they discuss their latest transatlantic flights. Everyone's dressed in Armani, Prada, or Versace, and there's no sound but the tinkling of ice cubes in metal shakers and the subdued laughter and sotto-voce conversation of the rich and the beautiful.
In contrast, when you first walk into my house in Brooklyn, you are greeted by our one-hundred-and-twenty-pound Labrador retriever, who lunges at your chest barking hysterically until you bend down to scratch his stomach.
The furniture in my house isn't white--it's covered with pet hair.
There is no Armani, Prada, or Versace as far as the eye can see.
The only thing that tinkles here is Brueghel, who sometimes gets so excited about being scratched that he has an accident.
On Friday at T minus two hours and fifteen minutes, I finished my physics homework. At T minus one hour and
112
fifteen minutes, as I was trying to drown my jealousy of Rebecca and my anxiety over what was about to take place in my living room in a Seinfeld rerun, my mother stomped downstairs like a pro wrestler. She was wearing the black turtleneck sweater I'd worn to Richie's party.
"Yahn, have you worn my sweater?"
"Um, I don't think so."
"You don't think so?"
I didn't say anything. I've found if you ignore them, sometimes parents will eventually disappear.
"Hello! Do not ignore me when I am speaking directly to you." She stepped between me and the TV.
And sometimes they won't.
"Let's just say it's not impossible," I offered.
She put her hands on her hips. "What's the rule on wearing my things?"
"Yahn can wear Mom's things, but only if she asks first." I said it like I was reciting something I'd memorized for school.
"So what's wrong with this picture?"
"Um, I take it the answer is not that you're standing between me and the television."
"Yahn--" My mom has this voice she gets that's kind of like Brueghel's growl when a strange dog wanders onto our Cape Cod property. If you had to translate it into words, it would probably come out as, "Don't make me kill you."
"Okay, okay," I said, standing up and throwing my hands in the air. "I wore your sweater without asking. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
113
"That's all I wanted to hear," said my mom. She moved away from the television and started counting out napkins to set the table. "You can watch your show now."
But I had no more time for television.
The time had come to launch Operation Josh.
When the doorbell rang I was upstairs prepared to wait. I know it can be a bad idea to plan a dramatic entrance when you're as klutzy as I am, but Rebecca and I had decided it would be smart to make Josh suffer alone with the parents for a few minutes. (Actually, it was Rebecca's plan. I wanted to keep Josh and my mother and father as far away from each other as humanly possibly so he wouldn't start having doubts about the stability of my genetic makeup, but Rebecca insisted my parents probably couldn't do anything too humiliating in just a few minutes. She said the benefits of forcing Josh to suffer alone with the parents for a little while--which would make him incredibly grateful and relieved to see me when I finally did come downstairs--far outweighed the risk that after spending a few minutes with my mother and father, he would run screaming into the night.)
Rebecca said I should stay upstairs until there was a lull in the conversation and then go down. The problem was, I couldn't really hear whether people were talking. Not only was Brueghel still barking like crazy, my dad had put some music on and everyone seemed to have gone into the kitchen, which is at the opposite end of the house from my room. I was just getting ready to sneak to
114
the top of the stairs and await a moment of awkward silence into which I would glide, effortlessly rescuing my guests, when my mom shouted up, "Yahn, come down, everyone's here."
Just one more thing that never happens at The Madison.
I made it down the stairs without tripping,
In contrast, when you first walk into my house in Brooklyn, you are greeted by our one-hundred-and-twenty-pound Labrador retriever, who lunges at your chest barking hysterically until you bend down to scratch his stomach.
The furniture in my house isn't white--it's covered with pet hair.
There is no Armani, Prada, or Versace as far as the eye can see.
The only thing that tinkles here is Brueghel, who sometimes gets so excited about being scratched that he has an accident.
On Friday at T minus two hours and fifteen minutes, I finished my physics homework. At T minus one hour and
112
fifteen minutes, as I was trying to drown my jealousy of Rebecca and my anxiety over what was about to take place in my living room in a Seinfeld rerun, my mother stomped downstairs like a pro wrestler. She was wearing the black turtleneck sweater I'd worn to Richie's party.
"Yahn, have you worn my sweater?"
"Um, I don't think so."
"You don't think so?"
I didn't say anything. I've found if you ignore them, sometimes parents will eventually disappear.
"Hello! Do not ignore me when I am speaking directly to you." She stepped between me and the TV.
And sometimes they won't.
"Let's just say it's not impossible," I offered.
She put her hands on her hips. "What's the rule on wearing my things?"
"Yahn can wear Mom's things, but only if she asks first." I said it like I was reciting something I'd memorized for school.
"So what's wrong with this picture?"
"Um, I take it the answer is not that you're standing between me and the television."
"Yahn--" My mom has this voice she gets that's kind of like Brueghel's growl when a strange dog wanders onto our Cape Cod property. If you had to translate it into words, it would probably come out as, "Don't make me kill you."
"Okay, okay," I said, standing up and throwing my hands in the air. "I wore your sweater without asking. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
113
"That's all I wanted to hear," said my mom. She moved away from the television and started counting out napkins to set the table. "You can watch your show now."
But I had no more time for television.
The time had come to launch Operation Josh.
When the doorbell rang I was upstairs prepared to wait. I know it can be a bad idea to plan a dramatic entrance when you're as klutzy as I am, but Rebecca and I had decided it would be smart to make Josh suffer alone with the parents for a few minutes. (Actually, it was Rebecca's plan. I wanted to keep Josh and my mother and father as far away from each other as humanly possibly so he wouldn't start having doubts about the stability of my genetic makeup, but Rebecca insisted my parents probably couldn't do anything too humiliating in just a few minutes. She said the benefits of forcing Josh to suffer alone with the parents for a little while--which would make him incredibly grateful and relieved to see me when I finally did come downstairs--far outweighed the risk that after spending a few minutes with my mother and father, he would run screaming into the night.)
Rebecca said I should stay upstairs until there was a lull in the conversation and then go down. The problem was, I couldn't really hear whether people were talking. Not only was Brueghel still barking like crazy, my dad had put some music on and everyone seemed to have gone into the kitchen, which is at the opposite end of the house from my room. I was just getting ready to sneak to
114
the top of the stairs and await a moment of awkward silence into which I would glide, effortlessly rescuing my guests, when my mom shouted up, "Yahn, come down, everyone's here."
Just one more thing that never happens at The Madison.
I made it down the stairs without tripping,
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