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Yes, I am a grown adult, and she still tells me to put my napkin on my lap.
Aunt Dede left the small town where my parents grew up—and where my brother and I later did—and never looked back. She worked her way into a successful journalism career, becoming a New York girl as fast as she could. In fact, I doubt she even tells anyone where she’s really from. As a result, she thinks the rest of us whom she left behind are insufferable hicks, and that it’s her mission to ‘bring us up’ in any way she can.
To a certain extent, anyway.
When I decided to come to New York and try my own hand at journalism, I arrived with two suitcases, a bunch of dreams, and a shitload of anxieties. What if I couldn’t find a job? What if I couldn’t find a place to live? What if I couldn’t make any friends?
The list goes on.
The one comfort I had was that my dear Aunt Dede was here and had been for so long she essentially considered herself a ‘native New Yorker.’ I don’t know if real New Yorkers considered her native, but then she never cared what other people thought.
Aunt Dede provided support, but on her own terms. As she put it, I needed to ‘forge my own path,’ as she had done. When she moved here, nobody helped her. I would do well to learn the same hard lessons.
So, I crashed at a cheap Airbnb for a couple weeks before she took mercy on me.
Like all New Yorkers, my aunt developed a network over the years and always ‘knew someone who knew someone.’ And that ‘someone,’ several degrees removed from her—which doesn’t seem to matter in this city—knew of a great apartment coming available. She installed me there before anyone knew the previous tenant had passed away, so in the end, while she didn’t put me up, she sure did come through. And she never lets me forget it.
In fact, she’s pretty much the reason I ended up with my roommate, Jasper. My jerk brother Andy called Dede—notme, who after all, is the personlivingin the apartment—and suggested his buddy stay there too. Dede, new to the world of largesse but enjoying it immensely, enthusiastically informed me my second bedroom was to become occupied by a ‘family friend,’ and wasn’t I thrilled I could help someone new to town, like I once had been?
Can’t argue with that, right? At least I could be pretty sure he wasn’t an axe-murderer since he’s my brother’s friend, although that’s not saying much, knowing Andy.
“Thank you for inviting me to lunch, Aunt Dede. It’s so good to see you,” I say cautiously.
Cautiously because you never know what sort of backhanded compliments the woman’s going to sling your way. I don’t think she means any harm, really. She just says rude shit.
She orders a martini for herself and an iced tea for me because, apparently, she still thinks I’m underage, and gets down to business.
“Looks like you attended those sample sales I told you about,” she says, looking me up and down with approval.
That’s one thing about New York. It’s expensive as fuck, but dressing in designer duds is within reach of most any smart, well-connected shopper. Sample sales abound, and while you have to fight to get the best stuff, they’re worth the pain in the ass that they are.
She lowers her voice and moves closer. “Honey, is that dress Ralph Lauren?”
Wow. She noticed. I nod happily, feeling pretty damn good about my resourcefulness.
“So cute on you. It is a couple seasons old, but you really pull it off.”
She takes a sip of her martini.
Womp-womp.
While she chats away about her upcoming interview with Kate Middleton, I zone out on her monologue, which is about as flawless as her Chanel jacket, words flowing like a well-rehearsed script.
“The bottom line is, honey,” she somehow segues, “is that life is all about embracing our femininity. In our careers, our personal lives, our relationships, and our spirituality…”
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath through her nose. She’s recently been attending Dharma talks at her neighborhood Mindfulness Center, and she’s really embracing their lessons.
Or so she says.
Her chit-chat fades into the background, and as our lunch salads arrive, my mind strays back to Cami’s insane suggestion that the answer to my problem might be addressed with a few lines of text in a Craigslist ad. Crazy idea, no doubt, but is it any more ridiculous than faking my way through a journalism career? I’m tired. Tired of being a fraud.
I wait for Aunt Dede to stop talking and take a breath. She finally does, and I grab my opportunity.
“I have a new assignment too, Aunt Dede,” I say casually. “It’s about orgasms.”
The utterance of my last word actually gets her to stop talking. She blinks, finishes off her martini, and steeples her hands together in front of her lips.
“That should be a breeze for you, Ava. I assume, at your age, that you’ve had several lovers.”
