Tales From the Crib (34 page)

“You look stunning!” Anjoli said. And she was right.

“Look Lucy, there’s your byline! It’s gorgeous.”

“Do you think it makes me look fat?” I asked.

* * *

I’m writing another piece for the May issue of
Glamour
about celebrity mother-daughter relationships. I’m not star struck by any means, but I am more than a tad excited about my upcoming interview with Goldie and Kate. (I get to use their first names now, since I know their publicist personally.) The editor I worked with recommended me to write a piece in the
Conde Nast Traveler.
Zoe, Candace, Anjoli, and I are doing a four-spa tour of Florida next month. The four of us sample the menu of treatments, they give me the low-down, and I write a five thousand-word comparative, ranking each with one to four hearts. One heart means they yanked out someone’s pubes too briskly. Four hearts means we all came away feeling like goddesses of tranquility.

In the month between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, there were two deaths in the family. Not Aunt Bernice, thankfully. She’s doing fine in Hollywood where she’s abandoned the idea of jumping into the Intracoastal and taken up bridge instead. She’s back to funeral crashing and says the selection is much better in Florida. Bernice still keeps Rita alive in small ways, but two therapists and her podiatrist all agree that there’s nothing too wrong with keeping oneself happy at her age. When I asked her to join us for the spa tour, I heard her spit into the phone. “What do I need with spas? There’s a beauty parlor in the lobby and I’m making the Valentine’s Day party for the building. I’m needed here.” Anjoli and I will spend a weekend with her at her new place before spa wars begins. Rumor has it that her kids had maintenance extend the metal railing on her balcony so it reaches the ceiling, making it more a cage than a patio. I doubt it, though. My family has never been one to put accuracy before entertainment. Three generations are laughing at the image of Auntie in her condo cage. They’re happy with this version of the story and that’s all that matters.

The first death was that Findhorn killed Anjoli’s Selfless Nongrieving workshop. No one signed up, and upon further review, they decided it wasn’t in line with their mission. My mother bounced back from this within minutes, saying that every time she sat down to write her course outline, she wondered why she’d committed herself to this “pain-in-the-ass project.” Suffice it to say, there will be no book deal.

Which leads me to the second death: Desdemona’s pneumonia finally got the best of her and she died peacefully in her sleep with her mother and husband by her side. These two characters will remain frozen by Desdemona’s bedside for eternity, as I have no idea what they would do after their beloved made the transition. Instead, I decided to take Chris’s advice and take a stab at writing the story of our first year with Adam. My New Year’s resolution was to write every day, and for the last five days I’ve been doing it faithfully. I’m on page fifty of the draft, the part where Henri the harp player comes to Anjoli’s apartment and doesn’t have sex with me. Jack bought me a laptop computer for Chrismukka, our blended-faith holiday, so I can write wherever I go, no excuses.

“Please tell me that’s Chinese food I smell,” said Zoe as she shook snow off her hat outside the doorway.

“When did it start snowing?” asked Candace, who arrived ten minutes earlier with Manny and their parcel of children.

“I’m starving,” Zoe said, ignoring the question.

“Let’s do the cake first,” Kimmy suggested.

“Please give me a potato chip,” Zoe whimpered at me. We walked into the kitchen where Kimmy was nestling a candle shaped like the number one into a white-frosted sheet cake with “Happy Birthday, Adam!” written in blue gel icing. I handed Zoe some Cheetos. She snapped the bag, and apologized. “Believe me, you want me fed. I tried to get back on the Blubber Flush wagon, and would kill for food.”

“Will kill for food. That’d make a good cardboard sign for panhandling,” I suggested.

“Jack!” I shouted. “Is Adam in his chair?” He confirmed. Where’s Anjoli?” I saw that she was outside and asked Jack to call her in. “Turn down the lights,” I said in that kid-show-host sing-song way that I hate. I struck the match and lit the wick of Adam’s birthday candle. As I emerged from the kitchen with Kimmy and Zoe by my sides, the others began singing “Happy Birthday.”

Happy birthday, dear Adam. Happy birthday to you.

We all clapped as I tried to explain the concept of blowing out the candle. “Don’t touch,” I said, rescuing his hand from the flame. “Make a wish, and blow,” I said, filling my cheeks with air and demonstrating what he should do. He reached his hand out toward my face and touched my mouth. “Now blow,” I tried to redirect his attention back to the cake.

“I can’t believe you started without me, darling!” Anjoli said, entering from outside through the kitchen door. “I was just giving thanks for the first snowfall of the new- ”

Before she could finish, a light breeze from outside rushed in and extinguished his candle.

“Owww!” our disappointed guests exclaimed.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” I said to Adam, who was the only person not distraught about the candle being extinguished. I took the box of marches from our new neighborhood Chinese take-out place and lit another. As I connected the flame and the wick, I suggested we try again. With a second flame burning before him, Adam smiled at his cake. “Come on, sweetie,” I urged. “Make a wish. It’s not too late.”

Like Tales from the Crib?

Read a sample chapter from the sequel

The Queen Gene

The Queen Gene

Chapter One

I can usually count on a phone call every day from my mother’s dog, and today was no different. Paz is my mother’s new toy Chihuahua that she totes around everywhere she goes. When he sits in Mother’s purse, his little paws often hit the redial button on her cell phone, which means I’m in for at least ten minutes of unwilling eavesdropping on Anjoli’s life until she finally hears me shouting, begging her to hang up the phone. My mother discovered a phone with a personality that matches hers. It doesn’t allow me to simply hang up. She has to be the one who decides to disengage.

I can hang up on her, but when I pick up the phone a few minutes later to make a call of my own, she’s still there. This is the story of my life.

With most women her age you might think I’d hear her attending lectures at elder hostels, playing bridge, or consulting a podiatrist. After a lifetime with Anjoli as a mother, I’ve come to expect nothing less than the shocking, ridiculous, and thoroughly appalling. Hearing the details of her life firsthand (rather than the somewhat sanitized version she tells me) is a bit much, though. Just last week I heard her mantra consultant telling my mother that if she wasn’t willing to chew her food until it was fully liquefied, the chanting couldn’t possibly heal her lower back pain. I also heard Anjoli telling one of her customers at the Drama Queen bookshop that he had tweezed his eyebrows too thin. She then proceeded to give him tips on creating a dramatic, but not overdone, arch. And truly disturbing, I heard Anjoli having sex with her Pilates instructor. I hung up immediately, but moments later when I picked up the phone to make another call, Mother had still not disconnected. Literally. Some of my friends complain that their parents are overly involved in their lives and thought I should be grateful my mother has such a full schedule. But Anjoli’s myriad of interests and activities do not preclude her from her favorite activity — “helping” me with my two-year-old son, and visiting my husband Jack and me at our new home in the Berkshire Mountains.

We closed escrow on an old four-bedroom home last winter and have been making improvements to the main house and two guest cottages with the intention of opening it to visiting artists next month.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother dearly. But as Jack has noticed, she’s like a vapor. When she enters a room, she occupies every bit of space. Corners we hadn’t even discovered were suddenly filled with the presence of my mother. Still, she’s my mother, so like most daughters I have feelings about her that range from complete adoration to total frustration. And if I’m being entirely honest, there’s a tablespoon of jealousy added into the mix.

Not only is Anjoli the darling of New York’s theater district with friends — and enemies — around the globe, she’s also a drop-dead gorgeous, blond version of Sophia Loren with a ballerina body that has stayed firm well into her sixties.

Anyway, Paz is the newest addition to our family. Anjoli called me a few weeks ago to thank me for hosting Thanksgiving dinner. As she put it, “Having family around the dinner table activated my issues, darling. It reminded me of how very important our connections to others are. You know what a nurturing soul I am so this shouldn’t surprise you too much.” Without pause, she continued, “I’ve adopted a puppy and I’m calling him Paz.”

This would have been the end of it for most people. They might put a photo in their wallet, mention the new puppy at work, or maybe even buy a few silly dog toys. My mother sent a formal announcement on white textured silk cards which invited guests to
the
puppy blessing of the winter season. After Paz was lightly doused with warm water, my mother’s friends raised their champagne glasses to toast the puppy of honor. She served organic hors d’oeuvres shaped like mini dog bones.

“Isn’t he the most adorable little pound puppy, darling?” Anjoli said when she brought Paz to visit for Christmas.

Despite my mother’s delusions that she was a great nurturer, I was surprised when she first announced the adoption. “I didn’t know you liked dogs,” I said.

“I don’t,” she returned quickly. “But Paz isn’t like other dogs, darling. He’s the sweetest little teacup Chihuahua. He fits in my purse and doesn’t even bark. He has a tiny little yelp that you can hardly even hear, and when you do, it isn’t the least bit disturbing. Oh honey, I adore this little peanut!”

“You’re going to carry around a dog in your purse?” I asked incredulously, wondering if my mother knew this was a long-term commitment, not a new accessory. “Who are you, Paris Hilton?”

“Who?”

I tried again. “Who are you, Zsa Zsa Gabor?”

“Would I ever slap a police officer, darling?”

“That’s true, you’d probably have sex with him.”

Anjoli laughed. “That’s something your father would say.”

They divorced early enough in the marriage that they remained quite civil. Whenever my father had come to pick me up on Sundays, it had been very amicable. Without everything else that comes with a marriage, my parents got along astonishingly well.

“So you’re calling this dog
Paws
?” I asked when she first told me about the adoption.

“Not
Paws
, darling. Paz, Paz. It means ‘peace’ in Spanish. Paz is Latino.”

“I’m just a little surprised. I never saw you as the type to own a dog.”

“It was love at first sight, darling. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was my baby.”

The more I thought about my mother saving this Chihuahua puppy from the dog pound, the more I thought it was a sweet idea. So what if she dressed him up in little outfits and paraded him around Manhattan in a Louis Vuitton satchel? The fact of the matter was that my mother was connecting with her nurturing side. And Paz didn’t exactly get a raw deal. This Chihuahua would have the best of everything, which is a hell of a lot better than the life he would have known at the dog pound, or even if he’d been adopted by a normal person.

When I first told Jack about Anjoli adopting a dog, he was surprised to say the least. “Does she realize how much work a dog is? Does she understand she needs to take the dog out of her purse every couple hours to take a crap?”

“I’m sure she’s aware of a dog’s biological functions,” I defended. I think it’s a commonly shared sentiment that the only ones allowed to be critical of parents are their own children. Since I had no siblings, I cornered the market on Anjoli-bashing.

Jack continued. “You think she’ll remember to feed a dog every day? You told me she forgot to feed you most nights.”

That’s not exactly what I said. During that starry-eyed time when a couple is first getting to know each other — comparing their childhoods, their families, and their hopes for the future — I mentioned that my mother didn’t prepare meals the way most did. Her usual dinner preparation was what I came to know as “ten on the table,” which meant Anjoli left ten dollars on the dining room table so I could buy myself the meal of my choosing. Back in the seventies and early eighties, this was a windfall for a kid. There were dozens of restaurants from sushi bars to hot dog stands all within a short walk of our brownstone on West Eleventh Street. There was Balducci’s Italian market, Joe Jr.’s diner, and Ray’s Pizza, among others. There was Chinese, Indian, and Cambodian. Nearly every nation was represented by its cuisine.

As a child I loved the freedom, nonetheless Jack had a point. I giggled at the image of an undersized Chihuahua in a Burberry’s Nova pattern beret and poncho bopping down Sixth Avenue clutching a ten dollar bill in his teeth. Poor thing couldn’t even reach the counter to place his order.

“Jack, I’m sure Anjoli will be wonderful to the dog,” I assured him. “Let’s give her the benefit of the doubt. The new year is all about people changing for the better. Neither of us is perfect, but we’re getting better every year,” I said, winking.

Jack pulled me in toward him with one arm and hugged me. “That’s what I love about you, Luce. You always see the best in people.”

“I really think she’s going to surprise us both,” I said. “This dog could be just what she needs to tap into her maternal instincts.”

Anjoli had changed over the past year. When she visits the house, she always generously volunteers to supervise the handymen so I can take Adam to the park for a few hours. She recently announced that she was willing to change urine-only diapers. Anjoli even broke down and bought a cell phone last summer so we could talk more often, despite the fact she believed they cause ear cancer. When she first started using the phone, Anjoli kept sterilized cotton in her ears to protect herself from the radiation, but found that this also made it difficult to hear. Then she discovered that her phone had a speaker, and now keeps it on so she doesn’t have to bring the receiver to her ear. Admittedly, this is less than considerate to the people who have to listen to both ends of her phone conversations, but New Yorkers have seen everything. What’s another designer-clad grandmother carrying on a semi-pornographic conversation with a lover who’s unaware that his voice is being blasted through Union Square?