Everything Is Perfect When You're a Liar (35 page)

The guilt eats me alive. “It was my fault, Matt. I'm so sorry. It's just that I needed to know if he could read my mind, and I asked for a sign and . . .”

“. . . and then my chair fell?”

“YES. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to give you sciatica. It was totally my fault. Forgive me?”

Matt nods. I hug Angela. “That was fun. I won a little with the ‘Great body!' thing, and I lost a lot with the dirty-water/hangover thing.”

“Yeah, well, you'll have more time for Tracy Anderson before we go to his island.”

“When we go to his island, can we find the psychic monkeys and the Fountain of Youth?” I ask.

“It's the only reason to go,” Matt replies, leaning into his bag like a crutch.

“Maybe next time we'll find the bugs in the room?”

“There were no bugs in the room.” James hugs Angela.

“I know there were no bugs in the room.”

We say our good-byes to Matt and Angela, who head off to a different terminal. Angela had found eighty-dollar tickets to Vancouver on Singapore Airlines, which I was
sure
was a computer glitch. I figured they were going to end up in Singapore by tomorrow. We walk to our gate.

 

As our plane is boarding, I notice a tall black man. I notice him because there's a horde of screaming women chasing him and taking photos with their phones. Everyone notices him.

“OH LAWD!!!!! SWEET LAWD, HOLD ME NOW!” one screams, and I recognize the object of their
woop woop
s and
holla
s. It's Common. ID'ing celebrities is a small gift of mine. I pull out my phone and tweet: “Hey @common, you're on my flight. You're a huge fan of mine, right? Maybe I'll say hello.”

I get on the plane and discover that James and I are sitting right behind him. I check my Twitter replies:

@
kellyoxford ASK HIM ABOUT DRAKE

@
kellyoxford IF DRAKE IS ON THE PLANE U GOT A PROBLEM

@
kellyoxford ur an ugly cunt

I wonder why people would bring up my second husband, Drake. I Google and get the answer: Drake and Common are feuding. Common thinks Drake is a punk and Drake thinks Common is bashing him because Common is old.

I had NO IDEA about their feud. My finger has officially left the pulse of pop culture. This clinches it: Drake will never shout “DAT ASS” at me, because, quite frankly, if Drake is accusing Common of being old and out of touch, I'm going to be on Common's side of that. I get it. For that reason—and because I say things like “quite frankly.”

I sink into my gross airplane seat and look at the top of Common's head. He's wearing a neck pillow. It would be funny if I played one of his songs on my phone full blast. I scroll through my list and land on “Come Close.” I wait until I think he's fallen asleep, then stand up and reach into the overhead bin as an excuse to see if he is asleep. I see his face, eyes closed, relaxed and asleep on his neck pillow. Common looks so peaceful, like he's dead. This is as close to being Serena Williams as I'll ever get.

I sit back down. I don't have it in me to blast the song and wake him up, even if it means I won't be able to say I did that. Because I'd love to say I did that, but it seems stupid to wake him up. I reach over and grab James's hand. “Is my body really okay?” I ask.

He nods. “It's my favorite thing.”

Maybe I'll get David to bring his psychic monkeys to my funeral. Maybe I'm over pulling up my G-string. Maybe I'm not growing old, maybe I'm growing up.

FROGGER

James crouches at eye level with the kids. His eyes dart back and forth, splitting his eye contact evenly among the members of our attentive brood.

“Remember, you're about to see everything that is wrong with the world.”

He lovingly tucks Sal's hair behind her ear and stands back up. Seven-year-old Henry and two-year-old Beatrix stand to the left and right of him, nine-year-old Sal directly in front. We look at James's grim expression.

“Are we gonna be okay?” Bea asks.

“Of course we will, Bea.” My nonchalance is in complete contrast to James's heat. He's at Cormac McCarthy–stage seriousness, like it's the end of fucking days.

Henry's stationary foot shuffling quickens. “What do you mean, everything that's wrong with the world?” he asks, both scared and excited, his eyes darting around the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of the something that's wrong with the world. Henry's thing is making life dramatic and as action laced as possible. “Like torture chambers and war?”

James shakes his head. “It's going to be disgusting.” He throws the backpack over his shoulder. “I just need you guys to know that before we go in. I disagree with everything we will see.” Then he exhales dramatically, pushing what sounds like all the air out of his lungs, as we watch and wait till he's done.

I clap my hands together excitedly, smiling.

“Ready to go to Disneyland?”

“Have a wonderful day,” says the woman who just charged us almost $450 for our single-day passes.

“Yeah, right,” James mumbles in reply. James had a lecture for us in the parking lot: “Good businesses don't charge fifteen dollars to park in a lot where the only place you can go is their venue, where they're going to charge you hundreds to enter.” He had a few more on the freeway on the way there: “See how that guy is driving? Don't do that. He wants everyone out here to die. He's probably on his way to Disneyland to stuff his fat face with churros.”

This is the kids' first trip to Disneyland. And it's my husband's first trip to Disneyland.

I've been here before, when I was twelve. When my friends were sneaking off and trying cigarettes and playing spin the bottle, I was at Disneyland with my parents, still two years away from getting my period. My sister and I were wearing matching home-sewn, florescent pink-and-gray fleece jackets. My little sister, that is, who'd already had her first period.

I had a great time in Disneyland, but I kept my enjoyment a secret. It was tainted by the fact that I was so old and dorky. I shouldn't have loved it so much. I shouldn't have loved the songs or had my name embroidered onto one of the hats with the ears. And I certainly should not have bought an autograph book and had Peter Pan and Goofy and Winnie the Pooh sign it.

James and I agree on every single thing we hate, except for Disneyland. Today was my day to change his mind.

My goals for the day were simple:

1.   Keep everyone hydrated. Nothing is dumber than dehydrating.

2.   Get Henry a corn dog. Henry's friend told him the portal to Hell is under the
H
in the Hollywood sign, so his main goal on this California trip is discovering that portal. His Disney goal is to eat a corn dog, because the same said friend told him that the corn dogs at Disneyland are “the best corn dogs in the universe.”

3.   Feed Sal. Sal basically wants to do what every nine-year-old wants: to consume as much as possible.

4.   Introduce Bea to Belle from
Beauty and the Beast
.

5.   Keep James from losing his mind in the crowd and 95-degree heat.

As soon as I see the turnstiles leading into the park, I realize my fatal mistake: I probably could have picked a better time for this trip than
spring break
. What a dumb fucking idea. “Hold hands with Dad or me while we get through this,” I say to the kids, whose attentions are being pulled in a million directions at once. There are hordes of people and buggies and strollers, parents with kids on their shoulders, balloons, different songs blasting from every direction, as we become one with the sea of people trying to get through the turnstiles.

Having three children doesn't seem like it would be so different from having two, but when you're shepherding them through parking lots and the chaos of crowds outnumbered, you quickly realize you're way out of your fucking league. Imagine playing
Frogger
with three tiny frogs behind your frog and you can't control them with arrows. There is just no goddamn way you can get three kids to listen to you at the same time. If you like people who do stupid shit all the time, become a parent. You'll love it.

“There's Mickey the Mouse!” Bea squeals as we make our way under the train bridge and into a tunnel. I look to the right side entrance and see it: there he is, Mickey. But then I look back at Bea and realize something horrifying: she's looking to
the left
. At a completely different Mickey Mouse. There are two Mickeys, one in each entrance tunnel into the park. They're hidden from each other just slightly, so the kids don't notice, but
I've
noticed, and the illusion of his majesty is gone forever. I've just gone from a lifetime of fetishizing Mickey as a god to visualizing some vault teeming with a thousand empty Mickey costumes, strung up on hangers, chins dangling to their hollow mouse chests. Mouse skin suits.

The line to see Mickey is already stupid, a hundred people deep.

“MICKEY THE MOUSE!!!” Bea screams.

“We can't get a picture with him,” I say, my newfound contempt for counterfeit Mickey showing just a bit around the edges.

“Awwwww!” Henry whines.

“Why not?” Sal sheepishly asks. Unlike twelve-year-old me, nine-year-old Sal understands that she really shouldn't give a shit. Just like me, however, she does.

I pull the kids to the side of the tunnel, so we won't get trampled by the mobs of eager families irately shoving and pushing their way through to the best day of their lives. James stands nearby giving me his “
ABORT MISSION
” look, but I want the kids to get a good look at one of the many Mickey Mice. “Okay, look at him from here.” They already are, transfixed.

“Team,” I say to the three sets of eyes that are not meeting mine at all, “we need to go and get our fast passes for the Indiana Jones ride. You guys want to go on that, right?”

“YEAH!” Henry and Sal shout.

Bea rolls her eyes. “I don't.”

“Good, you can't go on it anyway. Let's go.”

I pull them back into the wave of people, James trailing behind. As we walk past the line of families, I look at all the moms and dads waiting in line to get Mickey's autograph and photo and realize: They are
happy
, standing there in line. They're smiling. A few of them are
singing.

“James, what are these people, handicapped? Who likes waiting in a line with their kids to see some dude in a mouse costume? I mean, I
was
one of those people, I guess. Before I got my period.”

He nods. “They're totally handicapped. No need to talk about your period.”

I wish I had more patience for stupidity, but I use it all up pretty quickly on my kids. I rarely say no to things that aren't death traps, but when I do say no, there is a reason: stupidity.

I can see James clenching his jaw as we move forward. “We need to get the fuck out of here,” he whispers. “This was a bad idea.”

“James, it's going to be amazing.” I let go of little hands and throw my own hands in the air, clinging for dear life to my life-is-what-you-make-it, Pollyanna-till-you're-paralyzed smile. “It's Disneyland! Preplanned fun! We don't even have to think about entertaining!”

“CORN DOGS!!!!” Henry screams, running off and disappearing into the crowd toward a snack stand.

I look at James. “We can just lose him now, right? We don't really need him.”

“Yeah, leave him,” Sal says casually. “But maybe later? I want a corn dog too.”

“MOM! THEY LOOK DELICIOUS!” We're barely within earshot of Henry, but as usual he makes it work.

“Henry,” I say, jogging up to his dumb, smiling face. Not too fast—I hate running. “You can't run off like that. Do you want to be the first of the three of you to get kidnapped?”

“Mom, no one gets kidnapped in Disneyland. It's basically illegal.”

“Dude, kidnapping
is
illegal. Not just basically.”

Bea chimes in. “I would kidnap kids here, Mama.”

“Twenty-four dollars?” James is grabbing his change and three corn dogs for the kids. “These things cost twenty-four dollars? We send that sponsored World Vision kid twenty-four bucks, it lasts him a month.”

“They look delicious.” Sal is a monster child. At ten years old, she's five foot four and thin, with a size seven foot. She is a human garbage disposal unit.

“AHHHH!” Henry says, the steaming tip of a corn dog hanging out of his mouth. “This is delicious.”

“Uh, Mom?” Bea looks up at me, holding her corn dog. “This is too hot.”

“I know. Just wait a minute, it'll cool down. Want me to carry it?”

“I'm not even hungry.” Her eyes are wide, like she's surprising herself. “I want to see Belle.”

“I'll eat it.” Sal lunges for the corn dog.

Henry sees her and lunges in too. “No! I want it.”

Queen Bea lifts her eyebrows, making her power move. Kids are so predictable.

“Bea, you're sure you don't want it?” I ask.

She nods. “Belle is all I want.”

I turn to Sal. “Can Henry have it? He's almost finished his, and corn dogs was his thing. I'll get you something else.”

“I saw a gift shop over there,” she says.

“No gift shop!” James says. It's kind of our rule: We can go to the museum, the science center, the zoo, but we avoid the gift shop like the chicken pox. Gift shops are for suckers.

We aren't suckers and we aren't getting dehydrated. “Drink,” I say, passing the kids their water bottles.

“Okay. Look, it's Disneyland. If things go well, meaning
if you listen . . .
” I pause dramatically, alpha-momming them into eye contact until they're hanging on to my words like I'm Oprah, “. . . we will go to a gift shop.”