Play Dates

by Leslie Carroll

  “And with the ponies?” she asks, wide-eyed. This is too good to be true.

  “No ponies, sorry. But what if we had a real picnic? Underneath their winter coats, everyone could dress in shorts and dresses like it’s summertime. And we could have checkerboard tablecloths on the floor and pink lemonade and hot dogs and hamburgers and macaroni salad—”

  “Granny Tulia’s recipe?” she asks, sensing that maybe Mommy isn’t such a dullard after all.

  “Absolutely! And since we’ll invite her and Grandpa Brendan to come in from Sag Harbor, maybe she’ll make it for us herself.”

  “Yum!”

  “It’s even orange!” My mother adds Kraft Catalina dressing to the recipe. Her now not-so-secret ingredient.

  Zoë rolls her eyes. “I’m over that. I don’t have to eat just orange food anymore. Remember?” She gets another idea and starts bouncing up and down on the dinette chair. “Oh, oh, oh, can…can…can Happy Chef make me a special birthday cake? Something July in Christmasish.”

  “I bet he will, if we ask him nicely.”

  “I want a mermaid. Who looks like me. With blonde hair. But she has to be birthdayish and Christmasish too.”

  “I’m sure Happy Chef will think of something super-special that fits all your requirements.” I feel like a huge weight has been lifted from my chest. We can have the party at home and a little creative thinking can transform the place from an Upper West Side apartment into a Fourth of July picnic. Under a tinseled tree.

  “I know something else Julyish. Fireworks!” Zoë chirps.

  The oppressive weight rolls back into place. “I don’t think so, sweetie. But…” Let’s go, right brain, kick it up another notch or two…“What if…what if we made decorations that look like exploding fireworks with colored streamers? We can make it an arts and crafts project we do together. How does that sound?”

  My daughter is not taken in by my extra-wide smile. “Why can’t we have real fireworks?”

  “How ’bout you answer that one yourself? Look up. What do you see?”

  “The ceiling.”

  “So?”

  She laughs. “They’ll have no place to go and we could have a fire. But…but…but…but…we could have them outside!”

  “Where? We don’t have a terrace.”

  “No, silly! In the park!”

  “Fireworks in Central Park?”

  I’m getting the Mommy-is-an-idiot look again. “They do it all the time, remember? We look out the window and see them in the summertime with the concerts at night and when it’s the New Year.”

  “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. But you need to get a special permit from the police department to set off fireworks in Central Park.”

  “So, get a permit,” she says, as if I’m still missing something.

  “Zoë, your party’s going to be in the daytime, anyway. You wouldn’t even be able to see the fireworks.” I watch her working on another counterattack. This is not going to be as easy a sell as I had hoped. “Why don’t we talk about the guest list,” I suggest, trying to make a clean segue.

  “Everybody. But not Mrs. Heinie-face. I have to invite everyone from my classes and some of their moms and dads and I want my daddy and MiMi and Happy Chef because he’s making my cake and Granny Tulia and Grandpa Brendan.” Her eyes are shining. “At least if we have the party here we won’t have to worry about how to get all the presents home.”

  Though I’m pleased that she’s become excited about this homemade July-in-Christmas party idea, I frown. “You know it’s not all about the presents. Birthdays are supposed to be your chance to share your own special day with all the people who are important to you.” What am I blathering? The kid has to invite all her classmates, including those she rarely speaks to, has never gone on a play date with, and would not ordinarily see outside of school, were it not for Thackeray’s attempt to level the playing field. The inclusive exclusive-private-school version of No Child Left Behind. However, given the kinds of lavish affairs hosted for grammar schoolers by their moneyed parents, the parties themselves have become a competition, not between the kids, but among the adults. You’re right, Zoë, I’m thinking. It is about the presents. Damn it.

  We make a list of all the children’s names so I can get an idea of exactly how many invitations we’ll need and the proper way to address them.

  “Don’t forget Xander,” Zoë says, panicked that I might. She watches over my shoulder, just to be sure.

  “Alexander Osborne,” I write.

  “Not Alexander. Xander.”

  “Xander’s a nickname for Alexander, sweetie. Like Al or Alex or Alec.”

  “His real name’s Xander,” she insists. “Xander Pope Osborne. His mom didn’t want anyone to ever call him Al.”

  The names these days! From the loopy to the pretentious. J.D. Tift. Tennyson. Shelton. All of those are girls, by the way. And there’s actually a little girl in her yoga class named Junior. A year and a half ago I wouldn’t have guessed that her good friend Chauncey was a girl if I didn’t know her from ballet class. I think parents are doing their kids a disservice by foisting gender-neutral monikers on them. Chances are, the outside world isn’t going to figure it out the first time around.

  I despair of the sort of goody bags I’ll have to coordinate in order to keep up with the Osbornes and their ilk. God, I used to live in that world back when Scott was earning money hand over fist. It disgusted me then, but I fell into lock-step with the rest of them because we could afford to and because I didn’t want to embarrass Zoë. Now I have no other option but to give her a birthday party as close to what I really feel is appropriate for a second grader and her friends. And there’s a part of me that feels very good about that. Relieved, somehow.

  Claire Marsh is going to buck convention by throwing her daughter a conventional birthday party. The kind she had when she was growing up. I can hear Nina Osborne now. How…retro.

  I just hope Zoë survives it.

  Dear Diary:

  It’s snowing! MiMi took me to see The Nutcracker this afternoon and when we came outdoors it was snowing. All the buildings in Lincoln Center where they have the ballet are white, and they were covered with white and the ground was white and it was so beautiful. I didn’t have a hat on because we didn’t know it was going to snow and I hate wearing a hat in the winter. I only do it if it’s snowing and Mommy makes me wear one. So the snowflakes landed on my head and it was like I was a fairy princess with sparkly jewels in my hair. MiMi said, “Follow me!” and we danced in a circle around the fountain in the middle of all the buildings. There’s no water in it now because it’s almost wintertime and they only have water in it in the summer, but we danced anyway. MiMi said I should do exactly what she did, and she kept doing all sorts of silly steps and I did them too. People stopped and were looking at us and some of them did a few silly dance steps for a couple of seconds but then they stopped. MiMi doesn’t care if people are looking at her and she told me if I was having fun, I shouldn’t care either.

  Then she stuck her tongue out and was trying to catch snowflakes on the tip of it, so I did the same thing, and then she tasted one and she said “umm, butterscotch.” So I caught a snowflake and pretended to taste it and said “yum, blueberry,” which is one of my favorite flavors. That and raspberry. Then MiMi caught one and said “piña colada,” and she made me laugh because I know that’s a summertime flavor. I caught another snowflake and said “Grandpa Brendan’s spareribs.” He’s going to bring them for my birthday party. We’re going to have all my favorite foods from when I go to Granny Tulia and Grandpa Brendan’s house in the summer. And my birthday cake from Happy Chef is going to have real blueberries and raspberries on it and it will be red, white, and blue for July and red and green for Christmas. My mermaid is going to have holly berries in her hair and she’s going to be riding on Rudolph instead of on a seahorse.

  I loved The Nutcracker. One of my favorite parts was where the Christmas tree kept ge
tting bigger and bigger from magic and it got so big that it was bigger than Clara’s house. The fight with all the giant mice and the Mouse King scared me a little but I knew that the Nutcracker was going to win. MiMi whispered to me something about the big mice and the subway but I didn’t think it was funny. Now I’m scared to go in the subway. The Sugar Plum Fairy was the most beautiful lady I have ever seen. She was even more pretty than Janyce from the Powerpuff Girls float on Thanksgiving. I loved it the best when she danced on her toes.

  Mommy is giving a tour this afternoon. I can’t wait to get home and tell her all about how beautiful the ballet was and about how MiMi and me had fun after it.

  Chapter 9

  I feel like I’ve done nothing but shop. And I haven’t really bought anything. I haven’t even started on yuletide gifts for my family or birthday and holiday presents for Zoë. At least I’ve begun to work on the items for the goody bags and have selected the paper goods for her July in Christmas party—which isn’t easy, given the fact that such things are seasonal and the local party goods suppliers have been looking at me like I’m nuts when I ask for red, white, and blue stuff. They retreat to the stock room, grumbling all the way, and return with some dusty shrink-wrapped tablecloths and napkins that for some reason they never returned to the manufacturer as soon as Labor Day rolled around. Then they have the nerve to want to charge me a premium because the items are out of season.

  Thinking out of the box is, at the very least, much more creative than just cutting a check and letting a professional party planner, or the venue, work their magic. I found someone in the press office of the Brooklyn Cyclones, the Mets’ local minor league farm team, who will provide me with some kid-size premium items. Their season’s long over and they’ll have new tee-shirts made up next spring. That ought to delight the boys, anyway. A little additional persuasion and the marquee-name former Mets who now coach and manage the team, agreed to sign a few things that I can give away as prizes for games like Pin the Tail on the Donkey and Musical Chairs—which I’ll have to organize as heats, since I have neither the space nor the chairs for forty-plus kids to sit on at once. I wonder if they even know how to play these old-fashioned birthday party games.

  For the girls and whatever moms decide to tag along, I’m making jewelry items out of summery-looking “findings”: brightly colored beads and little plastic cherries, strawberries, fish, and butterflies, mixed in with wintry symbols like holly and ivy. It may sound like a bit of a fashion risk, but the concept does seem to work, and it’s the most creative thing I’ve done in weeks. No two designs are identical, though the earrings are matched pairs. I have everything stored in tackle boxes and at night after Zoë goes to sleep, I sit in front of the TV and bead, bead, bead. It’s very relaxing, actually.

  This afternoon, I’ve got a bunch of Parisians on my sightseeing tour. Zoë and Mia are off at The Nutcracker. I had to relent, much as it pained me, and allow Mia to treat Zoë to the ballet. Between my tour schedule and organizing the birthday party, I admit I am significantly swamped.

  The French do love their cinema, so the “Location! Location! Location!” tour tends to be a hit with them. This month I’ve added sites where holiday classics like Miracle on 34th Street (all three versions—I sound like the old ladies from the Harry/Sally orgasm tour)—were shot. Or would have been, had not Hollywood back lots and soundstages been the sometime stand-ins for New York City. I wish I could think of a Jerry Lewis movie to include. I pride myself on customization.

  However, I quickly ascertain that my Parisians have little interest in how Hollywood celebrates Noël in New York. So I opt to show them some Upper West Side standbys, starting with the über-deli Zabar’s, a frequent co-star in local films. The corner of 83rd and Amsterdam is also a good place to land, since some of Hi Life was filmed on that corner at the funky, deco-decorated bar of the same name; and Café Lalo, a particularly charming old-world patisserie, was where Meg Ryan awaited her mystery date in You’ve Got Mail. It’s another one of the food stops on my movie location tours, so this should work out well.

  Sacre bleu! Quelle mistake!

  I’ve always thought that Lalo served up some of the best desserts I’ve ever tasted. In fact, I’ve blown many a diet just because the pastries looked and smelled so good I just had to sample them. Ah, but not for mes très discerning amis. We commandeer the entire restaurant—and it’s small—while my Parisians sit down for cappuccino and cakes.

  Mais non, they sneer at the filling in the éclairs. The mille-feuille dough in the napoleons isn’t crisp enough to suit their finely honed Gallic palates. This could be my Waterloo. They insist on smoking inside the eatery, decrying our city ordinance that prohibits lighting up in restaurants and bars as the most ridiculous act of American jurisprudence since innocent-before-proven-guilty. I am mortified by the way they treat the staff and find myself near tears, apologizing profusely to the management. At least there are no other customers in the café to be tainted by my tourists’ appalling snobbishness. And people think New Yorkers are rude!

  L’addition s’il vous plait! I collect their money, reminding them that the tip is not included west of the Champs-Elysées, pay the bill as fast as I can, and usher them back onto the bus.

  Fine. We’ll do something more French. I ask Frank to drive down Columbus Avenue, and stop at 76th Street so we can get out and admire the façade of Andie MacDowell’s apartment building in Green Card. Not a good movie, even by B-picture standards—I fell asleep watching it on an airplane—but it’s all about Franco-American relations, so to speak; and after all, Gérard Depardieu is one of their national treasures, and an international hunk—or used to be—at least in my humble opinion, weight problem or not. I’ve never minded a bit of extra avoir du poids.

  There are many aspects of the French that I highly admire: their culture, couture, and cuisine. Their art and architecture. The fact that they all take off for the entire month of August. And I studied their language in high school and in college. That said, these particular natives are making me ashamed of my Francophilia. In fact, they are setting my New York teeth on edge. Couldn’t they at least pretend they’re having fun? Was Lafayette the last Frenchman to enjoy America?

  We hop off the bus and walk a few yards along 76th Street. “Mesdames et messieurs, if you look over here—cette maison meublée—you will see the apartment building where the American woman Bronte (now there’s a name!)—Andie (another one!) MacDowell—and the Frenchman—Gérard Depardieu—shared the garden apartment when she bailed him out of his immigration predicament and married him so he could get his Green Card, in the movie of the same name. This kind of building is very typical—très typique of the neighborhood—dans notre quartier.”

  They begin to mutter among themselves. I hear one ask another what I had said. Now they’re deciding to pretend they understand no English? I thought they only do that over there. En français, the word for “snob” is exactly the same.

  “‘Bail out?’ ‘Bail-out?’ Qu’est-ce-que c’est ‘bail out’?” They are frowning, grumbling.

  “Bail out? It means to rescue…save—sauver—secouvrir, délivrer,” I say, trying on a bunch of synonyms, hoping one will fit. “We Americans have been bailing out your Gallic butts for centuries.” It was intended to be a lighthearted joke, although all jokes have their roots in reality, and my guests are now grating on my second-to-last nerve.

  “I have understood that Americans are not students of history, but you have education, evidently. You speak French pas mal…not badly…for an American. You have studied the Revolution, yes?” a wiry man asks me. For most of the afternoon, he has been scratching at his mustache, as though it’s pasted to his upper lip with spirit gum.

  “Which revolution? Yours or ours?”

  “I was speaking of yours. The American Revolution. When I believe it was the French who helped to save your uncivilized butts, as you say.”

  I wonder if the word “gall”—as in insolence, impertinence
, rudeness, audacity, effrontery, or chutzpah—comes from “Gallic,” somehow. “And I believe the last time Franco-American relations were truly amicable, apart from World Wars I and II, when we saved your collective derrières again—was during the War of 1812,” I smile. “And if I recall my history lessons correctly, the reason it was harder for our ‘uncivilized’ G.I.s to push those pesky Nazis out of your sidewalk cafés, was…oh, wait, it’s on the tip of my tongue—it sounds like a lovely soup: Vichy.”

  Mon ami is not amused. His face turns an apoplectic shade of rouge. Swept away by jingoism, he utters a rather unfortunate epithet. I say unfortunate because I happen to understand it. And I don’t appreciate the sum total of my being referred to, or reduced to, a single below-the-belt body part.

  Better judgment evanesces. I retaliate, calling him a bastard and a pig in his native tongue, which isn’t nearly as nasty as what he’d just said to me.

  It could get uglier in a minute or two. And it’s starting to snow.

  I herd my group back onto the bus, trying to do enough damage control to stave off a true battle royal. But, as we motor to the next sight, Tavern on the Green, my nemesis continues to push, prod, and provoke, until the words just come tumbling out of my mouth. “Yes, your country is gorgeous and your food is superb, but what about that fly-space issue during the Gulf War? And your government’s inflexible position on the invasion of Iraq—which, no doubt, was at least partially predicated on the extent to which France and Saddam had been cuddling up to one another economically. And there were the centuries of anti-Semitism.” I’ve never been political in my life, and suddenly opinions are pouring out of me like water over an unchecked dam. I have violated one of the cardinal rules of international camaraderie: Never discuss sex, religion, or politics.