Princess Mia

And I will admit, it felt good. I didn’t feel like it was fake, or like I was Katie Holmes and they were Tom Cruise’s Scientologist friends love-bombing me, because there was plenty of, “Oh my God, Mia, you can NEVER wear red. Okay? Promise me. Because you look like crap in it,” to ground me.

It was just…girl stuff. The kind of thing Lilly would have totally looked down on. She’d have been all, “Oh my God, how many bras do you need? No one’s ever going to see them, so what’s the point? Especially when so many people are starving in Darfur,” and “Why are you buying jeans that have HOLES in them? The point is that you’re supposed to wear your OWN holes into your jeans, not buy a pair someone ELSE already made holes in.” And, “Oh my God, you’re getting one of THOSE TOPS? THOSE TOPS are made in sweatshops by little Guatemalan children who are only paid five cents an hour, just so you know.”

Which isn’t even true, because Bendel’s doesn’t carry products made in sweatshops. At least, none of the ladies at the trunk show do. I asked.

And seriously, it wasn’t like Lana and Trisha and I ran out of things to talk about. They were like, “So are you going out with that J.P. guy or what?” and I was like, “No, we’re just friends,” and they were like, “Well, he’s pretty cute. Except for the thing with the corn.”

And then I explained about Michael and I having just broken up and how I feel completely empty inside, like someone shoveled out the inside of my chest with an ice cream scoop, and threw the contents out on the West Side Highway, like a dead hooker.

And they didn’t even think that was weird. Lana went, “Yeah, that’s how I felt when Josh dumped me for you,” and I was like, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” and Lana went, “Whatever. I got over it. And you will too.”

Even though she’s wrong. I’ll never get over Michael. Not in a million trillion years.

But I’m trying—if you call putting all of his letters, cards, photos, and gifts in a plastic I NY shopping bag and stuffing it as far under my bed as it would go last night trying to get over him. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away. I just couldn’t.

Anyway, it was…surprisingly normal talking to Lana and Trisha. It was a lot like the way Tina and I talk to each other. Only with thongs (which by the way are pretty comfortable if you get the right size).

And okay, Lana and Trisha have never read Jane Eyre (and gave me a funny look when I mentioned it as being my favorite book of all time) or seen Buffy (“Is that the one with the girl from The Grudge?”).

But they aren’t bad people. I think they’re more…misunderstood. Like, their obsession with eyeliner could very well be taken for shallowness, but it’s really just that they’re not very curious about the world around them. Unless it has to do with shoes.

And I sort of feel sorry for them—for Lana, at least—because when it came time to ring up what we were buying and Lana’s bill came to $1,847.56, and Trisha inhaled and went, “Dude, your mom is going to KILL you,” since Lana had been given a thousand-dollar spending limit, Lana just shrugged and went, “Whatever, if she says anything I’ll just bring up Bubbles,” and I was like, “Bubbles?” and Lana looked all sad and went, “Bubbles was my pony,” and I was like, “Was?”

And then Lana explained that when, at age thirteen, she grew too heavy and long-legged for tiny Bubbles to carry her, her parents sold her beloved pony without telling her, thinking a swift and thorough break, with no time for goodbyes, would be less emotionally traumatic.

“They were wrong,” Lana said, handing over her credit card to the salesgirl to pay for her charges. “I don’t think I ever got over it. I still miss that fat-assed little horse.”

Which. You know. Harsh. At least Grandmère’s never done THAT to me.

Anyway, I guess I should get back to our table. We’re treating ourselves to a ladies-who-lunch-smorgasbord…the Nobu chef’s special. It’s “only” a hundred dollars per person.

But Trisha says we’re worth it. And besides which it’s almost all protein, being raw fish.

Of course, Lana and Trisha just have to pay for themselves. I have to pay for Lars, too. And he’s having a steak, because he says raw fish saps his man strength.

Saturday, September 18, 6 p.m., limo on the way to Tina’s

When I walked into the loft after shopping Mom was already mad. That’s because I had Bendel’s concierge service deliver (and also Saks, where we stopped later to pick up some boots and shoes) my shopping bags so I didn’t have to carry them around all day, and they were stacked so high in my room that Fat Louie couldn’t get around them to get to his litter box in my bathroom.

“HOW MUCH DID YOU SPEND?” Mom wanted to know. Her eyes were all crazy.

It’s true, there WERE a lot of bags. Rocky had been having a good time ramming the lowest tier with his trucks, trying to make them all fall down. Fortunately, it’s hard to damage lycra.

“Relax,” I said. “I used that black American Express card Dad gave me.”

“THAT CREDIT CARD IS FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY!” Mom practically screamed.

“Hello,” I said. “You don’t think my NEW SIZE THIRTY-SIX C BOOBS count as an emergency?”

So then Mom’s lips got all tight and she went, “I don’t think Lana Weinberger is a good influence on you. I’m calling your father,” and off she stomped.