Tales From A Broad

by Fran Lebowitz

  ‘Frank, do you think we should go away for Thanksgiving?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  I go to the phone.

  ‘Who’re you calling?’

  ‘Hi, is Caroline there?’

  ‘She’s having her nap,’ says Bethy. As I am leaving a message, I hear Caroline’s voice in the background. ‘I’m up, Bethy. You let it ring six times so now I’m up.’

  ‘Sorry, Ma’am.’

  ‘Hello,’ Caroline sighs into the phone.

  ‘It’s Fran. Hey, sorry to bother … wake you. Just wondered if you’d have a good idea about where to go for Thanksgiving. We thought we’d get away.’

  ‘Oh, well, there’s lots of places but I was going to call you later today to tell you about Pam’s.’

  Pam is a mom in the playgroup, from Idaho. She has a thick head of delicious strawberry-blonde hair, a perfect smile, flawless skin, and a sweet, confiding disposition. She’s married to a guy we all like; he is loose and talkative. Everything he says sounds like it’s coming through a bong hit.

  ‘Yeah?’ I venture.

  ‘She’s having her annual BYOD/BYOM party.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, I keep forgetting you’re new. It means bring your own dish and bring your own maid.’

  ‘Dish?’

  ‘Yeah, like pot luck.’

  I am terrifically happy to be included in this expat Thanksgiving. A big American get-together will be the next best thing to family. Anyway, Thanksgiving back home is no longer what it used to be, for, sadly, little by little, my mom has gone entirely, completely, 100 per cent fat-free. The feast looks the same. I mean, if you passed by our dining-room window and took a gander at the turkey all trussed up like she was giving birth because Mom had tucked an orange into her gaping crevice, for flavour, I guess … I hope … or the swirls of mashed potatoes, or the Caesar salad loaded with croutons, or the yards of bread, you’d be sure we were assuming our holiday weight gain in one sitting. But, if you happened to look behind the salt shakers (containing non-sodium salt, which adds nothing to the food but does satisfy the urge to flick something on your dinner), you’d see a bright yellow bottle with a blue label that might give you pause: no-calorie, no-cholesterol butter spray. On Thanksgiving?

  That’s just the tip of the iceberg. The parmesan cheese on the salad: soy. The dressing: vinegar and guar gum. The turkey: sculpted out of 89 packages of Healthy Choice, fat-free deli meat. The potatoes: mashed with Butterbuds, non-fat, no-calorie butter substitute. The bread: braided pita. And the dessert: fruit. Okay, there is also my brother’s favourite blueberry pie, which is a sore point with me. I mean, let’s never disappoint Harris, never mind that I love chocolate chip cookies … but that’s a matter for me and the sofa … it hardly bothers me at all now … I’m an adult, for God’s sake … with kids of my own …

  The food may have made its fat-freedom march, but we could still savour the tastelessness of the conversation around my mother’s table. And that was what we came home for. Dad stopped saying, ‘You’ve got to open a restaurant, Eunice.’ Harris stopped asking, ‘Can I have this last one, Mom?’ My head stopped saying, all this food is going to interfere with my alcohol absorption. So, we moved right on to banter, escalating voices and terrific belly laughter. We rattled off embarrassing stories, exchanged barbs, challenged wits, offered unsolicited observations, revived old anxieties, created new ones and laughed like we never laugh with anyone else. We ‘got’ each other, and our spouses were chosen for better or worse because they fitted just fine. No one in my family married a mate who didn’t withstand several tests of dinnertime verbal archery. When Dad was still alive we had the most fun. Talk about ripe for the picking. If we didn’t touch on his hypochondria, it was only because we were on a jag about his temper. Sure enough, he’d get mad and storm out, until our cries of ‘Come back, we’re making fun of someone else now’ combined with hunger softened his resolve.

  Below-the-belt humour was always so well exercised, so precise, on those wonderful occasions. I’m sure most American families have a similar sentimentality and their lively feasts parallel my own. Why, even Frank’s family, a group that never eats together, never goes out to dinner and considers the phrase ‘happy birthday’ too full of unseemly emotion, have what I’d call a normal Thanksgiving. One year we were on a roll, targeting his 90-year-old grandmother. We were on the floor – it was really just too much – when she forgot she couldn’t leave in a huff without complete assistance. In a word, good, wholesome American fun. Like we all do in the US. So, this party at Pam’s would take the sting out of a minor case of homesickness for sure. All these Americans …

  The morning of the party, I decide to make a few dips in the ‘no, never, no more’ territory of my mom’s offerings. There’s one she found a hundred years ago in the TV Guide using nothing less than an entire jar of mayonnaise, and nothing more, except red dye number 9. You serve it with Ritz crackers. Where can I get Ritz crackers?

  ‘Hi, is Caroline there?’

  ‘She’s napping.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll call back. When does she take her evening nap?’ I joke.

  ‘Usually at five, Ma’am, but today the party starts at three.’

  At 2.40, the five of us get into the car with bags of beer, wine and my appetizers. I found the Ritz at Prestons. They’re so old, the packet still has a recipe for Mock Apple Pie on it. Earlier this afternoon, I thought, what the heck, and made it. Looks good, kinda mooncakey actually. Posie is holding the dips on her lap in the back, the kids are snuggled under each arm. She manages to buckle them in before I can get out of my seat, having forgotten to do it myself. She also manages to keep the dips from tilting. She’s wearing a bright red, silky dress that is perfect for her figure, her colouring and the occasion. I’m in a long-sleeved black spandexy dress, perfect for a New York cocktail party in November, and tall shoes, of course, perfect for standing, posing or sitting but awful for walking. And the dress is downright asthmatic in a hot car – in fact, it has stopped breathing altogether.

  Pam’s house is about 12,000 square feet of high ceilings and marble floors. Her furniture was collected. Everything is eye-catching, worthy of comment. Let someone else remark. I have dips to put out. But when she comes over to greet me, I do it: ‘Pam! This is a gorgeous house! Omigod, it’s huge. I love this table. Is it jade? Wow, I want that mirror!’

  I don’t covet the stuff, I’m just nice, that’s all, and obviously these things matter to her so I want to make her feel good. But I will not say a word about her kajillion-carat diamond earrings or her sapphire-and-diamond pendant. Instead, I’ll try to see if her ass is big. I sneak a glance. Nope.

  ‘Those dips look great, Fran. Ritz crackers! As they say, “Everything’s better on a Ritz.”’

  Dear little Fran and her dips and her adorable box of Ritz crackers. ‘It’s everything sits better on a Ritz,’ I correct her.

  ‘Right. Do you know everyone here?’

  ‘No, just Caroline, I think.’

  ‘Let me take you around.’

  I am still holding my dips with the crackers parked on top as she leads me by the elbow, my spiky heels clicking and scraping on the smooth, spotless floor.

  I meet Jane and Ted Walters, Sally and Tim Parker, Amber and John Pines, Paula and Scott Richards, and several other couples who all share some commonality that I can’t quite place yet, like using the same barber or tailor but more personal than that. They probably all grew up together with moms named Beverly or Joan. The men had dads who called them ‘Sport’ and the women had dads who called them ‘Princess’. Sure, my sister and I were called Princess, but usually by boys in pick-up trucks, behind our backs and typically shortened to JAP. Dad called Harris ‘Butch’.

  I am the only woman with a hemline closer to my chin than my heels. The others wear something that’s just right for the church tea. I have a mass of gnarly hair. They have hairdos. On my right wrist, a sports watch that can tell
me the differentials between a week’s worth of track running, remind me to stretch, list the micrograms of salt I’ve lost and locate my perfect heart rate. On theirs, a tennis bracelet. I am wearing high heels and they are all – oh, yeah, the barefoot thing. Dumb Fran, stoopid Fran, you don’t wear shoes in the house in this part of the world. If I take the shoes off, the dress won’t look half as good. I’d rather be rude.

  ‘Pam,’ I whisper, ‘you mind if I keep my shoes on?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ she punches me lightly. ‘Anything goes in this house.’ Her answer is so prompt, her smile so ready and real. What a gracious hostess. But I’m thinking she might have thick ankles. Let’s have a look. Nope.

  The men are all in banking or IT and the women are all Friends of the Museum or do part-time PR at the American Club. Wandering around, I hear the women’s excited chatter about the upcoming shopping trip to the Philippines, the best ballet teacher and ‘I’m sure the brunch is just as good at the Carlton’. From the men, legs astride, beers held at mid-breast, the talk is mostly about how impossible it is to work for Singaporeans, what it would take to sign on for another three years, and ‘I’m sure the golfing is just as good at Tanamera’.

  I struggle to feel connected. Are you not my American brothers and sisters? Do we not share memories of vacations at the beach, the mountains, stretches of highway, signs reading ‘Last chance to stop at Pedroes for the best Pecan Rolls this side of the border’, freezing cold oceans, summer camp, sitcoms, and, of course, loud, hysterical Thanksgivings? Maybe after a few drinks someone will lead the way to ribald, irreverent, uproarious, ironic. Any minute now, look out …

  ‘And Frank, what do you do?’ asks Paula. (Ah, perfect, watch this …)

  ‘I’m a lawyer,’ he answers. (Okay, Paula, now make a lawyer joke. A lame way to start but it’ll pick up …) Amazingly, people start gravitating to Frank. Folks are moving toward a guy who’s announced he’s a lawyer. What this crowd needs is a CPA.

  Frank looks uncertain about the attention. Is he being lured onto thin ice? But he takes a brave advance and announces, ‘As I like to say,’ and I mouth the words, ‘I protect American copyrights from the world’s pirates.’

  ‘Shiver me timbers,’ I add.

  No one asks me what I do because they assume I don’t. The ladies compliment my dips and my shoes. I gush over their tennis bracelets.

  I go into the kitchen. State of the art. Half of the maids are in there, synchronised in their tasks, slicing vegetables, preparing platters, talking animatedly in Tagalog, stopping briefly to smile beatifically and ask, ‘Can I help you, Ma’am?’

  ‘Well, now, let’s see. You’ve minded my kids, passed around hors d’oeuvres, made my dinner, cleaned the ashtrays. Perhaps I’ll need you to breathe or chew for me, but for now, there really is little else I could possibly require so, no, thank you.’ I am about to unravel but instead run outside to marvel at the lack of lawn Pam and Jacque are enduring.

  Maids are pushing kids on the 35-foot swing set or catching them as they land off the trampoline. A few are putting on a puppet show in the life-size stage. One is rocking a newborn. Sadie and Huxley are hanging off Posie, one on the front and one on the back. They’re having a ball. The maids are having a good time, too.

  I head back inside and find Frank having a lively conversation with Jacque, who now seems to be pretending to smoke a joint as they talk. After a while, Frank accepts the invisible joint.

  ‘Dinner is served,’ announces Pam.

  We troop into the dining hall, a space large enough to seat 50 people comfortably. The table is set with a china pattern so intricate it seems a great trespass to slop food on it. As soon as everyone is seated, the men ceremoniously slap down their cell phones just above their knives. Pam sits between Frank and me. She whispers, ‘Can you believe them? I hope you’re having a good time. Thanksgiving is hard for all of us.’ Was that something between her teeth? Damn, she closed her mouth too fast.

  Pam’s maid brings out the salad. Tricolore with roasted tomatoes and a few pine nuts. A cell phone goes off. Everyone’s hand shoots forward, but Joe is the lucky winner.

  ‘Hell-ooo,’ he says, giving us a phoney put-upon face before excusing himself so he can talk loud enough in private for all to hear.

  ‘Wrong number, was it?’ I say. Laughter. I heard it. It wasn’t just my own, was it? Before we can crescendo, another phone goes off.

  ‘Phil here … yeah, ten hundred barrels, fine, and, hey, book me dinner for next Tuesday at The Grill in Tokyo.’ Phil grabs a roll, butters it, and talks a doughy game for a few more seconds.

  Before he finishes, it’s Alan’s turn. ‘Did he try the bona-plop switch yet? No, of course he didn’t, did he. Well, have him try that …’

  ‘Frank, look! Your pigeon’s back and she’s got a message,’ I say. Frank, who has nothing next to his bread plate but crumbs, nods with a hint of appreciation. This is Thanksgiving. You don’t bring your cell phone and your palm pilot to Thanksgiving. You bring funny barbs and big appetites, you unbutton your jeans, you flop out on a sofa.

  Soon, the women’s voices weave between the phone calls, discussing the latest amah drama.

  ‘When Toodi asked for New Year’s Eve off, I had a cow,’ comes floating down the table.

  ‘All Jake’s underwear turned pink. She hid it in her room.’

  ‘Well, at least yours isn’t pregnant!’

  Sound of 25 forks dropping. A pregnant maid means immediate deportation. That is the law. Maids also can’t consort with citizens or permanent residents, stay out past eight at night or have men in their rooms. Restrictive as it sounds, these are the laws for maid employment in Singapore. It’s why we had to take out a bond.

  ‘Please don’t say anything to anyone,’ she asks the 25 of us plus the assorted maids milling about, one of whom is probably hers.

  When we finish eating, the kids perform a song in Tagalog for us. Oh, jeez, and now are they going to prattle off a few of their favourite things …

  ‘Pam, would you mind if I sent Posie home? I’ll take over. I’d just really like to be able to get near my family.’

  ‘Sure, I totally understand. Let’s all send our maids home. Everyone,’ she calls out, ‘Fran had the great idea of sending the maids home.’

  The expressions pass through befuddlement, horror and then intrigue.

  ‘Golly, why the heck not?’ says Sue.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. Let’s,’ says Katherine.

  ‘Do we dare?’ asks Deborah.

  ‘It’s Thanksgiving,’ I say. ‘Family!’

  ‘But what about the cleaning up?’ whines Janet.

  ‘We can do it!’ I say. The crowd becomes a tiny bit frenzied. The very idea of self-reliance is invigorating. We call in our maids, give them taxi fare. They refuse to leave. We insist. They stand firm. We call the taxi service. They manage to get everything cleaned and orderly before the taxis arrive, coffee brewing and desserts laid out on the buffet.

  ‘Are you sure, Ma’am?’ they all ask as the cabs idle.

  ‘Yes, go, go …’ we say gamely.

  ‘… before I change my mind,’ I hear someone say.

  Later, we sit politely in the living room. The kids are sweaty and swinging on candy highs and lows and asking to watch television. No one unbuttons his or her pants, no one busts a gut. No one pierces his or her body, no one writes in blood, no one walks on fire, burns fake money or dances while wearing a scary dragon costume. No wonder Americans are ignored.

  I might join the crowd.

  Wednesday nights are for Fran and Frank staff meetings. First, we loosen up with an hour of tennis followed by two jugs of Tiger Beer and two bowls of palm-oiled Camel Brand crunchy nuts at the New Barrel Pub. We read the minutes of the last meeting, discuss old business, bring up new business, digress and meander, continue in a peripatetic fashion as we force the last half mug down, adjourn, go home, check on the kids and watch The Practice. I eat a tuna melt and Frank pi
cks at a piece of buttered toast. We go to bed at 11.

  This particular night, we dispense with reading the minutes of the last meeting because I remember it clearly and Frank remembers it wrongly. Let’s just say I was right and leave it at that, shall we? My agenda had two items on it but I crossed out ‘try a new sandwich’. Frank hates my tuna habit. At the first sound of the can opener, he makes up the sofa bed; he screams at the sight of me peeling a hardboiled egg. I had trained myself to eat these things only on nights he was travelling but then I started to slip, to let go, and now, after being married for seven years, I am often spotted carelessly sitting cross-legged on the floor in a long, faded T-shirt and saggy briefs, flipping the TV dial, hunched over a bulging, smelly sandwich. I am going to try a new sandwich, soon – maybe not tonight, but soon. I need to make that commitment to the marriage. I need to try harder to like maybe just cheese. Did Cantor Donald not prophesise before our wedding that there would be many sacrifices along the path? He was so right. Just cheese, yup. And a shorter T-shirt. And tighter undies. Next thing you know, I might even brush my teeth before bed.

  The remaining issue on my agenda is planning a vacation.

  ‘Frank,’ I say, shifting my chair closer, ‘let’s go away.’ He is noisily eating his peanuts. He has this habit of popping them in one at a time and sort of coming down on them with a hard surprise attack – K-E-R-R-R-U-N-C-H – followed by a rapid-fire chomp, chomp, chomp. He couldn’t do this in the US. Unlike American cocktail peanuts, these palm-oil-coated ones aren’t greasy; they look shellacked. I watch his mouth hammer at a few more nuts before he feels he can leave it for a minute and turn his attention to me.

  ‘Sure, sure, sounds good.’ He gulps down some beer and opens his leather-bound daily planner. ‘When were you thinking?’

  ‘Next week?’

  ‘I can’t next week, I’m in Jakarta,’ he says, pointing to the word ‘Jakarta’ and the line drawn through the week as incontrovertible proof.

  ‘Okay, the week after?’