by Babe Walker
Me: I had a labiaplasty when I was eighteen. My dad doesn’t know though. Don’t tell him.
Lizbeth: Oh that is so cool. So many women benefit from having that surgery. You know what, my best friend in the world just had a vaginoplasty last week and she is loving the results. I won’t tell your dad. Sometimes guys just don’t get it. I’m gonna go grab a wheatgrass shot. Want one?
Over lunch after a yoga session:
Me: I really want to fuck that Baba guy.
Lizbeth: He is so cute! I could totally see you guys together. Keep wearing those yoga outfits you brought with you and it’s on. Want a coconut smoothie? They’re delicious.
During an almond sprouting seminar:
Me: Are you trying to destroy my life?
Lizbeth: No way! I’d like to be friends. I don’t even think I could destroy you if I tried! From what your dad’s told me you’re a really strong and vivacious woman, which is so inspiring. Namaste.
I eventually got around to hooking up with Baba, and Lizbeth was even cool about walking in on him opening up my sacral chakra with his tongue:
Me: Lizbeth, get the fuck out of here!
Lizbeth: Oops! My bad. You go, girl!
All in all, the trip was fine. Annoying but fine. I lost ten pounds from eating mostly herbs and was given the most beautiful mantra by my Vipassana guide. It’s a secret, but if you’ve seen me naked and can read Sanskrit, you know what it is. Though it pains me to say this, Lizbeth is actually very sweet and I’m sure she’ll be good for my dad. Either that or they’ll get married and divorced within six months. They’re basically polar opposites, so we’ll see. I guess it’s okay for him to find love and happiness. Personally, I think he’ll always have commitment issues because he’s still hung up on my mom, but what do I know?
When you say, “Get a job,” I hear, “I hate you.”
I got home from a particularly stressful yoga retreat to find out that the boss at my dad’s law practice had finally decided that he was rich/old enough to retire/die, and the board of the firm had decided my father should take over as the new senior partner. My dad had pretty much been running that place since the day he started working there, so it was exciting for him to be recognized for all of his hard work. It’s pretty clear that I got my incredible work ethic from my dad, and I’m so proud/lucky to be his daughter.
As soon as I got news of my dad’s promotion, I began planning a surprise dinner party in his honor. It was going to be everything that he looked for in a great dinner party: good friends, lots of wine, and British food (almost impossible to do with my calorie restrictions, but I was up for the challenge). I got to work curating a guest list and menu that would suit the occasion.
I kept the guest list small: me, my dad, Mabinty, Roman, Genevieve, and a few other partners from my dad’s firm. I hired Jamie Oliver (a client of my dad’s) to prepare dinner for us, and spent days figuring out the lighting scheme, tablecloth, place mats, napkin color story, and the perfect playlist. I was in the zone—not unlike when I’m creating a new smoothie and every new ingredient I think of only serves to enhance the overall flavor-to-calorie ratio. The icing on the cake was that I’d confirmed Elton to come by and play my dad’s favorite song (“Straight to Hell” by the Clash) at the end of the night. It was shaping up to be a perfect evening, and I knew that my father was going to be so thrilled by all of the love and time that I had poured into this celebratory dinner.
This was my dad’s night, which really meant that it was my night, which really meant that Lizbeth was NOT invited. I wanted to spend time with my dad, and I didn’t want to deal with him sticking his tongue down his girlfriend’s throat, so I told her that the dinner party was on Thursday night. It was on Wednesday. Not my problem. I figured I was killing two birds with one stone: Liz wouldn’t be there (point for me) and my dad would be annoyed with her for not showing up (point for me). We would have our dinner, drink our wine, make our toasts, and send him on his way to being head honcho at the biggest shop in town.
I was beaming with pride on the morning of the dinner. Mabinty and I started editing the looks that I’d put together the night before. Sometimes her taste is a little off for me, but I always value her input on my sartorial choices—Jamaican culture really embraces a bold color palette, and I can always get behind that. I stood in front of two hanging racks in my room and explained my approach to her.
I pointed to some busy/bright dresses. “Okay—so this rack is all about celebration and joy—hence the patterns and bolds,” then I motioned to a bunch of earth-toned pantsuits and long skirts, “and these looks are more of a subtle and civilized nod to Dad’s accomplishments, without taking away from his moment. I know you lean toward patterns, so you’re probably the worst person to ask for help with this, but which vibe do you think is the right vibe? I’m kind of stumped.”
“Yuh know mi like di bright ones,” she said, glancing at the racks.
“Okay, knew you were gonna say that. Which dress?”
“Yuh cyan’t ago wrong wid di Missoni. Yuh look damn good ina print.”
“Yeah, but I can’t show up to this dinner looking like a gypsy.”
Mabinty held up a blue sequined Dior. “Dis shiny one might be real nice fi yuh.”
“Really? I don’t know, I wore that to a rave once, so I can never look at it the same way. And it’s so loud.”
“Why don’t yuh go and try it on, and Mabinty cyan go down to mi room to take a teeny little nap.”
“Not funny.”
“Okay, okay. Yuh need to go wid sumtin’ fun and fancy, yuh know?”
“Mmm hmm . . .”
“Get yuh hair real big. Yuh father loves di rock and roll and he will most definitely be ina good party mood tonight.”
“Okay, I like where this is going.”
“And Sir Elton is comin’ tonight too, so yuh wanna look like a drag queen for him. He loves a good show. Go wid di Dior. Yuh cyan’t go wrong wid Dior.”
“You’re absolutely fucking right. Sometimes you just get me.”
As soon as I tried it on, I realized Mabinty was wrong about the dress. It could not have been less event-appropriate—this was my dad’s dinner party, not a disco. But Mabs was right about going with blue, so I ended up resurrecting a cerulean Chloé dress from 2007. It was perfectly daughterish.
As the day progressed, I was so preoccupied with last-minute details that, when 6:45 P.M. rolled around, it dawned on me that no one from Jamie Oliver’s team had shown up yet. Not a sous chef, nothing. They were supposed to be in the kitchen, prepping soufflés at 4:00. Fuck. I was panicking and my stomach started to turn. And it wasn’t a hunger pang, because I’d had a huge cucumber salad for brunch at eleven.
I immediately got Jamie’s assistant, Sara, on the phone.
“Hi, Sare Bear, Babe Walker here. Where is J.O.? His team was supposed to be here at four.”
“Hi, Babe. There must be some confusion. Jamie ran into Lizbeth Monday at a birthday party for Jennifer Aniston’s cat’s cat, and according to her, the dinner is tomorrow night, so we changed his schedule accordingly.”
“Fuck my ass, are you kidding me, Sara!? The dinner is tonight! Can you please get Jamie here right away? I’ll push the meal back an hour or two.”
“Unfortunately, no. He’s now booked to show up at a charity auction in downtown LA tonight.”
“Enough!” I screamed as I slammed the phone into the receiver.
Karma can be a nasty bitch. Goddamn you, Lizbeth, and your fucking networking at celebrity pets’ birthday parties! This was a complete and total disaster. My dad was going to be home in the next thirty minutes and I was celebrity chef–less, and therefore dinner party–less, and I was starting to have a meltdown. Then I got a really fucking cute text from Roman.
Roman 7:07PM:
Got day drunk in Malibu with Gen. Not gonna make it tonight but tell your dad that we love him sooooooooo much. Don’t hate us!!
Babe 7:10PM:
I always knew you two would betray me. Have TONS of FUN getting another DUI.
To top it off, I had an e-mail on my BlackBerry from Elton saying the weather in Nice was shit and he was stuck there for a few more days. So now it was going to be myself, my dad, and his stuffy work friends sitting around a table with no food on it. Perfect. I cracked open Pinot Noir from Oregon, or somewhere else far away and expensive, and started drinking straight from the bottle. I must’ve called and disinvited my dad’s partners at some point, but that memory is kind of fuzzy. Either way, they didn’t show up, thank God.
I was three sheets to the wind when my dad walked into the dining room. I was sitting at the head of the dining room table with all the lights off and a single candle burning next to me.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I ruined the party,” I whispered.
“What party?” he asked.
“Your surprise promotion dinner party.”
“You sneaky little fuck, you planned a dinner for me? That’s sweet, but I don’t need some big to-do party. It’s okay, darling.”
“No. It’s not okay. It’s inexcusable.”
“It’s not inexcusable. Who cares?! Plus, I fucking hate socializing. Pass that bottle, darling,” he said.
“I tried to get Jamie Oliver here to cook for you, but my plan was foiled because I lied to Lizbeth and told her the dinner was tomorrow night instead of tonight because I didn’t want her to come.” I handed him the wine. “I can’t even do one nice thing for the person I love most.” This sounded sappy dripping out of my mouth, but the sad part was that it was true.
“I know you think this night is just a big cock-up but it’s not.” He smiled, taking a swig from the bottle. “We have wine and we have each other’s company. That’s good enough for me.”
“Do you hate me, Dad?” I winced.
“Babe, I love you more than I’ve bloody loved anyone or anything else in my entire life. I’m glad that we are here right now, just the two of us. We haven’t spent any quality time together since Tai Tai’s funeral.”
“I know, but I’ve been happy doing my own thing. Plus you’ve been working harder than a stripper and spending all your free time with Lizbeth.”
“I understand that you’re adjusting to Lizbeth. That’s fine. She can seem like a real twat when you first meet her, but once you get to know her, she’s great. You’ll see.” He was trying to make me feel better.
“Whatever. I’m kind of too busy to be making new friends right now anyways, so tell her not to hold her breath.”
“What are you busy with? Shopping? Cutting your hair? Deleting entire food groups out of your diet?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Don’t you want more for yourself, Babe?” His eyes were getting serious. “University didn’t really work out in the way that we had all hoped.” He took another sip of Pinot and passed me the bottle. “You’ve been home for a bit, you’ve had your shits and giggles, you’ve fucked around. Shouldn’t you be settling in? Maybe thinking about working?”
I hated where this convo was going. My dad continued. “It’s been three months since your grandmother passed away, and to be perfectly shitting honest with you, you haven’t seemed like yourself. You have no direction, no passion. You’re floundering, Babe. I can tell when you’re floundering.”
“Dad. I’m gonna try really hard not to be completely offended right now.” I took a deep breath, repeated my mantra twice in my head, and said, “I decorated my room, I acquired three vintage Alaïas last month, I read style.com every day, I planned this whole party! My life is a lot more work than you think.”
“I know you can fill a calendar, but you’re missing the point. You’re playing around and wasting your time. None of your appointments or purchases are going to fulfill you if you don’t earn them for yourself. Your spending habits have gotten ridiculous by the way.” He was getting heated, so I fired back.
“Oh, really? Well maybe you should come to my next appointment with my shaman, Steve, because he seems to think I’m very fulfilled. And who are you to talk about ridiculous spending? You buy whatever the fuck you want! Last week I saw a bill on your desk for that new fish tank. Thirty-seven thousand dollars? Come on, Dad.”
“I spend money that I work my bloody arse off for, so I can buy whatever the fuck I want. I’ve earned that right. You, my dear, have not. It would behoove you to get a job.”
I stood up and put my hands on the table. “Okay. It’s been really great spending this quality time with you, but FYI, I’m over this convo!” I yelled.
I stormed off to the kitchen. This conversation was completely stressing me out. I grabbed Mabinty’s giant tub of Häagen-Dazs ice cream out of the freezer, got the biggest fucking spoon I could find, walked over to the sink, and proceeded to scoop large spoonfuls of ice cream and angrily flick them directly down the drain. My father followed me to find me in the midst of my binge/purge.
“Tai Tai told me that I shouldn’t have to work to make a living, and she was right. I like the way things are. I’m happy with my life. I command a lot of respect in the places where I conduct my business.”
“Well, I can’t let you just float through life, all la-di-fucking-da. You’re bloody better than that. You have so much goddamn potential when you put your mind to something. Your sketches are brilliant and you made such good marks at fashion school. That kind of drive is what makes you really fucking special.”
“Then what should I do?”
“Find something you love to do. I love my job, and I know that you have it inside of you to feel the same way about something. But it’s not just going to fall into your lap. You need to get it sorted.”
I stopped scooping ice cream and looked at him. Until that moment, I’d assumed that my life would just go on as it had been going. I’d buy a lot of clothes, marry Leonardo DiCaprio, get divorced, get scary skinny, get fat, and then die. I never saw myself as a career girl. Now that my dad was forcing me to get a job, it was obvious that I was going to have to rethink my life path. No one had ever tried seriously leveling with me about my goals, and it felt wrong, dirty even, like it was a subject that I wasn’t supposed to talk about. What the fuck was I going to do with my life?
Maybe people would take me seriously if I weren’t so hot.
To keep my dad off my case, I started waking up early and making him coffee every morning before sending him off to work. I literally had no reason to be up this early, other than the fact that I needed him to believe that I was super-motivated and actively seeking employment, which was easy for him to buy when I’d bound down the staircase all happy and rosy at 7 A.M. Once he was gone, I’d go back to sleep until twelve or one, but getting up that early for thirty minutes was a great way to keep his nagging at bay.
Then one afternoon, while napping in my sauna, I had a dream that put my entire life’s purpose in perspective. It started off with me floating through space in a truly unflattering spacesuit. And I’ve worn a lot of spacesuits. Trust me. There was a week in 1998 that was all about spacesuits for me.
I knew I was dreaming, because I had a French manicure, which I would NEVER. Suddenly I started hurtling toward Earth at light speed. It was like skydiving but way more intense. Like if you took two Ambien and then went skydiving and forced yourself to stay awake the entire time. I thought I was going to die, and then I remembered I was dreaming and you totally can’t die in your dreams, so I went with it. I landed somewhere in the Kalahari Desert. My spacesuit must have burned off when I entered the Earth’s atmosphere, because I was naked, covered in sand, and my hair was really beachy and wavy. I stood up and started walking.
I had no idea where I was going, but I knew I was on a mission of some sort. After what seemed like aeons of trudging through the desert, I came to an oasis. A blue pool of water surrounded by lush, green palm trees. I knelt down to take a drink of the ice-cold water, when all of a sudden a figure arose from the middle of the pool. It was my Tai Tai, and she was wearing a dashiki.
>
“My dumpling,” she said. “You look great.”
“Thanks. I’ve lost weight. You look good too, but why are you wearing that?”
“Because it’s beautiful. It’s simple.”
“Um. What are you talking about? Can I have your vintage Goyard luggage? It wasn’t in my part of the will, but no one else wants it.”
“You’re missing the point, my love. You don’t need any more baggage.”
“Tai Tai, who are you right now?”
“I’m your guardian angel, and I’m trying to tell you that your life is in dire need of direction. Simplify, and you will find balance.”
“Can you please be a little more specific? What am I supposed to do with my life?”
Then there was a low rumble that started erupting into an upbeat, drum-heavy song. A tribe of beautiful African children ran up to me. They took my hands and started dancing with me. They danced around my Tai Tai too, singing and laughing. I looked closer and saw that they were wearing the cutest, chicest little dashikis I had ever seen in my life. In an array of colors. Gold, magenta, tangerine, cerulean, sparkles. I gasped, and then I woke up in my Missoni bikini, covered in sweat, screaming.
I knew then, at that moment, that my Tai Tai had infiltrated my dreams to finally give me my ultimate purpose, my reason for being on this Earth: To design a high-end line of children’s dashikis with matching kufi hats. (I’m pretty sure Leo had something to do with this inception. Leo, if you’re reading this, yes, I’ll marry you. But you already know that because you’ve been inside my brain. Blushing!)
My idea would be a breakthrough in child care/baby fashion. It was ethnic, fabulous, and original. An idea that would not only establish my talents, but also make me a worthy contributor to the global community at large. Perfection. I peeled myself off the bench of the sauna and immediately got to work writing up my business model.
Babe for Babies
INITIATIVE
Babe for Babies is a for-profit nonprofit organization. The mission is to create a line of high-end children’s apparel inspired by traditional African dress. 50% of the net proceeds will go to Small Babes, a charity that focuses on providing needy African children with upscale, fashionable-yet-functional clothing. The other 50% will go to me, Babe Walker, as the CEO, President and Head Designer of the line.