Free Momzillas by Jill Kargman Page A

that’s great. But it is full of salt, you know. I’m not that hungry anyway,” said Lila, shrugging.
    The passive aggressiveness of this lady was enough to make me want to clobber her. The few times I actually expressed an opinion or desire—case in point, Sakura—her sickening passive-aggressive routine was enough to make me clam up for the next three decades.
    â€œNo, no, Mom—Watts, let’s head to Greenwich, I know Mom loves Mediterraneo,” said Josh, looking at me in the rear with a smile and eye roll.
    â€œOkay, if that’s what you want, dear.” Lila always got what she wanted. She’d pretend she was accommodating others but would slowly manipulate it back to what she desired. Passive-aggressive.
    We got to the place, which is so average and, plus, she barely ate anyway, anti-food, anti-life,
Night of the Living Dead
zombie that she is. I always equate passion at a table with passion in the sack. No doubt Lila was a total frigid fish. Natch Lila barely nibbled a spear of her white asparagus with vinaigrette on the side. Violet ate her appetizer and then, as toddlers do, got a little shifty in her seat and Lila looked at me as if to say
Take her for a little breather
. Josh offered to get up, but I thought I’d let him be with his mom and Watts for a minute, and plus, I was psyched for a moment away from the table. Violet and I strolled down the block on Greenwich Avenue and then returned to the packed restaurant. The décor was pale peach and pink and I felt like I was dining in a giant tampon box. I twirled my un–al dente cappellini with a fork into a spoon, Italiano-style, which got a curious look from The Cube, and after our pasta course, she started cracking open the presents. Finally: my moment of redemption.
    She unwrapped gifts, I might add, with zero gusto (another link to action in the bedroom). With me, it was Freddy Krueger–style shredded wrapping paper, bursting ribbons, ginormous eyes, excited grins, and gushing thank-yous. Lila opened every package like it might have a syringe hiding in it, or a Jokey Smurf homemade bomb. Watts got her some Van Cleef diamond earrings and a weekend at Cliveden. Josh had bought her a Hermès scarf from all of us, and then I was so excited for her to get to mine, which already garnered a widened eye and a raised plucked brow upon viewage of the signature blue bag. As she untied the classic Tiffany bow and opened the box, my heart was beating so fast, I was like a pre–Jenny Craig Kirstie Alley after a flight of stairs. She looked at the frame; Watts and Josh, who hadn’t seen it before, both oohed and aahhed. Violet giggled.
    â€œDat’s me and Daddy!” she smiled, pointing at the glass with her little finger.
    Lila simply looked at photo and said, “Oh, look at this great shot—I gave Violet that outfit, you know!” She put the frame back in its felt bag. “Now, shall we be very naughty and order some dessert?”
    No thank-you or anything! This time I was just plain enraged. Watts perused the dessert menu, ultimately settling on another Dewar’s on the rocks, the family Evian.
    The next morning I woke up feeling paralyzingly sad. I always had the plum-size lump in my throat when I visited the Dillinghams because their house was so oppressive and bizarre that I missed my family so much and was glum to the guts with homesickness. Maybe I really am a West Coast person and not cut out for this northeastern pomp.
    Josh woke up and kissed me sweetly. I loved him so much it hurt, and my would-be restorative weekend together was gone in a flash with him returning to work that next crack of dawn. He climbed on me and kissed me, going to take off my T-shirt, but I was too in creeps mode.
    â€œSweets, no—”
    â€œHan, it’s a huge fucking house! They can’t hear us. Watts has a hearing aid anyway.”
    â€œIt’s not that—I just can’t get into it