“Mom, we’re not mad at you,” Emily said. “And I don’t even see how we’re ungrateful.”
“Speak for yourself,” Lauren said. “I have a lot of residual anger at Mom and Dad. As for gratitude, it’s a nonissue. Nothing they have given me is beyond the realm of basic living expenses.”
“Lauren, your father and I pay your rent, and for Ariel’s preschool. We also paid for your graduate degree in gender studies, not to mention your college tuition. And we bailed you out of jail.” Marla laughed incredulously at her last sentence.
“You’re acting like I stole something. I just protested. If you really think I should have just written a strongly worded essay instead, then you’re tone policing. Riot is the language of the oppressed.”
“What the hell were you protesting against?” Jason asked, laughing and holding his veiny forehead in his hand. “Nobody ever told me about this. Why does nobody tell me anything?”
Lauren pursed her lips. “For your information, I was protesting against a local toy store in Poughkeepsie. They had aisles that said Boys’ Toys and Girls’ Toys. I refuse to tolerate the concept of gendered toys, so in the middle of the night my friend and I broke in and spray painted Gender Is a Fucking Social Construct in both aisles.”
“Seems legit.”
“Jason, don’t mock your sister,” Marla said. “And we’re running far afield from my point. What I was trying to say, Lauren, was that we have paid for a whole lot more than basic living expenses. Now, we support all of those things as well as your job at Cunt because we applaud creativity. But you cannot accept all this money from us, and still write articles like, ‘I Suffered Abuse at the Hands of My Narcissistic Parents.’ At the very least, you could have spoken to me first, so that I didn’t have to find out about it from the five friends who emailed it to me.”
Jason looked impressed. “Five? I didn’t know Cunt got that kind of traffic. Good job.”
“I did suffer abuse, Mom. Writing about my trauma is the best way to handle it. Sometimes speaking directly with your abuser is the worst thing you can do because then you have to relive what happened to you all over again.”
“Come off it,” Jason said. “You weren’t traumatized. If I wasn’t traumatized, you definitely weren’t. Mom made me watch the video of my birth when she thought I was going to have sex. You want trauma? Watch your head crown out of mom’s ’80s bush vag. No offense, Mom, but that’s trauma.”
“Oh, boo-hoo,” Lauren said. “You had to see a real human vagina pushing out a real human being—I feel so bad for you! That’s nothing. Mom and Dad never came to my performance art show My Clit Is a Sword, my senior year of high school, and that left me with intense feelings of low self-worth. And that’s just one of the many times they made me feel like shit. I’ve never told you this before, but watching Mom diet throughout my childhood gave me anorexia and I still suffer from it.”
Jason looked at her. “Um...it isn’t working that well.”
“Fucking educate yourself. The fact that you think food has anything to do with what size you are is just so fucking ignorant.”
“Wait, you’re saying food doesn’t have anything to do with weight?”
“Yes, that is what I’m saying.”
“Lauren, that’s absurd,” Marla said. “You are extremely intelligent—profoundly gifted, in fact. You should know better than anyone that body fat is directly connected to the calories you consume.”
“First off, you’re a psychologist, not a nutritionist, and I don’t trust doctors anyway. Plus, while we’re on the topic of ungratefulness, why don’t you have a go at Jason and Emily? They get money from you and they’re not even using it to make the world a better place.”
“Are you kidding?” Emily said, shocked to hear her voice for the first time after the constant argumental ping-ponging between Lauren, Marla and Jason. “How are you making the world a better place?”
Lauren opened her mouth to talk and Jason pulled out his phone to access Tinder. “By working for Cunt,” Lauren said. “By paying my rent, Mom and Dad are enabling me to do something truly important. But the stuff you get from them is just pointless. Mom and Dad are paying for your wedding. You didn’t need such an expensive dress, but heteronormative celebrations are so important to you that you want Mom and Dad to fork over two thousand dollars for a dress that allows you to objectify yourself and celebrate the loss of your individual identity. Do you realize all of that money could go to homeless shelters for former sex workers?”
“Trust me, from personal experience,” Jason said, swiping right without even looking at the screen. “Hookers have enough money.”
“This is not what your grandfather would have wanted,” Marla said. “His money nearly tore the family apart once already, with Aunt Lisa and that whole ordeal. I thought at the very least, I could use it to unite mine. I am not about to repeat my father’s mistakes and allow my children to attack each other—and me—over something as meaningless as family money.”
“Hey, family money isn’t meaningless,” Jason said. “Grandpa went from a small-town deli owner in Brookline to the fourth-largest relish manufacturer in the country. If his family money isn’t meaningful, I don’t know what is.”
“Whatever,” Emily said, turning back to Lauren. “So you would never spend money on anything that doesn’t benefit the greater good? We all know you and Matt aren’t going to get married, but if you were, you’d want a nice dress too.” After saying that, she realized Lauren probably wouldn’t want a dress at all—too oppressive—but she would want something else. Fancy sneakers?
“You know I almost never wear dresses. I’m not trying to garment-shame you or anything, but your wedding dress is a gross, distasteful display of your white classist privilege.”
“And you wonder why you aren’t my maid of honor!” Emily said, a little louder than she intended. Marla pursed her lips as if she were watching a movie that just got interesting.
“I just want to point out to Lauren,” Marla said, “that Emily has severe anxiety. People with her level of neurosis can often make decisions that to the rest of us might appear irrational or even cruel, but her intentions aren’t malicious.”
“Mom, I’m not a maniac. I didn’t make Lauren my maid of honor exactly because of this stuff. Gabrielle actually likes weddings and doesn’t criticize me for wanting a nice dress or a pretty color combination.”
“I didn’t say your color combination was bad,” Lauren said. “I just said you were unnecessarily pandering to gendered ideas of female and male colors. There is no reason why the tuxedo for the ring bearer has to be blue. Pink is Ariel’s favorite color.”
“Gee, I’m sure nobody influenced that,” Jason said, with one hand to the side of his mouth like he intended this comment to be secret.
Emily sighed. “Mom, you can see what I’m dealing with. Would you have made her your maid of honor?”
“Family comes first. I would have considered my sister’s feelings.”
“Mom,” Jason groaned. “You haven’t spoken to Aunt Lisa in twenty years.”
“That’s because Aunt Lisa is toxic.”
“It’s not just Aunt Lisa. You don’t talk to anyone in your family, or Dad’s family. When Grandma died, you said, ‘One down, one to go.’”
“I said that because I was grieving for your father’s loss of his mother. And my emotions got the better of me because my relationship with her was very complex. It just so happens that there are a lot of toxic people in my family and your father’s. Many, many people in our families happen to suffer from narcissism and sociopathy. It’s remarkable that the only person in this nuclear family with any mental issues is Emily, to be honest. The point is, Emily, you should have at least discussed your decision to leave Lauren out of your wedding before just going ahead with it.”
“I didn’t leave her out. She’s still in the w
edding party, which, might I add, she resisted agreeing to at first because she felt it was too gendered.”
“I’m just saying,” Lauren said. “If I ever get married to Matt, it wouldn’t be a wedding per se, because I hate weddings, and most of our wedding party won’t even have defined genders to begin with, let alone assigned gender roles. There won’t be ‘bridesmaids’ and ‘groomsmen,’ just people there to witness our union. No vows to ‘God,’ not even a promise that marriage will last forever because sometimes the happiest relationships, shockingly, aren’t the ones that end in death. And I wouldn’t make anyone wear a dress. One of my friends, XXX, identifies as glitterbutch-girlboy-curious so xhe would wear a dress, but that’s xher choice.” She sat back and smiled smugly.
“Why do you even want to be my maid of honor, Lauren?” Emily asked. “You hate weddings! Meanwhile, Gabrielle has been reading wedding magazines since before she even met her husband. She’s a professional event planner, for crying out loud.”
“Not to butt in,” Marla said, “but, Emily, I’m getting the sense, and I believe Lauren is too, that you’re acting from a place of entitlement. This is classic Aunt Lisa behavior.”
“Emily,” Jason ventured, “just my two cents, but I think you’re too young to be getting married. I got married in my twenties and I regretted it.”
Emily felt her throat tightening as if she were about to cry. “Oh, great fucking idea, Jason! I’ll just cancel my wedding! Then I won’t have any reason to be blackmailed into these bogus sessions. Awesome!”
“Jason, you’re not helping,” Marla said. “Emily, I think what Lauren is trying to say is that you are not grateful enough for the money we are spending on the wedding.”
“Mom, Lauren literally didn’t even come close to saying that. She’s just bitching about not being maid of honor.”
“Okay, just a warning,” Lauren said, her voice rising. “If you use another gendered slur, I am walking out and I won’t even be coming to the wedding.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Jason put his head in his hands.
“Is FuckSake your next start-up, dumbass?” Lauren said.
“Emily, I believe your sister has brought up some interesting points,” Marla said. “The money I spent on your dress was, by and large, unnecessary. What would really show growth and maturity would be if you paid me back.” She brought her hands together and closed her eyes as though she were finishing a profound prayer.
“Mom, you can’t do that.”
“Yes, I can. I’m not saying you have to pay me back. I would just be very disappointed by your immaturity if you didn’t.”
“Mom!” Emily felt on the verge of tears again. “I wouldn’t have asked for a dress that expensive if I knew you’d ask me to pay you back for it. You said it was your gift to me! You even discouraged me from getting a cheaper one because you said it was tacky!”
Marla paused. “What I’m hearing is that you are all realizing that you have issues with gratitude and are working on those complex emotions toward your father and me. I’m so glad we decided to do this.”
NIGHT 2
Emily
EMILY’S BOSS, LINDA, had made her life a living hell in many different and inventive ways, but she had to give her credit for one thing: if Emily had not been working for Linda, she might never have met David.
Three years earlier, Emily and Linda represented ClearDrop at SourceCon, a start-up expo in San Francisco. At Linda’s request, Emily stood at the ClearDrop booth for four hours in her uncomfortable beige heels and pencil skirt. Linda sat on a swivel chair behind her, chatting on her Bluetooth with a friend, who, she claimed to Emily, was also a prospective client.
Linda gave Emily an hour-long lunch break, which meant she was feeling especially generous or happy that day. As soon as Emily found out she’d be getting an hour for lunch, she started checking her phone every few seconds to see if time had started going by faster. She could feel her stomach gurgling under her skirt. Luckily nobody else could hear it. The room was abuzz with chitchat, as well as the loud laser-blasting sound coming from a virtual-reality booth.
Emily had been instructed to speak to every single person who came by, even if they seemed irrelevant or weren’t interested in PR. That meant she spent about twenty minutes talking to a visor-wearing German tourist who seemed to speak minimal English, but was inexplicably interested in ClearDrop’s history. A few people drifted by, looked at the booth’s logo, stole a few mints from a bowl on the table and briefly made eye contact with Emily before walking away.
It was so easy for her to feel horrible about herself at these events. Most of the companies had hired “booth babes”—attractive young women in heavy smoky makeup, minidresses (or alternatively, irrelevant sexy nurse costumes). They were hired to stand in front of a company’s booth to lure the type of men who believed they had a chance with women who were paid to stand there and talk to them. Emily couldn’t tell why she was so jealous of these girls—it wasn’t as if she had applied to become a booth babe and been turned away. The requirements weren’t even that strict: young, thin, long straight hair. By those standards, she qualified. She envied them nonetheless. Maybe she envied how confident they all seemed. If she were paid to look good all day and lure weirdos to a cloud-computing booth, there was no way she could ever doubt her attractiveness again.
When noon finally arrived, she waved goodbye to Linda, who was too deeply involved in her conversation about newborn Harper’s math abilities to really notice. Emily walked away from the ClearDrop booth toward the neon-green LifeSpin booth, where techno music played, and where she suspected they were handing out free food or drinks. If she could get a free snack and not have to shell out thirteen dollars for a tiny sandwich at the expo café, she’d feel slightly better about the entire experience.
That was when she saw a man who stood out in the sea of people—handsome, brown-haired and bright-eyed in his blue button-down shirt and slim-fit jeans. His ears were a bit too big for his face, which made him just approachable enough. He had his hands in his pockets as he talked to a waxy-looking, muscled male trainer at the LifeSpin booth. The trainer, whose name tag read Zxon, was showing him a bottle of NaturBuzz, turning it over to the ingredients label.
“You see, man, NaturBuzz is all natural. That’s why we call it NaturBuzz. These ingredients are so pure you could inject them. Not only does it provide energy without the crash, but it helps build muscles better than a protein shake. And all of this for just ten calories a bottle.”
“I’m skeptical,” the man said, smiling and bringing the bottle closer to read the ingredients. “I’ve been a protein shake guy for the past...oh, I don’t know, ever since high school.”
“Never too late to make a switch,” Zxon said. “Believe it or not, I used to eat lectins.”
The man looked up from the bottle and saw Emily, unflatteringly standing next to a LifeSpin booth babe. The babe was wearing stretchy, lime-green microshorts and a black sports bra with beat-up black leather pumps. She had an extremely dark tan and black hair that went down to her waist.
“Can I help you?” Zxon asked, turning to Emily.
“Oh, sure. Are you handing out energy drinks...Zee-son?”
“It’s pronounced ‘John,’” he said. “And I sure am! I was just giving a demo to David, here. It’s David, right?”
David nodded.
“Come on over, girl!” Zxon squealed. He handed her a bottle of NaturBuzz.
“This bottle is ergonomically designed. Did you know that with ordinary water bottles, your hand begins to develop tears in its ligaments and muscles, and it can actually impede your lifting?”
“Oh, I don’t lift,” she said.
“You’re about to start. Judging by your booty, or lack thereof, you could really benefit from my PowerSquat class. Here’s my card. I can do a free training session and body-fat measurem
ent.” Emily winced, but took his card.
“You don’t need a body-fat measurement,” David said. “You’re probably, like, seventeen percent.”
She smiled. “Very precise. Is that good?”
“It’s in the athlete range. For women. For men, you want to be between five and ten percent.”
“And what are you?”
“A lady never tells,” said David, in a goofy high-pitched voice. She laughed. It wasn’t that funny, but he was cute.
“So—” Zxon looked for Emily’s name badge “—Emily. If I told you that you could have a three-month free membership to LifeSpin, would you take it?”
“Totally free?”
“Totally free. All you have to do is spin our wheel, and if your arrow lands on ‘Three Month Free Membership,’ we’ll see you at LifeSpin!” Zxon pointed to a large carnival wheel with different sections of the wheel indicating different prizes, including “One Free Bottle of NaturBuzz” and “One Free Week of ColonWipe.”
“David failed the challenge,” Zxon said. “Maybe you’ll have more luck. But even if you don’t, $150 per month is a steal for what we offer at LifeSpin.”
“That’s a little much for me,” she said.
“That’s why you’re spinning the wheel! Give it your best shot!”
She wasn’t sure how important it was for her to be part of such a trendy gym. Her at-home yoga videos seemed to be doing the job just fine. But, as her freshman roommate Maria had reminded her, she had a “white girl ass.” Maybe it was time for something a little more intense. She remembered, with some nostalgia, when people were satisfied just pressuring women to be thin. Now they had to have giant asses, too?
Emily spun the arrow, watching it go past the “Three Free Months” section again and again. Finally, it landed on the orange section entitled “Fifty Squats.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“It means y’all gotta do fifty squats, giiiiirl!”
Family and Other Catastrophes Page 10