Target Underwear and a Vera Wang Gown Page 8

  “And another thing,” she said in the middle of our phone conversation. “I saw that you bought some mascara on the Blooming-dale’s card last month. Don’t you think it’s time you started paying for your own mascara? I want those cards back already.”

  “Please, Mommy,” I begged, “don’t take away the cards, I won’t use them anymore.”

  “So what’s the point of having them? I want those cards back. It’s time for you to be on your own.”

  “Please just let me keep them.”

  “Fine. We’ll compromise. Give me one of the cards.”

  Suddenly I was Meryl Streep in Sophie’s Choice.

  “Take the Macy‘s, take the Macy’s! ... No, wait!”

  I tried to compare the pros and cons of each store.

  Bloomingdale’s had the better clothes.

  Macy’s had the better bedding department.

  Bloomingdale’s gave out food samples.

  Macy’s had my favorite Lancôme saleslady.

  “Did you hear me?” she asked.

  Macy’s had a great parade.

  “Why are you being so quiet? I’m giving you one more minute to decide.”

  “Can I sleep on it and get back to you in the morning?”

  “NO! PICK ONE!”

  “I DON’T KNOW!”

  “TIME’S UP! I’M CALLING AND CANCELING THE BLOOMINGDALE‘S!”

  “STOP SCREAMING AT ME!”

  “YOU STOP SCREAMING AT ME!”

  “YOU’RE SCREAMING AT ME!”

  “I’M HANGING UP AND CALLING!”

  “MOTHER, IF YOU’D GIVE ME ONE MINUTE WHEN YOU WEREN’T SCREAMING, MAYBE I COULD FIGURE THIS OUT!”

  “TEN SECONDS. Ten, nine, eight, seven ...”

  They just kept swirling through my mind. Macy’s ... Bloom ingdale’s ... Bloomingdale’s ... Macy’s ... oh God, the horror of it all.

  And then the most wonderful thing happened.

  “WHAT’S ALL THE SCREAMING ABOUT?” I heard as my dad picked up the phone.

  Arlene explained the whole thing to him.

  “Christ, Arlene, she doesn’t spend anything! She’s all alone in the world, let her keep the goddamn cards,” he said.

  I heard the phone slam. Arlene fell silent.

  “Fine, he’s right.” she said.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “OK, I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  And so I was left with both cards intact, but because of what had taken place, I sent her the cards the very next morning. That conversation showed me something that I had totally forgotten, a simple fact that had completely slipped my mind: No matter how old I get, no matter the financial status, I will always, without a shadow of a doubt, be Daddy’s Little Girl.

  The Five Women You Meet in Los Angeles

  he neatest thing about living in Los Angeles is that everyone, for the most part, is from someplace else. No one has family here unless they’ve formed it on their own. It’s like Lord of the Flies with grown-ups. When I moved to Los Angeles in 1991, besides Adam, I knew absolutely no one. All that was to change very quickly, however, when I met the five women who, fifteen years later, are still my closest girlfriends. When I look back on those early days, I can only picture my five compatriots in those cheap Lycra flower dresses that we all hated, but because it was L.A. style at the time, and we wanted to be a part of L.A., we wore them anyway. Luckily, fashions got better and, over time, those dresses became the symbol of what brought us all together in the first place.

  One of my inconsequential late-twenties/early- thirties birthdays in the late nineties was all about celebrating estrogen-style. I felt like going expensive and decadent, so we decided on Spago My friends arrived at the restaurant in the same order as they entered in my life.

  Susan was first. She’d actually told me she might be late, but knowing her as well as I do, I knew she’d be the first. My friend Susan is the busiest person I know, and yet she always makes it on time. That’s one of the things I love most about her. I’m all about punctuality and so is she. The thing is, I don’t have a tenth of what her schedule is, so this lady gets extra stars in my book. Susan is one of those women who, in my opinion, “has it all.” After working her way up the Hollywood corporate ladder and becoming a top executive in a leading television company, while in the meantime also getting married and having three kids (two are twins no less, and I had to kid her, “You always have to do things the hard way, don’t you?”). She is the female Atlas, holding the world on her shoulders and yet she’s always on time. Susan entered Spago in black pants, a matching suit jacket, and a white button-down blouse underneath.

  “Diet Coke and a cup of coffee, black,” she said to a waiter walking by.

  Susan was my first friend in Los Angeles. It was a Saturday afternoon in August 1991. I had left Adam to go shopping by myself at the Beverly Center mall. I had just purchased a white off-the-shoulder cotton blouse (that I ended up never wearing) from Judy‘s, a cheapie-cheapie shop that later morphed into Con-tempo Casuals and was the only place I could afford to buy anything at the time. When I got home to our apartment, Adam was sitting on the couch talking with this attractive woman our age—twenty-two—in a pink Betsey Johnson Lycra flowered dress with a ruffled collar, black leggings, and a pair of motorcycle boots. I was instantly embarrassed by my cheapie-cheapie Judy’s bag, which I immediately threw into our living room closet upon seeing that we had a Los Angeles stylish-looking guest.

  Adam introduced me to our visitor. He knew Susan because she was the ex-girlfriend of a friend of his back in New York. She had this long dark spiral curly hair that she kept taking pieces of and wrapping around her fingers as she spoke. In the first five minutes that I knew her, Susan did all the talking. She was in the middle of a conversation with Adam about how she had just endured a year of recoup from a back operation and how angry she was with Columbia University because she was three credits short of graduating and how she was going to have to take a course that fall at a college in Los Angeles. “If it was a man who had this back problem,” she’d surmised, “I bet you anything that they would have just had him write an essay about it and then just given him the degree for all he’d been through. But because it’s a woman... !” She was brash, and a bit combative. In the hour she spent in our apartment, each seemingly harmless topic that was brought up always ended with her saying, “If it was a man...” or “But because it’s a woman...” And I would nod my head in agreement, but in actuality, I disagreed with her and disliked this loudmouth objector very much. It was only when Adam left the room at one point that she turned to me and confided, “When I saw you come in, I saw that you got something from Judy’s. Have you noticed by any chance that the fashions in this city suck?”

  “Yes, I have!” I exclaimed.

  “For men it’s fine, T-shirts and jeans,” she said.

  “I know!” I agreed, getting wound up, “But for a woman... !”

  From that moment on she was my feminist icon.

  Twelve years have softened Susan, gearing that oomph in other directions, or maybe she’s just too tired for the more trivial things in life.

  As we kissed hello and she took a seat, I noticed some spit-up from one of her twins sitting on her lapel. When I mentioned it to her, she feebly dabbed at it, laughing. “Hey, it’s cheaper than a brooch.”

  Felicia entered the restaurant next, dressed in a teal-colored wrap dress, her auburn hair cut into a classic bob. I noticed she had a large, dark blue box that she needed to carry with both hands, the word PRADA stamped on the ribbon that tied the box together.

  Susan and I met Felicia during the Los Angeles riots in April 1992. With the fear that the whole city would burst into flames, I grabbed two bathing suits, some sweats, and my hair dryer and we headed down to a friend’s parents’ beach house in Malibu, where we spent the next five days in the lap of luxury, trying not to think about what was happening to our newfound city. It was unanimously agreed by eve
ryone that Felicia would get the master bedroom on account of the fact that her boyfriend had just admitted to being a drug addict. Back at their apartment in Westwood, the guy was much more concerned about where he would find his fix, since his normal outpost had just been set ablaze in the uprising. Felicia had fled the apartment and come to Malibu. Given the circumstances at the time, my sensitivity level was on high alert, and any problems anyone had, even a stranger, were top priority. I spent the next five days pampering her, telling her she was a special woman, and that she could do much better than that guy.

  Felicia has brought this up countless times over the years. Something about my concern meant Felicia was always wanting to say thank you for being there that time when she really needed someone. Because she feels indebted, Felicia has taken on this solicitous mothering aspect in our relationship. Sometimes I accept it and actually seek it out. Most times, it really grates my nerves.

  We’ll be in a store, for example, and I’ll pick up an item. “What do you think of this?” I’ll ask her.

  “It’s great!” she’ll say. “You want me to get it for you?”

  Now, I have a job; I’m not destitute. Why does she feel the need to pay for my lavender soap just because, fifteen years earlier, I comforted her when she found out her boyfriend was a drug addict? She does this constantly Don’t get me wrong, I love this woman and it’s a beautiful thing, her always wanting to do something special, but as the chick that has already flown three thousand miles from the nest and given her parents’ credit cards back, let me see the error in my ways, realizing the stupidity of buying a forty dollar bar of soap.

  Back at the restaurant, Felicia handed me the Prada box as I gave her a sigh and said, “Honey, why would you do that?”

  “Don’t get mad at me,” she said, curling her short auburn tresses behind her ear, “I just figured birthdays only come around once a year.”

  Heidi entered next and, as usual, she was a tornado of electric energy. A former ball-busting talent agent, Heidi and Susan met through work and after a drink with us one night, she became an instant part of our clique. Eventually, Heidi left her job to become a stay-at-home mom to her three children. With all the vigor she put into being an agent, Heidi put that same energy into her family and friends. If you didn’t know it, you’d think she had three arms. She’s the soccer-nom version of a chef at Benihana. Heidi can whip up the most gorgeous dinner party in seconds flat while teaching one of her three children the ABC’s and talking on the phone with me, giving the most excellent advice on how to handle my boyfriend du jour. The same can be said for her wardrobe. I’ve always admired Heidi’s wardrobe. She’s comfortable yet chic—a jeans-with-a-frilly-top, dress-pants-with-a-T-shirt kind of gal. Heidi is the one I borrow clothes from the most and vice versa, though no matter what, there’s usually a problem, a fight ensues, and we never learn from the mistake.

  I once lent Heidi my brand-new Donna Karan black knit slip dress. She was really sweet and had had it dry-cleaned, but when it came back, something in the fabric had burned away and the dress became transparent. For lack of anything else, I decided to wear it to Julie Pelagatti’s rehearsal dinner back in Philadelphia. A week later, Julie called me, frantic, saying that since I had gone sans bra, every picture that was taken of me showed my breasts—nipples and all—in full view. I gave Heidi a lot of objectionable guilt over that. After all, it wasn’t her fault, it was the dry cleaners’. I got mine, however, when I decided to borrow her wool Burberry shawl, this amazingly warm yummy-thick wrap with the Burberry plaid all over it in shades of brown that could dress up any outfit while giving you the utmost in comfort. When she lent it to me sometime in February, I kept it much longer than I promised. When I finally decided to give it back in June, I thought it was only right to have it dry-cleaned.

  Upon presenting it, she looked at it and said, “Now we’re even; the dry cleaner got the fringe all frayed!”

  Which it was. Not terribly, but a bit frayed nonetheless. And I said, “So you don’t want it anymore?” thinking about my glamorous future in fully owning that scrumptious piece of coziness.

  “Of course I want it,” she grumbled, “but just know that when you feel like bringing up that stupid see-through Donna Karan dress story, you ruined something of mine, too!”

  So now we’re even.

  One story I still have in my guilt files, though, happened at our friend Rachel’s wedding, when Heidi borrowed another dress of mine (which we both agreed she would not be getting dry-cleaned upon return). I’m a little smaller than Heidi, though Heidi thinks I’m way smaller than her. Truth be told, Heidi’s got big boobs and I don‘t, which makes me look smaller than her. Rather than enjoy the compliments of guests at the wedding on how pretty she looked, Heidi greeted each acquaintance with the words, “This is Adena’s dress! Can you believe that I fit into it?” If she had said it, one, two, even three times, that would have been fine. Every time I turned around, there she was pointing at me and telling some stranger, “It’s that tiny girl’s dress, and it fits me! Can you believe it?” I even pulled her aside at one point and said, “Could you please stop saying that?”

  “What?” she said. “It’s a compliment!”

  We didn’t speak for a few days after that. Years later, I’m still not sure if I should have taken that comment as an insult or a compliment, though the way it made me feel, it’s the former.

  Heidi had four wrapped boxes in hand that she hurled at me as she kissed the other girls hello, picked the seat she wanted, grabbed a piece of bread, dipped it in olive oil, and popped it into her mouth.

  “Open these three boxes first,” she mumbled through her bread-full mouth while laughing.

  I took the biggest one first and carefully unlaced the meticulously tied ornate gold ribbon and matching paper she had decorated the box with.

  “Oh, just rip it open already,” she said as she dipped her napkin in some water and went at Susan’s spit-up brooch.

  The first box held three T-shirts I’d lent her months before.

  The next box held a pair of pants I’d badgered her at least five times to return.

  The third, two pairs of my earrings I’d lent her years ago and thought I’d lost.

  I looked at her with confusion.

  “I wanted to make sure you started off this year with everything your heart desired.”

  “Awwww” and “shucks” filled the group, but Heidi was already off the subject, calling the waiter over and ordering a bunch of appetizers from the menu for everyone at the table to share.

  Serena arrived next. She kissed everyone hello and took a seat next to me.

  “Is this OK?” Serena asked, pointing at her outfit.

  “Yes, is this OK?” I asked, pointing at mine.

  “I love it,” she said, pointing at mine.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, pointing at mine.

  “Positive. Are you sure?” she asked pointing at hers.

  “I’m sure.”

  If Heidi is the one I borrow from the most, Serena is the one I mull over clothes with the most. Serena was introduced into our group of friends along with Heidi in 1992. They were working at the same talent agency. Serena is my straight-up soul sister of shopping. I actually knew what Serena would be wearing when she entered the restaurant that night: black jeans and a black see-through top with a camisole underneath and black boots. I always know what Serena is going to wear and vice versa. We understand each other’s anxiety in the fear of wearing the wrong thing. In all other areas, Serena is a no-nonsense chief of ... well ... serenity If I were on the phone with her and she suddenly had a problem, whatever it was, she’d be calm about it. “You know what, Dean?” she’d say tranquilly from her cell phone. “Let me call you back. There’s a man pointing a gun at me through my car window.” Or, “Wait, let me call you back, my daughters are throwing knives at each other.”

  Take the crisis of what to wear to an upcoming event, and it’s mass hysteria.

 
“Code red! I have a wedding in three weeks!” she’d shriek.

  “Black tie, cocktail attire, business attire, or casual?” I’d cry.

  “Business attire!” she’d scream. “Who wears business attire to a wedding?”

  For the next three weeks, people at work know why my head is cloudy.

  “Who has the party to go to?” they’ll ask. “You or Serena?”

  In the anxiety of the frenzy, small boutiques, department stores, dressmakers, and fashion experts are shopped and consulted. Magazines and books are researched; friends’ closets are ransacked for the perfect outfit. Notes are taken, clothing is tried and retried, backup safety outfits are bought and, when no outfit is set in stone, frustration sets in and an incident that happened years ago is undoubtedly brought up.

  Years ago, as Serena would tell you, I made a faux pas. I still don’t think I blundered, but when the frustration hits, she never fails to bring it up. For example, we’ve finally found what might seem to be the perfect business attire outfit.

  “Are you sure about it, or are you just getting tired?” she asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Are you positively sure?”

  “I’m positively sure.”

  “SURE?”

  “SURE!”

  “BECAUSE REMEMBER THAT TIME?” she’d shriek, her long auburn hair becoming disheveled and unusually out of place.

  This is what happened: Serena and I were both attending an awards ceremony, and because I had been to the same event the year before, I used my previous experience and said, “Everyone wore short dresses; don’t even bother looking at the long ones.”

  When we got to the ceremony, I wore a short dress, Serena wore a short dress, the woman sitting next to me at my table was wearing a short dress, each of the women accepting awards wore short dresses, and if I had known this incident was going to affect me ten years later, I would have taken a count of the rest of the room and had it notarized, because Serena remembers that night otherwise and I’ve never heard the end of it.