A pair of bronze, melon-sized breasts swung precariously beneath two narrow strips of red sequin-embossed satin as Flavia pushed her decrepit husband aside and beckoned me towards the dance floor with one sensual finger.
I shook my head “No”, but she’d already cut the band, cued the spotlight, and continued her lascivious stride my way. I reached back for my husband’s hand, but grasping into thin air, his absence left me no excuse.
“Friends, colleagues, family…”
Flavia began her announcement as she pulled me center stage, accompanied only by the celebratory ships crossing Newport’s harbor through the ballroom windows behind.
“…to new friends, Newport, new business, and New Year’s!”
Flavia didn’t wait for my reply to celebrate; she forced a shot into my hand as she downed her own, and the band resumed as the countdown started.
I stood speechless, frozen in shock.
I didn’t expect to spend New Year’s Eve thrust upon a stage before a crowd of 300 strong, receiving a surprise proposal from the neighbor who plays adult film star by day, social butterfly by night.
Scanning the herd of tuxedos and glitter, my eyes finally landed on my husband’s hand — inching its way down Star’s dress in a corner by the open bar. Happy New Year to me. I guess some things never change.
…
My dad slipped his package into the wrong hands
“Coming?”
I stared up at the Italian duplex, then down at the unread text, awaiting my mom’s departure or reply.
Nothing.
Between the stacked tins of holiday cookies testing my balance and the guilt-ridden desire to avoid my cheating father while I decided whether or not to spill his girlfriend’s secret, I’d hoped to keep this visit short and sweet. My mom had other plans.
I edged towards the front door, ready to knock, when a shrill voice escaped the open window above.
“Jealous?!”
I haven’t heard my mom so exasperated since she first confessed my father’s abuse allegations and spontaneous infidelity.
“You touched my package! You just had to get in there — couldn’t let Star have one thing for herself, could you?”
Like clockwork, my dad’s wailing rebuttal cut in, broadcasting his gripes to all of Marigold Avenue. At this point, I let myself in the open front door, though the fighting only escalated as I ascended the townhome’s steps.
My mom and dad stood across the island, armed with a spatula and a pair of nipple-less lingerie respectively. Yes, you read that right: My mom was holding the spatula and my dad the X-rated garments.
Craig, the innocent bystander-mediator-hybrid — and my mom’s roommate (who’d mistakenly suggested the anonymously-addressed nipple-less lingerie package was for her) — waved me up the steps and into the confrontation.
“Mom, we’re going to be late — ”
Before she could reply, my father spun my way, unashamed of the sexual lace dripping from his clenched fist.
“Did you hear? Your mother stole Star’s lingerie. How sick is that? And now she’s telling me who I can and can’t have over. What is this, kindergarten? Grow up!”
My dad swiveled his gaze between me and my mom, ending with a glare in her direction. If his speech isn’t the epitome of irony, I don’t know what is.
The Christmas gift mix-up had revealed a glimmer of hope that maybe my parents’ marriage could be resurrected — and was worth saving. My dad’s lingerie correction revealed just the opposite.
“She’s a homewrecker, and I don’t want her under my roof!”
Craig stood there silently, fiddling with some papers and avoiding eye contact.
“Good thing it isn’t your roof, then isn’t it?”
My dad’s defiant tone said it all: He knows he has the upper hand, and he’s going to milk her like the cash cow she is — even if that means sharing Star with my husband. Why buy the cow if she’s offering up her utters for free?
Cheater, cheater, tarot reader
“He’s insane. Screwing the fortune teller in my own garage?! Come on — ”
The 8-minute walk from my mom’s duplex to the Corona del Mar (CDM) cookie exchange was filled with her fuming, peppering the flower streets and the PCH with my dad’s indiscretions. I just hoped she’d refrain from airing his dirty laundry — and nipple-less lingerie — for Newport’s chattiest cohort…
We ducked under the nail salon’s tattered overhang, undeterred by the small, dark box with curtains drawn, and reached for the rusted doorknob.
The CDM nail salon is the perfect place for a clandestine party of any kind: Its hidden, faded sign and dilapidated curtains beside the far-from-glamorous auto repair shop’s office on the adjoining wall make for the perfect ALM (anti-looting mechanism). They also keep tourists, intruders, and (most) gold-digging eavesdroppers at bay, hence why the CDM gossip circle’s claimed this decoy of a spot for their gatherings.
My mom and I entered to a chaotic cacophony of laughter, open-mouthed chewing, an iPhone blasting remixed holiday jingles, and a Selling Sunset rerun playing on low, but discernible volume from the TV mounted high in the corner.
The one good thing about alcohol-fueled deafening chaos? No one’s really listening — and if they are, they’ll surely forget it all by tomorrow…I hope.
There are three types of people at Orange County cookie exchanges:
- Cookers: My mom and her very homemade batch of unusually-shaped sugar blobs proudly represents this category.
- Buyers: These are the people — like myself — who admittedly ordered in from Crumbl, Milk & Cookies, Cookie Lab, or Hudson’s.
- Liars: Pretty much everyone else there, who purported to have “made” their own custom cookies, yet somehow morphed from never-touched-a-stove-in-my-life to gourmet pastry chef and icing artist overnight.
Oh, and then there’s the fourth type: the “fun” cookers, also known as the “Only Eat 2”-labeled trays. It isn’t a sugar overdose they’re worried about…
Unfortunately, it seems like my mom didn’t heed that warning.
“…tarot-reading hooker from the farmers’ market! To live with us — ”
Her dirty laundry word vomit had commenced, and with each “fun” (Mary Jane-spiked) bite she took, a crowd began to form. Before long, my mom’s regaling of the Star debacle made her the star of the cookie exchange. The chorus of star-studded inquiries to follow proved that sometimes all publicity really is good publicity, to my mom’s frustration and dismay.
“Where can I book a reading?”
“Can you text me her contact?”
“Is she Venmo or cash only?”
A soft-spoken voice interjected from the back of the salon, turning all heads her way.
“I met Star.”
Kitty, the most popular manicurist West of the PCH (and an honorary member of the Corona del Mar neighborhood gossip circle), captured my mom’s former audience with her own star-struck anecdote.
“At the Peninsula farmers’ market. She did me a reading — in exchange for a pedicure. She was great — very spiritual, super grounded. But…actually she was dating someone. I think — ”
Kitty paused to interrupt herself, meticulously scrolling for something on her phone.
“Yep, I knew it.”
Kitty passed her phone around the circle of women, flashing an Instagram post clearly depicting Star cozied up to the lead singer of a C-list band. By C-list, I mean I recognized their hit song when Kitty played it, but I couldn’t tell you the lead singer’s last name if my life depended on it.
“That’s the guy she was living with down in Laguna — until he kicked her out.”
An ensemble of empathetic “awww”’s escaped the circle, who’d all dismissed Star’s transgressions against my mom and her deteriorating marriage.
“Yeah, but she said he was crazy. He kept trying to catch her cheating. Paranoid, ya know? So good for her, if she’s moved to Newport. It’s better here anyway.”
The women nodded approvingly, applauding Star’s upgrade, while my very-baked mom chewed and sipped herself silent with those “fun” cookies and Shiraz.
More than one ball dropped on New Year’s Eve
The only distraction better than holiday music to break the friction-filled silence emanating from the Bentley’s back seat — where my parents each stared out opposite windows — was an unexpected call from my daughter in Cabo.
My husband turned onto MacArthur, as the palm trees over the ocean exploded onto our windshield in tandem with her drunken teenage “Happy New Year!” cheer.
And yes, I did just use “drunken” and “teenage” in the same sentence. I’m not clueless, and what happens in Mexico reverberates loud and clear through an iPhone speaker, with or without a breathalyzer on hand.
“Did you cancel the Timeshare?”
Apparently, that was the magic word — and my father perked up and chirped his first words of the evening, brimming with excitement:
“You bought a Timeshare?!”
Before she could respond to me or him, “Cruella” (my mother-in-law, and her Cabo chaperone) chimed in unannounced, directing her critique my way:
“That tone! And you wonder why she wanted to spend Cabo with me?”
To clarify, my daughter did not want to spend Cabo with her grandma. She wanted to book a first class ticket (on my card) for herself and her unofficial 25-year-old boyfriend (who also happens to be my husband’s intern). When I said no, Cruella swooped in to save the day and wedge herself further into the crevices of my notably fragile mother-daughter relationship.
I ribbed my husband as he hung a sharp right into the country club parking lot and the ocean shrunk away in the rearview mirror. As her father — and with $25k on the line — he could cough up a threat or two.
“Hey honey!”
Finally, he speaks — just nothing of substance. When your husband plays the perpetual good cop in your parenting dynamic, you can bet someone will pay the price — and it may be at your (the bad cop’s) expense. My turn again:
“Did you cancel the Timeshare yet? You have 5 days — by law! Tell her.”
Once again, I sought a milligram of spousal support in the form of an affirmative grunt, but I guess that was asking too much. It doesn’t matter; I looked it up: Even in Mexico, she’s entitled to a 5-day cancellation window — which is quickly waning.
Crackling reception preceded a brief moment of silence, before my daughter’s voice blasted back out of the speaker:
“…cause Manny needs the sale. He has 5 kids and his wife lost her job right before Christmas. And he said they’ll fire him if we back out…”
Either she’s pulling an elaborate page out of her father’s playbook or she’s telling the truth. When your daughter spends a careless $25k like it’s nothing, you want to teach her a lesson — if not for the money, for the values. But now, listening to her allegedly altruistic rationale, I almost wonder if her heart’s been in the right place the whole time — and I’ve just been too quick to judge.
“It’s true. His boss told us on the spot if we cancel, they’ll fire him. Deada*s.”
Her unofficial boyfriend — seemingly less drunk — piped up to her defense and corroborated her story. For those without teenage translators, “deada*s” is slang for “seriously”.
As much as I love a good sob story — and the revelation that my daughter might care about someone other than herself — a $25k impulse charity purchase on someone else’s (her parents’) credit card isn’t the answer.
“If you don’t cancel, we’ll dispute the charge. We’re not paying for it. And we’re taking your card back.”
I don’t know why I didn’t start with that negotiating tactic. In the moment of silence to follow, I awaited her surrender — or tantrum. You never know.
“Fine. Take it. I’ll pay myself.”
That’s one response I never saw coming. I’d chalk it up to a drunken New Year’s bluff, but it sounded like she’d sobered up real quick — and knowingly dropped a bomb with irreversible consequences.
…
365 chances to screw it all over again
The call dropped before I could probe into my daughter’s counter further, but not before a swarm of paranoid questions could penetrate my brain.
- Did she actually care about Manny’s supposed financial troubles, or was that just an excuse to keep the Timeshare for herself?
- Would she really use her own money, just to keep him employed?
- What is she doing — that we don’t know about — that’s generating enough cash to kick our credit card to the curb and shirk the financial life raft that’s floated her multi-million-dollar lifestyle since birth?
As we walked towards the ballroom, a sparkling figure pranced across the parking lot and into my dad’s arms. It was Star — the constant reminder of the secrets I’ve been keeping from both my husband and father.
My mom sped up, I assume to meet Craig — or anyone who isn’t screwing her husband — inside. Maybe honesty or transparency could be my husband’s New Year’s resolution. Or mine. Or maybe all of ours, for that matter.
—
This post was previously published on medium.com.
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