Lilly’s devoting tomorrow’s show to her feet. She’s going to model every single pair of shoes she owns, but not once show her bare feet. She hopes that this will drive Norman over the edge and he’ll do something weirder than ever, like get a gun and shoot at us.
I’m not scared, though. Norman has kind of thick glasses, and I bet he couldn’t actually hit anything, even with a machine gun, which even a lunatic like Norman is allowed to buy in this country thanks to our totally unrestrictive gun laws, which Michael Moscovitz says in his webzine will ultimately result in the demise of democracy as we know it.
My mom was totally not buying this, though. She was all, “Mia, I appreciate the fact that you want to help your friend through this difficult period with her stalker, but I really think you have more pressing responsibilities here at home.”
And I was all, “What responsibilities?” thinking she was talking about the litter box, which I had totally cleaned two days ago.
And she was like, “Responsibility toward your father and me.”
I just about lost it right there. Responsibilities? Responsibilities? She’s telling me about responsibilities? When is the last time it ever occurred to her to drop off the laundry, let alone pick it up again? When is the last time she remembered to buy Q-Tips or toilet paper or milk?
And did she ever happen to think to mention, in all of my fourteen years, that I might possibly end up being the princess of Genovia someday???
She thinks she needs to tell me about my responsibilities?
HA!!!!!!
I nearly hung up on her. But Lilly was sort of standing nearby, practicing her house manager duties by switching on and off the lights in the school lobby. Since I had promised not to act like a head case, and hanging up on my mother would definitely fall into the head case category, I said in this really patient voice, “Don’t worry, Mom, I won’t forget to stop at Genovese on my way home tomorrow and pick up new vacuum cleaner bags.”
And then I hung up.
HOMEWORK
Algebra: problems 1–12, pg. 119
English: proposal
World Civ: questions at end of Chapter 4
G & T: none
French: use avoir in neg. sentence, rd. lessons one to three, pas de plus
Biology: none
Saturday, October 4,
Early, Still Lilly’s Place
Why do I always have such a good time when I spend the night at Lilly’s? I mean, it’s not like they’ve got stuff that I don’t have. In fact, my mom and I have better stuff. The Moscovitzes only get a couple of movie channels, and because I took advantage of the last Time Warner Cable bonus offer, we have all of them, Cinemax and HBO and Showtime, for the low, low rate of $19.99 per month.
Plus we have way better people to spy on through our windows, like Ronnie, who used to be a Ronald but is now called Ronette, and who has a lot of big fancy parties; and that skinny German couple who wear black all the time, even in summer, and never pull down their blinds. On Fifth Avenue, where the Moscovitzes live, there’s nobody good to look at: Just other rich psychoanalysts and their children. Let me tell you, you don’t see anything good through their windows.
But it’s like every time I spend the night here, even if all Lilly and I do is hang out in the kitchen eating macaroons left over from Rosh Hashanah, I have such a great time. Maybe that’s because Maya, the Moscovitzes’ Dominican maid, never forgets to buy orange juice, and she always remembers that I don’t like the pulpy kind, and sometimes, if she knows I’m staying over, she’ll pick up a vegetable lasagna from Balducci’s, instead of a meat one, especially for me, like she did last night.
Or maybe it’s because I never find moldy old containers of anything in the Moscovitzes’ refrigerator. Maya throws away anything that’s even one day past its expiration date. Even sour cream that still has the protective plastic around the lid. Even cans of Tab.
And the Drs. Moscovitz never forget to pay the electricity bill. Con Ed has never once shut down their power in the middle of a Star Trek movie marathon. And Lilly’s mom, she always talks about normal stuff, like what a great deal she got on Calvin Klein panty hose at Bergdorf’s.
Not that I don’t love my mom or anything. I totally do. I just wish she could be more of a mom and less of an artist.
And I wish my dad could be more like Lilly’s dad, who always wants to make me an omelet because he thinks I’m too skinny, and who walks around in his old college sweatpants when he doesn’t have to go to his office to analyze anybody.
Dr. Moscovitz would never wear a suit at seven in the morning.
Not that I don’t love my dad. I do, I guess. I just don’t understand how he could let something like this happen. He’s usually so organized. How could he have let himself become a prince?
I just don’t understand it.
The best thing, I guess, about going to Lilly’s is that while I’m there I don’t even have to think about things like how I’m flunking Algebra or how I’m the heir to the throne of a small European principality. I can just relax and enjoy some real homemade Poppin Fresh Cinnamon Buns and watch Pavlov, Michael’s sheltie, try to herd Maya back into the kitchen every time she tries to comes out.
Last night was totally fun. The Drs. Moscovitz were out—they had to go to a benefit at the Puck Building for the homosexual children of survivors of the Holocaust—so Lilly and I made this huge vat of popcorn smothered in butter and climbed into her parents’ giant canopy bed and watched all the James Bond movies in a row. We were able to definitively determine that Pierce Brosnan was the skinniest James Bond, Sean Connery the hairiest, and Roger Moore the most tan. None of the James Bonds took off their shirts enough for us to decide who had the best chest, but I think probably Timothy Dalton.