a woman, she’d be the most hideous woman I’ve ever seen, one who could file a class action lawsuit against the ugly stick.”
Dierdre and Meredith laugh first; my sister and Liesl quickly follow.
“My friend Cinthia is doing the intro to her reading, explaining how the book was published when she was eighteen and how there was avid speculation as to the authenticity of the work—”
“Oh yeah, I remember that,” Meredith said.
“—and how she wishes she could lay the blame elsewhere, but she has to confess that this faux ghetto affront to the written word was hers, all hers. And the only fitting way to atone for her literary transgressions was to read them out loud….”
I was kind of losing them. They wanted more of Royalle.
“Okay, so just as she starts to read, I feel this huge hand on my knee. And I, like, totally launch myself out of my chair, I’m so shocked. And I shoot a look at good ol’ Royalle, who is, like, puckering his overdrawn, red, waxy clown lips in my direction.
And before I could continue, my story was interrupted by uterus-curling shrieks (“MOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!”) coming from the playroom. Without a word, all four MILFs made a mad dash downstairs to find out who was the unhappy source of the sound.
thirty-two
You were with me that night. That is, until you had the Shit Lit Hissy Fit and bolted. I only told them half the story, but here’s the other half, the part you missed:
After you stormed out, Royalle asked me if he was to blame for your hasty exit.
“I was only fooling around, dearheart!” Royalle boomed.
“I know that, and so does he,” I said. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Why aren’t you going after him?”
“Because this is what it’s all about. This is why people come to New York City. It’s just this quintessentially bizarre New York experience….”
“Whatever do you mean, dearheart?”
“This,” I said, gesturing around the room. “You,” I said, pointing at him/her. “Getting hit on by a drag queen named Royalle G. Biv. Ostensibly, this is what I want out of living here.”
“Os-WHAT? Honey, you’re losing me with your big words,” Royalle replied. “KISS, KISS. Keep It Simple, Sunshine!”
If that wasn’t the kind of crazy, single-in-New-York night I’m supposed to remember, then I don’t know what is. But even then I was already thinking of it as an experience that would be better retold as a funny story than actually lived.
(And I was right.)
thirty-three
I wasn’t alone on the rooftop for long.
The husbands generally ignore me, except Mr. Dierdre, who sleazes all over me in his wife’s absence. Mr. Dierdre seems intent on adding me to the roster of barely-legal concubines ready to do his adulterous bidding. He’s always trying to impress me with his cash, his connections, his “comedy.” He’s got a pointy bald head, and too much flesh hanging around his neck. The resulting combination gives him an unlikely yet striking resemblance to an uncircumcised penis. I secretly call him Rumpelforeskin.
Rumpelforeskin always corners me at Bethany’s parties, which isn’t too hard to do because I’m usually lurking in the corner.
“You still working for that brainy magazine?” he asked, adjusting the tan knit cap covering his dome. I swear to God he looked just like a life-sized demonstration for Safer Sex Awareness Week.
“Yeah,” I said, barely able to mask my laugh with a cough.
“You’re so pretty,” he smarmed. “You should be working for
Cosmo. Or that other magazine my wife reads…”
Were women really impressed by this? Enough to become his whore du jour? Just because he was rich? And why did Dierdre put up with it?
(Then again, perhaps Dierdre and the MILFs are on to something. They—my sister included—are a bit of a throwback to the early seventeenth century, when everyone married for money. Back then, as throughout human history, marriage was primarily a financial arrangement, more about the merging of property and assets than hearts and souls. If you were lucky, you eventually fell in love with the person you married, but it was by no means a given. Couples stayed together because of the stigma of divorce, of course, but also because they learned to live happily together within these lowered expectations. Ironic but true: It’s only when people started marrying for love, and not money, that connubial miseries intensified and divorce rates skyrocketed.
Okay. Bridget isn’t the only one who has done her research. You’ll forgive me for wanting to make an informed decision.)
“So where is your wife?” I asked, searching the rooftop for someone who would save me.
He ignored the reminder of the Mrs.
“Vogue? You look like the Vogue type.”
Rumpelforeskin was trying to spin lies into carnal gold. Nothing could have been further from the truth. I had borrowed an emerald green drop-waist silk jersey tunic from Hope. She wears it comfortably and fashionably over jeans, and promised it would work similar magic as a minidress on me. It did not. The green fabric billowed in all the wrong places and came off as a maternity muumuu. And when paired with the busted high school–era Chucks recovered from the MOM AND DAD box, the overall effect would certainly keep fashionistas guessing. Wait, are you going for a sort of knocked-up teen runaway look? I was definitely more vague than Vogue.
“Your wife reads Vogue?”
“Did I say wife? I meant my ex- wife. Actually, she’s dead. She died. That’s why I’m here now. Mourning.” He put on a pout, causing the fleshy overhang to retract just a bit.
“Oh, really? I could have sworn I just saw her tending to your children.”
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