Suburgatory (16 page)

James Patrick said, “It's not small, Daddy, it's huge. You should see the furniture pickup area!”

Joe asked, “What did you say, James Patrick?”

Marello said, “Oh he's just talking about a part of the museum where you can touch the furniture. So what else is going on with you guys?”

Marisa, already looking suspicious asked James Patrick, “Sooooo, what else do you do at the museum of Scandinavian design and culture?”

“Oh, eat cinnamon buns and jump into the huge ball pit and throw balls all over and go to the Land of a Thousand Bedrooms and we talk to Stephen and . . . hey,” James Patrick said, running his hands up and down the living room chair. “This is the Ektorp Jennylund!”

At this point, the jig was up, and while Marello looked mortified, Joe said, “James Patrick, does the museum of Scandinavian design and culture have a big sign with the letters I K E A?”

“Yes! Does that spell Smaaaland?”

Marello's friends erupted in riotous laughter and asked why he didn't just say he was going to IKEA. “It sounds pathetic! And don't you dare tell Jill, I don't know how, but she still hasn't figured it out. She's totally turned into a man now, and barely even asks about our day. But she'd still kill me if she found out I wasn't providing James Patrick with ‘enrichment.'”

Joe Mucha said, “Oh, don't beat yourself up. When you're a parent you gotta do what you gotta do to just get through it. Don't make yourself crazy. We know all about that, right Maris?”

Marisa agreed. “James Patrick enjoys it, you enjoy it. End of story.”

Not quite. James Patrick emerged from the kitchen with a melon baller.

“This toy is miscontinued.”

“
Dis
continued, James Patrick,” Marello said.

“But you can bring it back and get store credit—ask for Stephen and tell him James Patrick said Hi!”

Mom's Thrill Dashed by
Sex and the City
's Miranda

Suburgatory, USA—A mom tried to appear blasé—and failed—about news that actress Cynthia Nixon has not only moved to town, but has also enrolled her child at the local school.

“Oh yeah, it's a great school that we're zoned for. We've really lucked out. Oh and you know, I think Cynthia Nixon's new in town and she's zoned for the school, too,” said Joyce Birney, in an intentionally offhanded way en route to the first day of classes for her nine-year-old, Aaron.

Arriving at the school, Birney said, “Yeah I mean we could have easily afforded to send Aaron to Briarcliff, but we just thought, we have a great school right here, people love it, and—
Holy shit, there's Miranda!
I mean, um, there's Cynthia Nixon.”

Birney's husband, Robert, turned away quickly. “I don't know how I'm going to talk to her when I know what her boobs look like the whole time. They're little and super white, not my bag. I mean, not
bad
or anything, any boobs are better than no boobs at all, but, I don't know, it's going to be distracting to me.”

Nixon had arrived with her partner, public education activist Christine Marinoni. As Birney and her husband attempted to hide their furtive glances, Birney discussed the values that she believes she shares with Cynthia Nixon. “You know, Miranda, she realized you have to give up your ‘city dream' eventually. Leave Manhattan. Try Brooklyn. Now she's here. Just like me! Can't send your kids to those crap schools in the city. She was always the most sensible of the four girls. Oh, and she's a lawyer, too, who didn't stop working after Brady came along. Oh, there's Aaron's teacher. We need to talk to her, I guess.”

The teacher was already speaking with Marinoni, as Birney waited her turn. “Cynthia must really respect her. She
never
respected Steve. Now this relationship must be built on something real and lasting. That woman must worship Miranda!”

As Marinoni finished, Birney whispered to her husband, “Let's blow off the teacher,” and decided it was “too much of a coincidence not to say hello” to Nixon, the coincidence being “She's just a mom like I am.”

Birney introduced herself to Nixon and said, “We're thrilled that you've moved to town! It'll take some getting used to life outside the big city and all but it's worth it for the kids, right?!”

Nixon very cordially said, “It's lovely to meet you! But we are only in town for six months.”

Birney looked crestfallen. “So you didn't move here–move here?” Nixon said no. Birney then brightened, “Wait, you're not shooting the next
Sex and the City
movie out here, are you????”

“Oh no no! I'm doing the play
Angels in America
at the McClaren.” Nixon said.

“Wow, that must be such a drag for you after shooting with all that glamour and fun costumes in Abu Dhabi!” said Birney, in what her husband Robert calls her “annoying girl-talk tone.”

“Actually that was shot in Morocco. And I'm not knocking
Sex and the City
at all, but really theater is my first love, so it's a thrill for me to be here, even though we are heartbroken to take the kids out of P.S. 34 back in the city—it's . . . um . . .” Nixon looked around. “It's a little more diverse. And in a way, this is really a lot more like what you'd find in private school. Christine and I really believe in diverse public education. I'm sure it's great here though!” said Nixon, seemingly trying to soften the blow.

“Ah well, great to meet you,” Birney said. As they walked away, Birney looked deflated, and whispered to Robert, “Such a boring snotty lesbian.”

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Feared Room Mommies
Divide Iraqi Oil Revenue

Suburgatory, USA—The Room Mommies, infamous for their take-no-prisoners negotiating tactics, have been dispatched to settle an issue that's dogged Iraq in the years since the 2003 US invasion: the division of oil revenue among rival factions.

Mommies Christina Hohn, Rachel Tovacs, and Lisa Epstein traveled with military escort to Baghdad, at the behest of Iraqi president Jalal Talabani. Hohn spoke from inside the still heavily fortified Green Zone.

“Listen, last year when we had to manage the holiday gifts at the preschool and divide them between the teachers, it was just a major, massive shit storm. Every teacher is supposed to get the same amount, the float teachers get a little less, Bernardo the facilities guy, he gets some too. And what happens? We have to drag these mothers kicking and screaming out of Starbucks to cough up the cash. And do they accept our authority?”

Epstein, as is custom among the Room Mommies, finished Hohn's thought for her.

“. . . NO! One parent went renegade and snuck in some big Neiman card on the sly. One bought organic food baskets with kombucha or some bullshit granola crap. Some gave nothing, but still wanted their kid's handprint on the group card. The Bible thumper gave her own card with a creepy hologram Jesus, you know, like, right out of
Carrie,
and then gives it to Miss Levine.
LUH-vine!
One actually gave swag from work. . . .”

Mommy Tovacs grabbed the microphone from Epstein and tried to shout over the din of mortar fire.

“. . . then the teacher who got swag is pissed at the teacher who got the Neiman gift card. The teacher who got kombucha had no clue what it was. Then Miss Levine filed a complaint about the Jesus card. But you know what? We got them to take their junk back and give us cash, talked Levine off the ledge, and handed out perfectly apportioned Amex gift cards, all before holiday break. And we're going to get the dirty work done here in Baghdad, too. The Kurds, the Shia, and the Sunnis, they know our rep. We're not here to make friends. We're gonna knock some heads before bath and bedtime, and everyone will get their fair share of those oil dollars.”

After the morning's first meeting, which featured a nutrient-dense snack and water sippy cups, Mommy Tovacs was ebullient at their progress. “Now, look, with 59 percent of Iraq's oil reserves concentrated in southern Basra we pointed out to the Shia that poor Dahook, Anbar, Babel, and Dewaniya have nothing! Is that fair to Dahook, Anbar, Babel, and Dewaniya? No! And the Shia said politely, ‘No, Mommy Tovacs.'”

Epstein said this to the Kurds. “I know, I know the Sunnis did the gassing and all, but being good friends means forgiving. And sharing. And with 12 percent of total reserves held in Kurd-controlled Kirkuk, you have to share. You
must
share.”

The Kurdish representative, however, was visibly shaken by what happened behind closed doors. “Saddam . . . we praise Allah and the George Bush for saving us from that pure evil set upon our land. But these ladies, uhhhh, Saddam never met these ladies. Saddam, filthy dog, he terrified me. And the Sunnis, those puppies of the filthy dog, they scare me. But not like this. Now I see that I need to work on my sharing. I
will
work on my sharing.”

The Shia cleric, who demanded that the Room Mommies wear the hijab head cover during the talks, was similarly rattled by the morning's brinkmanship. “I thought, well, I mean, I thought the hijab would soften the Room Mommies, but it didn't work. These ladies . . . well . . . I've faced fedayeen [torture squads] who'll give you cigarettes and sweets. And mercy.”

The Sunni negotiator, a former Baath party member and accused war criminal, was more blunt. “We'll do whatever the Room Mommies tell us and,
inshallah,
they'll go home, they'll take those terrible devices—the nasal aspirator and the anal thermometer—away, and we can, what did that Jew lady call it? ‘Go nappy.'”