I Like You Just the Way I Am

by Jenny Mollen

  Jason started his attack slowly.

  “You think I’m ugly, don’t you?”

  It took everything in me to keep from laughing. Not so much at the comedy of the situation but more out of nervousness. Whenever I’m uncomfortable, I start to giggle. When I have to fire people, I laugh. When someone dies, I laugh. When someone gets divorced, robbed, or even injured, my first impulse is to laugh. For this, I always come off looking like an insensitive asshole, but the honest-to-god truth is that I just can’t deal with seeing other people in pain. And by Jason’s tone, I could already tell he didn’t plan on half-assing his assignment. Things were about to get severely awkward, and I was already dreading the aftermath. Veronica kicked me to shut up as Jason continued.

  “It’s cool. I’m obviously not your type. I get it.”

  “What? No! You’re cute!”

  Simone shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  Chewing holes in the insides of my cheeks to keep from exploding, I couldn’t help but appreciate how talented an actor my husband was. Unlike me, who at thirty-three still looks guilty buying beer at a grocery store, Jason commits to his objective 100 percent. It’s like a switch gets flipped inside him, and he literally becomes that other person he’s portraying. Before I could start beating myself up for being the Jimmy Fallon of our at-home Saturday Night Live troupe, Jason switched gears.

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Yeaaah,” Simone said, rolling down her window for some air.

  “Why don’t you give me a blow job,” he said, completely cavalier.

  Not getting it, Simone tilted her head to the side and looked at him the way your dog looks at you when you’re about to leave the house without him.

  “I don’t get it. You said you were gonna tell me a secret,” she said.

  “That was the secret. As in, blow me and we won’t tell anyone, get it?”

  Jason was growing frustrated with Simone the way he does with all his female co-stars. I could already hear his bitching in my head: “She wasn’t picking up her cues fast enough, she was talking over my lines, she wasn’t listening and reacting.…”

  Simone started breathing heavily, like she was going to have a panic attack. Guilt-ridden, Veronica nudged me to reveal myself. Turning onto La Cienega, Jason continued to badger Simone.

  “Show me one of your tits, and I’ll just masturbate on it really quick.”

  The light turned red and the car sat momentarily idle. My husband and Captain Blow Job were at an impasse, both literally and figuratively.

  Veronica and I sat up silently. Simone didn’t notice us, because her head was buried in her purse, most likely looking for Mace. Then, taking what must have felt like her only chance at escape, Simone flung open her car door just as Jason hit the gas. The car jerked into first gear and Simone, gripping the door, flew out of the vehicle. Her hands clung tightly to the handle as her metal stilettos dragged behind her, picking up speed. Sparks flew like she was wearing rocket-powered roller skates, and her skirt was pulled up, revealing her bare ass.

  “Where is her underwear?” Veronica asked, alarmed.

  “Hold on, Simone!” I said.

  I climbed into the front seat and tried to secure the door from slamming shut on her fingers.

  “Stop the car, you bitch!” Simone cried.

  “Baby! Stop the car!”

  “I can’t just stop, Jen!”

  If Jason hit his brakes, Simone might lose her grip and slip under the wheels; if he kept going, she might lose her grip and slip under the wheels. The only option was to gradually coast to a stop and hope Simone’s Tracy Anderson DVDs had done their job in strengthening her core.

  Simone’s arms seemed to be giving out as Jason swerved out of traffic and pulled into a nearby parking lot.

  “I’m too cute to die!” she screamed.

  As we came to a gradual stop, Simone went rolling. Her heels were fucked up beyond recognition, distracting her from the gravitas of what almost happened to the rest of her.

  “These were four hundred dollars, you cunt!”

  I stared down at her scalding-hot pumps that were now kitten wedges.

  “You risked your life for our friendship! You were willing to throw yourself from a car to avoid fucking my husband!” I said, helping her into the backseat in what I thought would be our total chicks-before-dicks moment.

  “Actually, I just don’t find Jason hot.”

  Simone peeked under her skirt to make sure her vagina was still intact.

  “You all saw my vagina, didn’t you?” she asked, smirking proudly.

  After appraising the state of her hair and makeup, Simone demanded we take her to Cedars emergency room for a full-body scan.

  Veronica called the other girls waiting for us at the restaurant and tried to explain what happened, but I think all they really got was that Jason asked Simone for a blow job and she tried to kill herself.

  Simone lasted only five minutes in the waiting room before setting her sights on a DJ with a broken hand who looked like the type of guy who invites you back to his dorm to listen to house music and then rapes you.

  “Have you ever realized that you are kind of that self-serving asshole that you tell your girlfriends not to date?” Veronica said to me, stuffing her face with SunChips from a nearby vending machine.

  It was true! More than liking pretty faces, Simone liked people who undervalued her, and I had accidentally done just that. Simone wasn’t after my husband. She was probably in my life because she was addicted to my abuse!

  “I am so sorry,” I said, grabbing her by the arms and sobbing like she had cancer.

  She seemed unfazed and assured me payback would be a bitch as she followed the DJ outside for a cigarette and never returned. We waited for a good fifty minutes before realizing we’d been ditched.

  * * *

  Simone called me the next day to sit on the phone with her as she tiptoed out of the DJ’s apartment. I tried again to apologize for my behavior, but she wasn’t really listening.

  “I don’t think he has a girlfriend. I searched his place and couldn’t find a single rubber band. He’s moving out of town in a few weeks because he’s taking a job for the government. Do you think I’ll hear from him?” she asked with zero irony.

  “Of course,” I said, knowing she probably wouldn’t.

  Hanging up, I asked myself why I tried to tempt Simone, one of my oldest friends, with the offer of giving my husband a hummer in West Hollywood traffic. Why would I want to throw a twenty-year friendship under the wheels of a slow-moving SUV? Like most good things in my life, I’d convinced myself that somehow, somewhere, Simone would pull the rug out from under me, as all women were genetically programmed to do. Mistrusting her was unwarranted, unfair, and obviously a product of my own insecurity. The truth was, Simone was more prey than predator, and entirely too self-involved to be intentionally malicious. Her problem was her taste in people. She wasn’t out to destroy me. If anything, she was out to destroy herself. I contemplated whether or not Jason could have gotten something out of her had he taken the douche bag “I’m gonna make you feel like shit” approach. But I stopped myself. It didn’t matter. I was married to a good guy, and Simone hates good people. That’s why she’s friends with me.

  9.

  “You Aren’t My Real Father”

  Those were the final words of the toast/slam-poem/hate-haiku that my father’s new ten-year-old stepson delivered to an engagement party of 150 people. Sandwiched between my dad’s haidresser and the lady who stuffed my late grandmother’s shih tzu, my husband and I tried to stay calm. As the microphone made its way closer, I had a frightening realization: If I was going to keep my sanity through my dad’s wedding weekend, I needed to be on drugs.

  After a twelve-year stint of bachelorhood, my father was finally ready to give marriage the fourth old college try. In my unhumble opinion (which is really the only opinion you need to worry about), he had two reasons for doing this: (1) my
sister and I just got married and he was copying us, and (2) fear.

  At sixty-eight years old, my father knew the day was coming when he’d no longer be able to care for himself. Eventually, he’d lose all mental awareness and I’d gain power of attorney and force him to live in my guesthouse with my mother, his estranged wife. From there, there’s really no telling what might happen. I could, perchance, see myself forcing them into giving me the childhood I always wanted. I might hypothetically build a stage in the living room, where I’d perform Gypsy every night (with matinees on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays). Maybe I’d make them time me holding my breath in the pool. And if I were feeling particularly kinky, I’d even allow them to tuck Jason and me into bed with a story. (Preferably not the one of their divorce. Too many dead babies.)

  The third reason for him getting married again also had to do with being in love, but as an outsider, it still felt more like 1 with a subconscious hint of 2.

  * * *

  My dad met Kristen shortly before I met Jason, at one of three bars he used to troll for pussy—specifically, pussy that wasn’t friends with other pussy he’d already bedded and stopped calling. Unlike her predecessors, Kristen had a U.S. passport, was over twenty-one, could read, and already owned her own pair of boobs. She didn’t need anything from my father, making it a total mystery as to why she’d want to hang out with him. My dad proposed to Kristen just before Jason asked for my hand, and by the time my wedding rolled around, he was already over it and broke up with her. He still brought her to our Napa nuptials as his date, however, because he’s a dick like that.

  Around Christmas, Kristen wised up and started seeing someone else. And my dad pretended to be unfazed, aside from when he’d call me every morning to play the game “Kristen’s Still In Love With Me, Right?” I like my dad best when he’s on the verge of an emotional breakdown because that’s the only time he actually listens to me—because I’m talking about him.

  After one whiny phone call about how he was going to be spending Christmas Eve alone (even though he’s Jewish and the holiday means absolutely nothing to him), my guilt kicked in and I invited him out to LA to celebrate with Jason and me.

  “You invited your dad out to spend our first Christmas as a married couple with us?” Jason asked, more than a little annoyed. “It’s like, I kind of knew before marrying you that you were already married to your father, but I just assumed once we were married that your thing with him would sort of die off.” He marched upstairs and slammed the bedroom door, just like my father would.

  My enmeshment with my dad did have a tendency to appear to outsiders like we were in a relationship. Especially when I turned twenty and for vanity reasons he started introducing me to people as his “friend” and sleeping in my bed whenever he came to visit me at college. To clarify, I was living in a studio apartment that he was paying for, so in a way I think he actually considered it his bed. And for the record, nothing inappropriate ever happened between us. As long as you consider kissing on the lips appropriate.

  “I’m inviting Larry over as a buffer, so deal with it!” Jason called down ten seconds later.

  Larry was Jason’s best friend. If he were a pageant girl, he’d be Miss Congeniality. He’s the guy who no matter where you are in the world knows somebody who owes him a favor. Larry and Jason met in Los Angeles ten years earlier at one of Larry’s epic house parties in the Hills. They didn’t speak until the next morning, however, when Larry discovered Jason pants-less, covered in Bugles, and passed out on one of his Kingsley-Bate lawn chairs. He was the best man at our wedding and had recently called off his own engagement to a somewhat quirky woman who once, out of anger, shaved a swastika into his dog while he was in Dubai on business.

  Around 5 P.M. on a Friday, I picked my dad up from the airport—because he doesn’t like that cabs cost money—and brought him back to our house. When we arrived, Larry and Jason were building a fire and drinking scotch. Since he was not a fan of sharing my attention with people, places, or things, I was certain my dad would make some sort of passive-aggressive comment about why the fuck Larry was over. But as it turned out, my dad was psyched Larry was there. Larry was Jewish, always impeccably dressed, business-minded, newly single, and thirty-five, the same age my dad was in his head. From the minute my dad sat down on the small sliver of couch separating Jason and Larry (even though there was a whole living room filled with empty seats), he didn’t stop talking. And everything out of his mouth was in weird single guy code. I only know this because each sentence started with the phrase, “This is single guy code.”

  An hour and a half after I told her dinner was being served, my sister, Amanda, showed up. Amanda is sixteen months younger than me, and my only full sibling. Before I started dyeing my hair brunette to gain respect from society, people often mistook us for twins. The only real difference is that she is a total bitch and I’m not. Amanda was the kid who, after receiving a subpar haircut at our neighborhood mall, threw herself prostrate on the ground, screaming until my mom dragged her writhing body out to the car and shut her up by promising to buy her a Missoni do-rag. When we started getting allowance, I spent mine on Asian masks, which I used to pretend I was the family’s foreign exchange student, and she’d buy long Lee Press-On Nails to pretend she was my wealthy white slave-owner.

  Amanda and my father have a completely different relationship than he and I do, in that Amanda doesn’t give a fuck what he thinks and as a result my dad ignores her. When my mom decided parenthood wasn’t for her, Amanda and I were both deported to Phoenix for a year of living under his roof with his third wife, Ursula. (I named her after the sea witch from The Little Mermaid if that gives you any indication of my feelings about her.) After six months, Amanda cracked and begged my mom to take her back. She had little tolerance for my dad’s totalitarianism and missed my mom’s democratic approach to parenthood, one of the highlights being the No drinking hard alcohol on school nights suggestion taped to the fridge. I, meanwhile, found myself staying another four years because I didn’t know how to tell him no. I’d been recruited to fill him emotionally and I was too weak and desperate for parental attachment to refuse. Though conditional, he gave me the love and attention my mom saved for her boyfriends. I was devastated to lose Amanda and assumed she felt the same until a girl on the playground at school told me she heard Amanda raving about how excited she was to become an only child.

  Just before the beginning of my junior year, and right around the time Ursula sponge-painted every wall in our house period-blood red, my dad told me he was getting a divorce. Besides finding out from him that I got into UCLA because he opened my acceptance envelope without me, this was the best news I’d ever heard come out of his mouth. What I didn’t realize at the time was that with both my sister and Ursula gone, I would become my father’s only significant other.

  * * *

  At Christmas dinner, my dad had Larry cornered. “I’m in amazing shape, I have all the money I could ever spend, and I’m a local celebrity. I should be thrilled with my life. And I am. I’m so happy,” he assured Larry, the only person in the room who was still listening to him. “Kristen and I want different things. It just didn’t make sense, so I had to cut her loose, you know? The guy she’s dating now, I can tell you right now, that’s all kinds of wrong. She’ll probably never be over me fully. Frankly, I’m surprised she hasn’t reached out to wish me a Merry Christmas.” He looked at his phone like one of my desperate girlfriends waiting for a call from a guy who obviously hates her.

  “It sounds like you’ve made up your mind,” Larry said, kicking back in his chair and picking his teeth. The rest of us made a mass exodus to the kitchen.

  “You get that your dad was totally broken up with, right?” Jason said, loading the dishwasher.

  “I know. I almost feel bad for secretly kind of loving it.” I smiled.

  “Jenny, this is a guy who takes a woman to Paris, then comes home with two albums’ worth of pictures of just himself.
I’m happy about it too. Good for her! He was leading her on!” Jason offered Kristen a supportive “you go girl” nod—wherever she was.

  “I’m completely invisible to him. I don’t even know why I came over. If I made more money, maybe he’d give me some respect,” my sister said, storming in and scouring the pantry for something sweet.

  “I don’t think that’s true. He gives me respect and I don’t make any money,” I said, thinking I was helping.

  “Hey, now that Kristen has obviously ditched his ass, maybe you guys can get back together,” she retaliated.

  Jason looked at me sharply. “Don’t even think about it, I’m your only man now.”

  “Sidebar,” Amanda said, reappearing with a mouth full of Red Vines, “Do you guys get the vibe that he kind of likes me?”

  “Who, Dad?” I asked.

  “No,” Jason and I answered in unison.

  “Not Dad, assholes. Larry.” Amanda threw a vine at Jason’s head.

  Jason and I looked at each other. Were we really that blind? Were we too busy enjoying the fact that my dad had been dumped to catch Larry crushing on Amanda? The three of us proceeded back into the dining room with caution. Larry immediately noticed Amanda and stopped picking his teeth.

  “Check out this picture of me at the top of the Eiffel Tower,” my dad said, handing Larry his phone and standing up to use the restroom. “Remember—if it rings, don’t answer it. We’re sending Kristen to voice mail.” He winked conspiratorially.

  “Hey, guys,” Amanda said, flirty.

  My dad ignored Amanda but handed me his empty glass and said “Water” before disappearing out of sight.

  When Jason and I looked up, Amanda and Larry were smirking at us. They glanced at each other, then again at us, and started laughing that annoying laugh that people have when they aren’t yet in a relationship and still feel superior.

  In that moment I knew: Amanda was going to fuck Larry.

  When Sunday rolled around, both Amanda and Larry stopped answering their phones. Kristen never called my dad, and he continued to rattle off excuses as to why she didn’t for the entire ride to the airport.