Free Momzillas by Jill Kargman

seeing me in my black jeans and little tees, my casual dress probably seemed like Cinderella’s ball gown to her.
    When we came downstairs, Lila had a very different reaction than her granddaughter. “Oh,” she said, her made-up face like an 8½-by-11-inch blank sheet of Kinko’s paper. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
    Pause as I checked my reflection. Was there a gaping hole? A torn seam? Wrinkles? Period stains? Exposed ass-crackage?
    â€œUm, yeah, I was going to…Why?”
    â€œI don’t know, I just…Forget it.”
    â€œNo, what?”
    â€œTo be honest, I think perhaps you should try…one of my suits? This is a bit…Well, it’s fine, it’s fine. Really.”
    Crestfallen. “Oh, okay, well…What should I do? I only have this one other dress but—”
    Josh came downstairs buttoning his cuff and asked what was going on.
    â€œI was just going to run up and change—” I said. I gulped down hurt and annoyed feelings and went upstairs. When I returned in my backup outfit, Lila, who was in her usual full floral-pastel-pashmina mode, looked me over slowly. “Hmmm. Black as usual,” she observed. I hope she dies a fiery death. I hope a crane falls off a construction site and kills her. I’m going to hell. Okay, Hannah, stop wishing death upon your MiL.
    I looked down as she tousled Josh’s hair and gently removed a thread from his lapel. She really hates other women, I thought. Just having another womb in the room after all these years freaks her out. She was one of those women who only can relate to men, seeing all other women as some kind of competition. I have always known women like this, and they have always scared me. Who the fuck is this beeyotch to judge my outfits anyway? She may have worn only designer duds, but I thought they were asexual and hideous. The color palette made me want to chunder. I may have dressed like a widow, but black was better than tertiary-color-wheel hues. Teal. Salmon. Coral. Magenta. Diarrhea.
    Mr. Dillingham honked outside and we all piled into the car. Despite my husband’s protestations, I offered to sit in the gimp seat in the station wagon’s ass while Josh sat next to Violet’s car seat in the back. But armed with my stellar gift, the frown would subside and I’d be let in; I’d be the Little Mermaid singing
Paaaart of your woooorld
…the second she opened the small trademark blue box. As we started driving, Lila did her usual spiel of which restaurants she had booked that evening. What never ceased to absolutely astound me was that she would regularly book three places and then select one at the last minute, depending on everyone’s mood. How psycho and selfish is that? Sometimes she wouldn’t even call the other two places to cancel! I’m talking new echelons of solipsism. No one matters but her and, of course, her
aaaangel
.
    â€œDo we want the Bank in New Canaan, or Mediterraneo in Greenwich? I also booked Sakura—”
    â€œOh, I love that Sakura place,” said Josh.
    â€œWell, whatever you like, darling.”
    â€œWhat do you want, Han?” asked my hubby.
    â€œOh, um…whatever your mom wants, I mean it is her birthday.”
    â€œNo, no,
you
choose, Hannah,” she replied from the front of the car. “You’re by far the most passionate about food.”
    I hope the cable in her next elevator ride snaps and she plummets to her death. Did I just say that aloud? No, okay, I’m fine.
    â€œWell, I don’t know, they’re all great,” I offered. Silence. “Maybe, um, yeah, Sakura is fun, I love that cook-on-the-table stuff.”
    â€œIt’s called
hibachi
,” Lila said, as if she’d been born and reared in Kyoto. “Fine, if that’s what you want.”
    â€œWell, I don’t care at all, I just thought Josh—”
    â€œIf it’s what Hannah’s up for,