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Hello, I’m Lauren Blaine. Yeah, of the Santa Barbara Blaines, whatever. I try to forget my pedigree, because it acts like a cage. I mean really, what’s the point of privilege if it imposes even more rules on you than the poor. I’d rather be free.
My mother is a typical society mom. She knows all the right people, throws all the right parties, and says all the right things. It takes a lot of work to be that perfect and by the end of the day she had nothing left for her family. The irony was enough to choke on, the model wife and mother had a husband who could care less about her, a kid repulsed by her and a dependency on valium. Some American dream huh?
It wasn’t always like this. Before the deafening silence of indifference settled on my home, I actually remember a time, around my sixth birthday, when bickering and screams were the norm. As tough as the good old days were, at least my parents had some form of interaction and I was occasionally the center of attention, if not an argument. My parents haven’t talked in years.
Camelot came crashing down on April 4, 188 (my seventh birthday); my parents threw the last great bash in our Aspen house. The guest list consisted of my two friends, fifteen of my father’s colleagues and their wives, and my mother’s trademark smile. After the cake was cut and the presents opened, the real drinking started. I can still hear corks exploding off of champagne bottles. The kids were sent upstairs, but we could clearly hear the party screams below. At 100 I thought things were slowing down and people were going home. I went to the bathroom and was soon joined by my father’s lawyer Ray Tomasi. I asked him to leave, but he said my dad had sent him to check on me. He told me I was growing into a beautiful young woman, even more beautiful than my mother. His voice was soft and gentle, he made me trust him. He asked if I’d hug him and when I did he said I was so strong I must have big muscles. I had no idea. I showed him my bicep and he praised me. I must be the strongest seven year old in the world, he said. He took off his shirt and showed me how strong he was, then he told me how my father sent him to me to turn me into a real woman.
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After Ray, I never felt right with sex, it was always dirty and sweaty and smelled of alcohol- like him. I tried to desexualize myself and hide under baggy clothes and caps; only the most formal of family affairs got me in a dress. My not fitting the pretty little mold that my mother cast for me drove her mad after a while. We constantly clashed head to head on my choice of wardrobe. Our fighting was the only relationship I ever had with my mother. I guess a fight was better than being ignored. Even after I got used to my girly clothes I still picked fights, maybe that was my way of keeping her close.
Another thing that pissed my mother off was my relative indifference to men. I just had no place for them in my life. They take and take until you’re depleted and then they give you the big brush off. Fuck them, I don’t want to need a man like my friends do. They make me sick, hanging on their man’s every word like he was Aristotle. Between the four of them, all very well educated women, not one has an ounce of common sense or independence. They’ve been looking for prince charming since the day their automaton mothers told them that they were incomplete without him. So they dumb down and pretty up to catch the right guys eye. Men are stupid, if one happens to show he might be able to hold an intelligent conversation, he will inevitably fuck it up by staring at my tits or something equally as asinine.
Don’t get me wrong. I like men, I just wish some of them had a brain, I mean I only know the male mind exists form 10th Bio. At Harvard Westlake I went inside myself and looked for validation from what I did and how I felt. I was terribly lonely. I had people around me, but nobody I respected and certainly no real friends. I found myself alone in rooms filled with people, everyone felt dangerous to me. Around this time I discovered my parents liquor cabinet. I never got drunk at parties, because I liked drinking alone much better. I felt safer when it was just me and the bottle. Strangely enough my grades never suffered, I always did well because schoolbooks were an easy escape from my pain.
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