Mommies Who Drink Read online

5.Find out what “dildo” is. Ask Tom Goldenhirsch.

  6. Always act like you know what’s going on, even if you don’t.

  7.Always carry a purse.

  8. Do spontaneous and outrageous things. Not in front of parents. Consider taking off shirt in public or cracking up in church.

  Kate Paesel, 10/23/1972

  In reading the contract, I see that it’s full of holes. My concerns about my parents, my hair, and a purse are not consistent with my image of Dana. The evidence of who I am, who I will always be, is carved in the careful, concerned language of this document.

  Last summer my mother showed me a little alumni book that her high school class of 1947 put together. In it were current pictures and little blurbs about what people are doing now. We thumbed through it, marveling over the fact that the class slut owned a bookstore and the class jock looked like Mr. Potato Head. Next to each picture were three adjectives that each person had sent in to describe themselves. The class slut said that she was “Adventurous, Optimistic, and Zany.” Next to my mother’s picture were the adjectives she had sent to describe herself. They were “Dependable, Determined, and Decent.”

  “Mom,” I said, “these are all ‘D’ words.”

  “You noticed,” she said, pleased.

  “You might as well have added Dull.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on,” I said. “Dependable, Determined, and Decent? Would you want to meet this person?”

  “I am dependable,” my mother said.

  “How about Daring?” I said. “That’s a ‘D’ word.”

  “Kristin,” she said, “I am not daring.”

  This is and is not true. My mother is an artist who lived in Europe most of her life. Which is daring by a lot of people’s standards. But it is true that she doesn’t think of herself as daring.

  And I am the acorn who hasn’t fallen far from the tree.

  I got to have a Dana moment early this year when I did a topless bit on Six Feet Under. The bit demanded that I dance in front of a bonfire with my shirt off, my breasts proudly swinging, and say a couple of lines.

  Finally, I thought, I get to be bold and free—and I get to be those things on national television. This was even better than rocks in my pants. After I shot the scene, actors and crew came up to me and said things like, “Wow, that was brave” and “I could never have done that.”

  I felt powerful and drunk with my own chutzpah.

  A few months later I was Googling myself, as I do when I’m bored—Google myself and my friends. I do this because something gets said about me in a chat room every once in a while. And I’m curious. So I Googled myself and up popped this link to Celebrity Nudity Database. It said something like:

  Brett Paesel

  Rating ** [I am not sure out of how many stars I got two, but I don’t think it’s a high number.]

  Scene Description: Floppy Breasts

  Sexy Lauren Ambrose watches a wild bonfire party with a buncha aging hippies. One of them (Brett) runs up to Lauren. Brett’s a little chubby, and her naked saggy tits flop and bounce as she dances by the firelight. I gave an extra star because she’s pretty good and because it’s fun watching her swing and bounce.

  There it was—a write-up of my Dana moment on a celebrity nude Web site. I was not, in this man’s eyes, a beautiful, bold celebration of womanhood, I was a middle-aged hippie with saggy tits.

  A few weeks after the Google, I asked for tips on how to make small talk from Katherine, who could get a tree to talk to her. I’m tired of making faux pas that turn me into the woman not to get trapped with at a function. Recently, at a wrap party for an Olsen Twins project, I said, “Well, T. S. Eliot couldn’t have said it better when he said that the greatest treason is to do the right thing for the wrong reason.” This statement cleared the room and I ended up having a third martini, which led to my dirty dancing with one of the teenage extras from the show.

  Katherine said, “Brett, I just say the first thing that comes into my head.”

  “That was the first thing that came into my head,” I said.

  “No,” said Katherine. “The first thing. Like, ‘Great shoes’ or ‘I like your haircut.’”

  As Pat and I drive to a snitzy Hollywood party, I think of myself as Dana with rocks in my pants. I will be fun and flirty (not too flirty). I will not be Dependable, Determined, and Decent. I will say the first thing that comes into my head, something simple. I feel kicky and bold in my new pair of flowy pants.

  At the party I wait in line for a drink, crushed next to a semifamous, older director who knows me somewhat as that woman who does those bits on his friends’ shows sometimes. He gives me that trapped smile I know so well.

  I think . . . think . . . think . . . first thing. First thing that comes into my head. I look at his shoes. I shift. I look at his hair. I pull the waistband of my flowy pants.

  I breathe in and will a thought to descend. I breathe in and open my mouth and say, “I’m wearing a thong.”

  His eyes widen. I think, Well, I’ve got his attention. And I barrel on through.

  “It’s itching,” I say.

  He smiles vaguely, then looks out over the room.

  “I’m just . . . ,” I say. “It’s my first time wearing one because of these pants and it’s killing me.”

  “Yes,” he says in a strained voice.

  “Why don’t men wear thongs?” I ask.

  “What would you like?” he asks, inclining his head toward the bartender.

  “Not to have to wear a damn thong,” I say.

  “To drink,” he says.

  “Oh,” I say. “I’ll have a white wine.”

  He orders for us both and hands me my wine.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  There is a pause and I say, “So, yeah. The thong. Well, I guess you have to be uncomfortable to be sexy. I mean, look at those push-up demi-bras with water in them.”

  He smiles and says, “Yes. Well, see you soon.”

  I watch his back as he slips through the crowd. I stand with my cup of wine, my fingers feeling the cold, wet plastic. I feel the fabric pull between my buttocks. And I think that T. S. Eliot was indeed right. The greatest treason is to do the right thing for the wrong reason.

  I am not Dana. I am dependable, determined, and decent. And, hey, I ain’t that bad. Because it’s fun to watch me swing and bounce.

  Friday

  What just pisses me off more than just my average ‘pissed off’ is that Children’s Day knows we’re a gay couple with an adopted child. They have this very PC brochure with pictures of black children holding hands with whites, two boys playing with dolls . . .” Michelle trails off.

  Lana reaches over and pats Michelle’s knee. I take another sip of my red wine and look at our reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Light briefly fills the room as the door is opened, and I see Katherine in the mirror, walking toward us, her perky breasts straining against a tight red T-shirt. She raises her hand at Mack.

  “Don’t mind the glass. Just inject me with a black and tan, my friend,” she says, flinging her purse behind the bar rail at our feet.

  Lana takes her hand from Michelle’s knee. “Michelle’s preschool just screwed her without a kiss.”

  “No shit,” Katherine says to Michelle. “You were high on that school.”

  “Uh, let’s see. That was before today, when they ‘suggested’ that Sarah and I not come together to Faith’s Halloween party.”

  Mack slides a sticky amber shot over to Lana, which she dumps into her beer.

  “This just doesn’t make any sense,” I say. “They knew you were a gay couple when you registered.”

  “The teacher said it wasn’t the school. It was some of the parents who were having grandparents come. She said that a couple of parents had seen Sarah and me kissing outside the school and they were worried that we’d do it at the party or something and that the grandparents would be offended.”

  “What if you
say you won’t kiss?” says Katherine. She pauses. “No, never mind. That’s stupid. You shouldn’t have to say anything.” She reaches through us to grab her black and tan.

  “You know, just fuck ’em,” I say. “Fuck those Children’s Day hypocrites. Bring Faith over to my preschool. Carter’s pretty easy. Say you know me. They’re pretty impressed with me these days.”

  “Impressed?” says Lana. “I thought you said that you were the worst mommy there.”

  I put down my wine.

  “Sure. When it comes to technical stuff like working with food or doing anything crafty. I can’t do any of that. But,” I say, dragging it out, “Spence just made me a star.”

  “No talking about kids,” Katherine says, reminding me of a recent Friday rule.

  “This isn’t about Spence,” I say. “It’s about how famous I am at Carter School.”

  “I hope we’re not finished with me,” says Michelle.

  “This has everything to do with you,” I say. “Thing is, the other day I go to pick Spence up and the teachers and the parents are all looking at me. Like I can feel them staring. I go to sign Spence out and I’m standing next to one of the moms, Mako, who’s looking at me like I’m suddenly someone special. And you know she’s never given me even one thought.”

  “Right, right,” says Michelle, spinning her hand like, “Move it along.”

  “Anyway, she says to me, ‘Spence told us about your morning.’ I can’t think of what she’s talking about. But she smiles and says, ‘You had quite a morning.’ And, suddenly, I remember. Shit. Spence came in on us. Pat and me.”

  “And this makes you famous?” says Lana. “The moms over there must be pretty hard up.”

  “Now, this is according to Mako, who somehow thought I should know. What Spence said was that he saw Mommy sitting on Daddy’s head.”

  Lana pushes away from the bar and spits beer all over it. Katherine slaps her thigh and whoops like it’s the funniest thing. Michelle smiles and swigs her Amstel.

  I’m pleased. It’s a brief celebration. Plus, I just told a sex story, which I almost never do. Good for me.

  “Anyway, I guess the story got around school and Mako said that everyone’s impressed that I get a little action on a school morning. To be honest, I think they should be more impressed with Pat.”

  “I’m impressed with Pat,” says Lana.

  “I’m working hard at figuring out how any of this helps me,” says Michelle.

  “Thing is,” I say, “now that I’m a person of note over at Carter School, I bet I can get you in.”

  “You can get me in because everyone knows you get head in the morning?”

  “People get into schools for a lot less,” says Lana.

  “Don’t you see?” I say. “You’re my funky lesbian friend with her Chinese daughter. We’re the color. We’re what keeps the day interesting.”

  I say this before I know how true it is.

  “As impressive as your notoriety is,” says Michelle, “the sad truth is, Sarah and I will probably stick it out at Children’s Day for Faith’s sake. I can’t yank her out of school in the middle of the year.”

  “I guess,” I say. “But if you can’t hack it, come over to our preschool and say you know that mom whose husband goes downtown in the morning.”

  Mack places four clear shots in front of us.

  “Anyone who can guess what’s in these shots,” he says, “gets to take me downtown tonight.”

  He winks and walks away.

  It Takes a Gay Village

  That’s it, Brett. Right at the end she does a little laugh. Can you match it?” says a voice from behind the glass window of the sound booth.

  I watch footage of an actress in some straight-to-video movie. I’ve been called by a friend of a friend to rerecord the actress’s lines, because they’re unintelligible. Jobs are few, so I asked my friends Ben and Joe to watch Spence while I work. Pat’s shooting something with the Olsen Twins again—some bit where he chases them in a golf cart. If we weren’t so desperate for money, I’d sit down and ponder what exactly we think we’re doing here in Hollywood. It’s a far cry from the mind-blowing political theater that rocked our worlds when we were serious artists in Chicago.

  I lean into the microphone and match the starlet’s words. “You tell Guido I don’t have the bag, man.” Then I tag it with a snort of a laugh.

  “Perfect,” I hear from behind the window.

  I puff up a bit at having nailed it. Even though it’s an easy thing.

  On the street I phone the guys. “Hey, Joe, I just got out of the session. I’m on my way to get Spence.”

  “Wow, that was fast,” he says on the other end.

  “I’m a pro.”

  “Well, we were just settling in,” he says.

  From another room I hear Ben yell, “Tell her we were just starting to watch The Golden Girls!”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I say. “Bea Arthur may scare Spence, so turn down the volume.”

  Pat and I have known Ben since we lived in Chicago, and we’ve known Joe since he moved in with Ben ten years ago. They are large men, too big for their apartment. They are gentle giants, seeming to stoop to get through doors, filling up a room with their size. There is poetry in their pairing. How did they find each other? Two gay men who love everything on Lifetime television, beer on tap, and babies.

  I walk in the door toward the end of The Golden Girls. Spence sits on Ben’s lap as Joe hunches over a frying pan in the kitchen, muscles bulging from his shoulders like the Hulk.

  “Mommy,” Spence yells, waving.

  “Hey, sweetie.”

  I throw my backpack down and sink into a chair. Bea Arthur tosses off a line as she exits through the swinging door of the kitchen. Ben laughs.

  “That, my friend,” he says to Spence, “is comedy.”

  “You want to be Bea Arthur,” I say.

  “I am Bea Arthur,” he says. Which is true.

  “You guys want to stay for dinner?” asks Joe. “It’s cool. As long as we can kick you out in an hour. We’ve got a Bear Bust tonight.”

  “No thanks,” I say. Ben and Joe would never miss Friday Bear Bust, a kegger at a local gay bar, catering only to large, mostly hairy guys called bears.

  Spence slips off Ben’s lap and walks over to Joe.

  “Can I see the fish?” he asks, tugging on Joe’s pant leg.

  “Just a minute,” says Joe, sliding the frying pan to another burner. “I got a new bottom feeder. A scavenger. You’ll love him.”

  Joe reaches way down to grab Spence’s hand. They amble off to look at the aquarium in the den, as Ben and I stare at the opening credits of The Nanny.

  I grew up with many gay uncles, friends of my parents who were “confirmed bachelors”—or, as a gay friend’s mother says, “those who have elected not to marry.” These men sat at our kitchen table, chopping onions, chatting to my mother as she cooked. They were tan all year round and their pants were always pressed. They adored me, I now realize, because being part of our extended family was as close as they would get to having children.

  One of these men, “Uncle” Jay, gave me a black doll when I was about three, just to shock the neighbors. Later he gave me a Bible. Printed on the inside of the cover was a map of the Holy Land, where Jay had scrawled notes.

  “Just think of the tan you could get here,” he scribbled over Jordan. Over the Mediterranean Sea in capital letters he wrote, “Let’s meet Jackie O. here.” When I lent the Bible to my church’s Bible display, it was returned by the Sunday School teacher. I couldn’t figure out why.

  A few years ago I got a cocktail napkin in the mail from a friend of Jay’s. “Just wanted you to know that Jay was thinking of you way back in 1975, when we were skiing in St. Moritz,” says the accompanying note. “That night he couldn’t stop talking about how smart and talented you were.”

  I unfolded the napkin to read, in Jay’s handwriting, “I’ll send her to Vassar.”r />
  I imagined Jay in his skiing jumpsuit, which he wore even when he wasn’t skiing, boasting about me in a ski lodge thirty years ago. I imagined him making huge promises about how he was going to take care of me. Someone must have drunkenly insisted that he put it in writing.

  My friend William trained Spence early to call him Genius. Last summer Genius went to France to work on a screenplay. While there, he sent me a photo attached to an e-mail. “All week, I’ve been a very happy man,” it said. I opened up the attachment to find a picture of a model-handsome young man, shirtless, on a beach. The e-mail went on to say that the young man’s name was Enrico. He was twenty-four and studying at the Sorbonne. “He’s intelligent and so deep,” continued the e-mail, “and we’re in love. He’s moving to the States.”

  I remember thinking that there was no part of the e-mail that made me happy for my lonely, fortyish friend who had a habit of choosing heartbreak. I didn’t like that they’d known each other for only a week, that they were in France, that the guy was twenty-four, Chilean, or that he was named Enrico. Genius needed a fiftyish art dealer who liked rococo bathroom fixtures, fine wine, and paying for things. Who had a solid name like Scott.

  But that was before I met Enrico. He landed and I was converted.

  Give me for to the baby,” Enrico says, arms outstretched, going for Spence.

  Spence looks at Enrico wide-eyed. He can’t understand a word Enrico says. But he likes that Enrico lets him watch back-to-back DVDs when he babysits. Something I, the TV Nazi, will not allow. Enrico lifts Spence in a practiced hip-hold.

  “Genius is coming for to later,” he says to me.

  “Fine, you know how to let him in,” I say. “I’ll only be gone a couple of hours.”

  “This is nothing. We watch for some elephants and find dinosaurs in a book.”

  “Sounds good. There’s food in the fridge.”

  “I love for the food for Spencer. It’s nothing.”

  “Right.”

  “I can for Thursday babysit for the baby. I have for Katherine not to do for this week,” he says.