Hot Mess Hainan Chicken and Rice

We have these friends, Kirk and Amy who we met through our kids’ German preschool in lower Manhattan. Kirk is German and Amy is Thai.

Amy, was always my most modest mom friend. She had no nanny, she did everything herself, and regardless of what I was shopping for, she always had a better deal for me on Amazon.

Tribeca moms in my opinion, and also in my novel, City of Likes typically present a certain way. They are blonde, former fashion industry survivors and married to finance dudes. They talk fast, walk fast, and refuel on oat milk lattes at Jack’s. They don’t work, but they always seem harried and frantic, as if an unseen force is propelling them forward, whether they want to be moving or not.

Amy wasn’t one of these women. She had a strong Thai accent, she looked incredibly young, she didn’t wear workout gear, and she was always the person doing pick up and drop off.

A lot of the other moms mistook her for the nanny. They dismissed her and didn’t give her the time and attention she deserved.

(To be clear, Amy might have a totally different impression of her experience but this was how I saw what happened. And I think my version makes a better story.)

I hate, hate, HATE when I see mean girls excluding other women or picking and choosing who deserves their attention and who doesn’t.

In LA, where the currency is fame, it was obvious who the “In-crowd” was. But in New York, were the currency is money, gaging a person’s relevance takes work.

There is typically a line of questioning that ensues, “Do you rent or own?”, “Where do you summer?” , “Do you go out East?” “What clubs do you belong to?”, “Is your husband in finance?” , “Where are your kids in school?”, “Are you a Tracey girl or Soul Cycle?”

Depending on how you answer, you are either invited to the Cipriani launch party for a seven-five dollar collagen boosting chapstick or you aren’t.

I hate this shit.