Mother, Can You Not? (10 page)

W
hy buy the cow, when you can get the milk for free? This is one of my mother’s favorite platitudes, and as you can see, she does some fairly impressive acrobatics with it. Incidentally, I’ve taken to referring to my vagina exclusively as “the barn door.”

As a feminist, my mom doesn’t actually regard me as chattel, existing in a society where my worth and destiny are determined by whom I marry and how I look. We’re talking about a woman who marched in NOW’s 1970 Women’s Strike for Equality in New York, carrying a sign that read “Birth Control Pills For Men!” We’re talking about one of the first successful female television directors to make it in what is still a male-dominated industry. A woman who, after being warned by her agent that she could never get a job directing an
action movie, went into an interview with a male executive at Paramount Pictures and addressed the issue head-on: “Look, I know you think I can’t direct action because I’m a woman and I don’t have a penis…so I got one!” And then she slammed a giant, veiny, flesh-colored dildo onto his desk.
She didn’t get the job.

It’s confusing to reconcile this dildo-wielding feminist with a woman who feels the need to provide her own daughter with retro advice like “There are no platonic relationships after the age of eighteen” and “Don’t waste your most attractive, childbearing years on a guy who won’t commit.” I know she’d love to tell me to grow my pit and pubic hair long, that my physical appearance is not an important factor in my relationships and has no bearing whatsoever on my career. Sadly, she recognizes that this isn’t the way the world currently works. She wants the best for me, and I know it kills her to give me advice that’s at odds with her feminist core. But how do we Jews confront uncomfortable societal realities? With humor! And in my mother’s case, a lot of cow metaphors and sperm-bank talk.

She generally has a lot to say about my life, but she
doesn’t hold back at all when it comes to the men I’m dating. Her advice is never sugarcoated, and it often comes in rude, unpolished packages. Over the years, however, I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that she is usually right. And that is really fucking annoying.

This brings me to James, my first
real
boyfriend during that weird twilight zone between college and actual adulthood. Until James, “boy talk” with my mother was really just me complaining about some guy who wasn’t interested, until she got bored and told me to go study. But my relationship with James wasn’t fictional, so there was more to talk about. After a year together, out came the clichés: “Just remember to dress up nice! Enough with the sweatpants. Remember, men think with their penises. Trust me, I know a thing or two about penii!”
Gross.
“I’m just saying, it’s been long enough! He’s met the cow, sniffed the manure, and been guzzling that free milk like a dairy farmer!”
Okay, so maybe not the exact clichés.
I rolled my eyes and dismissed her as old-fashioned. Plus, she just didn’t
get
it. James and I were in love!

About two and a half years into our relationship, a
major hurricane swept through the Northeast. There was widespread concern that the city might lose water and power. As self-appointed Lord of the Neuroses, I sprinted to the grocery store for postapocalyptic hurricane supplies. James called me as I was stacking my cart high with bottled water and canned goods.

“Kate? Yo! I’m at the office; about to bounce, this shit is CRAZY! Just talked to my boy Nikhil, and the guys want to get lit tonight.” Please note: James is a nerdy white male of Scottish descent.

“Okay, that sounds fun! I’m at the market now. I’ll get extra food and stop by the liquor store. It’ll be fun! I’ll bring everything to your apartment.”

“Sweet! See you soon. HURRICANE PARTAYYY!”

In my early twenties, a devastating natural disaster barreling toward New York seemed like a very convenient excuse to get wasted. I was also still in that post-college-love-affair-with-adulthood phase: good-bye Solo cups, hello stemless wineglasses! Farewell cafeteria, hello full kitchen! I’ve since reconsidered this enthusiasm for cooking and am now a loyal customer
of takeout and my current boyfriend’s ninja culinary skills.

That day, I decided I was going to be the perfect Hurricane Party hostess. I arrived at James’s apartment and started mixing up alcoholic hurricanes and whipping together a dinner party (
so adult!)
. I was slicing tomatoes when James arrived.

“Yo, babe, this is so weird. Bita just texted me.”

I sliced a little more savagely. I had always been uncomfortable with his midthirties female colleague who would message him and email him outside of work. Whenever I asked him about her, he would always say, “
Dude, are you joking? I’m twenty-three! She’s like forty! I work with her! You’re being crazy!”

“Oh yeah? What did she want?” I set the knife down.

“This is so weird. But I think she’s hinting that she wants to come over.” He was borderline giggling.

“Um, okay, did you invite her?” I folded my arms.

“No, I mean, I don’t know! Maybe it would be good for my career, but this is
so
weird. She’s like forty!
Why the hell does she want to hang out with a bunch of twenty-three-year-olds?” He broke off into another nervous giggle. The sheer amount of giggling should have been a red flag.

“Okay, so what do you want to do? That’s so weird. Are you sure she’s not into you?”

“Kate, stop being crazy!” There they were again, the most patronizing words on the planet. “She’s just my work friend.”

“Well, I don’t know.” I handed him a hurricane.

“Thanks. I think I should invite her. It’ll be good. If she likes me, that could be
huge
at the office. She’s so senior.” What am I supposed to say to that? No? Let me just lift a leg and piss all over your career prospects?

“Okay.”

James’s two nerdy friends from college arrived, and we began drinking, drinking like we were infected with a fast-acting zombie virus and vodka was the only antidote. Bita arrived late. I was a bit cool to her at first, but then she complimented my bruschetta, and also there was alcohol, so we got friendly. I even texted my mother a smug message from the bathroom.

After several rounds of shots and platters of food, James hopped up from the couch. “All right, we’re doing it! WE’RE GOING OUT IN THE STORM!!!!!”

Now, you might be thinking,
That’s crazy. Who decides they want to go outside in the middle of a Category 3 hurricane?
Because that is absolutely what I was thinking. Even though I had an alcohol blanket keeping me warm and dulling the natural fear responses in my brain, I distinctly remember thinking:
Hell, no
. I helped James into his jacket. His two gawky friends were chatting with Bita down the hall in front of the elevator.

“Be careful. Do you seriously want to go out in this?” I gestured toward a window back inside the apartment—wind and sheets of rain were unloading on the city. “Maybe you and I can just hang out?” I smiled at him flirtatiously.

“I’ll be back in like fifteen minutes. I can’t just let them go out alone—these are my
boys,
yo!” Again, he is a white Anglican male, and his “boys” are two gawky Indian guys with poor social skills.

“Okay. Love you.” I shrugged.

“Later, babe!” He grinned and skipped toward the elevator. I turned back to the hurricane-like destruction in the apartment and began tossing empties into the trash and clearing plates. After forty-five minutes, I started to worry about his safety. I texted my mom.

As it turned out,
kind of
. I later learned that James had been cheating on me with that woman and had fooled around with her that very night with a belly full of my bruschetta.

And there it was, my mother being proven right yet again, and the dark underbelly at the core of all her jokes peeking through, the truth on which all her relationship clichés are built.

While I don’t agree with my mother’s preferred method of ensuring faithfulness—locking your partner’s package in a chastity belt—I was a bit too trusting and
naive. Men are brought up in a system where ideas like “playing the field” and “keeping your bitch on a leash” are deserving of fist bumps and bro-y laughter. Meanwhile, women are asked, “Why are you acting so jealous?” and “Are you on your period?” I know my mom would like to dick-slap the face of every idiot who reinforces that kind of crap with her big fleshy dildo, but she’s just trying her best to help me navigate a world where sexism is still very real. On paper, my ex looked great—well educated, good job, nice family. In reality: irritable bowel syndrome, anxiety disorder, cheater. In my experience, I’ve found that while there are certainly exceptions, my ex just happened to be the rule.

I guess the moral of the story is: Speak softly but carry a big dildo.