Chloe Leiberman (Sometimes Wong) Read online

  The underlying notion of fashion is of “making,” “forming,” or “shaping.”

  —John Ayto, Dictionary of Word Origins

  It was like this. Chloe Leiberman (sometimes Wong) might have been a senior without a plan but she was a girl with a dream (which matters much more anyhow since plans can be overrated). So, Chloe finally sent this, what you're about to read, to design school. It's like an application but not. It's a little long and strange and unconventional but so, as you shall see, is Chloe.

  Personal Data/Family

  [Where does a girl even begin?]

  Wong-Leiberman 101

  Opt for pearls on special occasions to please your mother

  Think wearing pearls will get you off the opting-out-of-college hook

  So Chloe Wong-Leiberman was a senior without a plan. She was also a Chinese Jewish WASP with a fashion disorder. What, you ask, is a fashion disorder? It's not what you might be thinking—like, someone with zero sense of style and no fashion sense whatsoever. Au contraire, Chloe had plenty of style and tons of fashion sense. Too much. She'd even say she's obsessed. And do you know what obsession is like? To eat, drink, think, breathe, dream, and be totally and hopelessly consumed by something? This, as you might already know, kinda sucks.

  Chloe was totally and hopelessly obsessed with everything related to clothing, shoes, and accessories—and not just her own. She was obsessed with your clothing, shoes, and accessories too—so obsessed that eventually she had to diagnose herself with, well, her fashion disorder. (We'll cover the symptoms shortly.) For right now just know that this FD thing, as she liked to call it, was extremely problematic. Especially because her FD was the reason she was on the verge of her high school graduation without a postgrad plan. And to be a senior without a postgrad plan in the Wong-Leiberman household was a gigantic DON'T.

  You know, like there are DOs and DON'Ts in fashion, well, there are DOs and DON'Ts for Wong-Leibermans too. Like, DO plan on applying to, getting into, and then attending a REALLY HARD college. Like, DON'T even think about NOT applying to, getting rejected from, and not attending a really hard college. And well, Chloe had about the same chance to get into a REALLY HARD college that Melissa Rivers had to, like, cut the cord and get off that red carpet.

  In a perfect world (and you know we don't live in one of those) Chloe wouldn't even apply to college at all; she'd apply to fashion school, Central Saint Martins in London to be exact. But it was in London and it was an art school and art schools didn't count as really hard colleges, don't you know? And even though the fam had lowered the traditional A-list bar out of sheer necessity, Saint Martins was definitely not on-the-list. Not even the B list. Or C list. It was on the don't-even-think-about-applying list. Not that she was going to since that would require some confidence and Chloe didn't have much of that.

  And despite her seriously diverse background like … Asian shame, Jewish guilt, and some good old-fashioned WASP contempt, Chloe Wong-Leiberman didn't chant or go to temple and she had never even been to church (although she had been in a church parking lot one time to buy these insane Bakelite bangles at some dead lady's estate sale). Prime opps to score vintage. Chloe just loved vintage. Wells Park, where she lived, was low on vintage. That's because everything there was new, new, new!

  Wells Park was this ritzy “gated community” nestled by the sea with three country clubs and, like, two Chinese people. One of those Chinese people was her mom, Lucinda, and the other was her grandma who had just moved in, Pau-Pau. (That means Grandma in Cantonese and Cantonese is one of a zillion dialects spoken by Chinese people.) If Chloe were to include her sixteen-year-old brother, Mitchell, and herself then that actually would make it three whole Chinese people. Definitely a Wells Park record.

  Wells Park was Southern Cali all the way. It was all about pampas grass and palm trees and Pilates bodies (aspiring at least)—continually drenched in sun and skin, lots of terry cloth and flip-flops and patrolled by, like, fake policemen.

  The Wong-Leibermans lived in a three-story Mc-Mansion; you know, one of those humungous homes that all look the same. This one was custom built eighteen years earlier by Lucinda to mimic an early-American colonial style, complete with green plantation shutters and a red-shingled roof and financed by none other than the Bacon Bringer himself, Chloe's dad, Stanley.

  Stanley was senior partner at the Newport firm Schmukla, Schitty, and Schizer—a midsize law firm specializing in mergers and acquisitions. That meant he made a considerable chunk of change doling out tax advice to rich people who “sheltered” cash on faraway islands with names like Parakeet Bay and Gold Mountain. He did all the native Wells Park locals’ taxes and that's why the Leibermans were the first part-Jewish family to be sponsored at the Shore, the first country club to arrive on the Wells Park scene some forty years ago (which is way old for Wells Park).

  Stan, hands down, was a workaholic. Mitchell, Mr. All-Star-Everything, was a dutiful workaholic in training who liked to gloat and flex and praise the Market or Republicans or Himself and not necessarily in that order. Chlo's Chinese grandma (again that would be Pau-Pau, pronounced Paw-Paw, not Po-Po or Poo-Poo), well, she only moved in a month ago to recover from surgery—a major stomach cancer operation that removed, like, her entire esophagus. Then there was Zeyde. That's Yiddish for Grandpa. Zeyde rhymes with lady. You don't know what Yiddish is? Check out the glossary in the back for my definition.

  Zeyde wasn't official at 450 Avocado Lane but he liked to pop by from time to time to nosh or nap or lament the fact that his grandkids were never bar mitz-vahed. Then there was Wally, Lucinda's beloved fifty-pound Corgi. Seriously—the dog weighed fifty pounds. That's, like, twice what he was supposed to weigh. At this rate he was going down fast.

  Tonight was Chinese New Year, which was always a stressful affair, so Lucinda was especially worked up over the holiday menu. Zeyde was coming in from La Jolla and he and Pau had way different dietary needs. He was a kosher diabetic allergic to wheat, no matzoh for him, and she had major digestive issues particularly of the lactose kind, no Brie or gelato for her. Have you ever experienced the gas that comes out of a lactose-intolerant grandma? It's VERY unfortunate.

  Lucinda couldn't be bothered to cook anyhow (an oxymoron right there for a Chinese mom), or, according to Chloe, the only way her mother could stick to suffering on her latest diet.

  Chloe hoped to tell the parentals about her opting-out-of-college situation that night, one at a time, preferably in the company of a housekeeper or grandparent—always good, strategic buffers. Or if things got out of hand she always could use Wally. He made a highly padded shield.

  Since Mitchell would be home soon with the nightly “Mitchell Report” to recap all of his latest coups on and off the Eden Prep playing field and Stanley would be slipping through the side door any second looking ready to apologize for something whether he did it or not (he probably didn't), Chloe had little time to break the big news to the toughest nut, her mom—sans Chinese New Year novelty sweater, of course. Oh, yes, every Chinese New Year Lucinda enjoyed purchasing select family members a festive big-buttoned cardigan number, all Mr. Rogers style, in sickening candy apple red. To be SANS festive novelty sweater on the Chinese New Year was a big ol’ DON'T, but only if you were Stan or Chloe since rules didn't seem to apply to Mitch.

  Chloe, mind you, would rather be naked—or dead—or both—before she would ever ever wear this Chinese New Year novelty sweater thing—to bed even! After Chloe had “lost” hers for the past twelve years Lucinda finally gave up this season but the Battle of the Novelty Sweater was a Pyrrhic victory at best, hard fought but not quite won and sorely remembered to this day.

  Last year Chloe ha
d tried to compromise. For real. That's why she decided to alter hers, just a tad, by dying the cardigan fuchsia—something not all too well received. To try to defend herself was moot. Chloe had done something unthinkable: She had vandalized both the sweater and the claw-foot tub, now dyed an irreversible shade of Betsey Johnson pink. (And, FYI, the Wong-Leiberman household was pastel all the way, so loud and bright a la Betsey was a big ol' DON'T.)

  Since it was Chinese New Year her mother stood dressed for the festive occasion which was exactly why Chloe never made it past the service stairs into enemy territory at all! She was paralyzed by the potential sight—a sweeping migraine took shape—and then, something unavoidable occurred—something that happened whenever she was about to bear witness to bad fashion. Especially on her mother.

  FULL-on Red Carpetosis! It was the most common symptom of her FD. In seconds, Chloe was whisked away onto her own little red carpet where she, alone, stood under lights and cameras and just HAD TO discuss slash critique her mother's latest. But, like, she was the only one on this red carpet, sans hair or makeup, and the segment never aired anywhere except in her head. She even had a one-sheet with notes and everything. It looked like this:

  THE CARPETOSIS DIAGNOSIS

  SUBJECT: Lucinda Wong-Leiberman, aka Mom

  FAMILY HISTORY: N/A yet

  STYLE SYMPTOMS: color-phobic yet does pastels (one at a time), loves loafers, hates open-toe anything, matches everything—usually stemware to scoop-neck cardigans, never ever mixes labels, enjoys satin headbands and shapeless shifts in tiny floral patterns. Channels Martha Stewart (preindictment, of course), LOTS.

  Chloe reviewed her imagined notes, the carpet was ablaze with glaring lights, and she was ready to go.

  And-we're-live-from—

  “Oh hi, me, it's me, live from the Red Carpet with today's Carpetosis Diagnosis, here to break it down for Lucinda Wong-Leiberman on the most auspicious day of the year, the first day of the Chinese New Year, this the Year of the Tiger. So we know by now Lucinda plays it safe with one of three unfortunate, sucky looks. Sucky look number one, we'll just call ‘Aspiring Pilates Mom’ (relaxed-fit khakis, three-quarter-sleeve polos, sensible shoes). This look sadly shows Lucinda will go to any lengths to try to blend in with every other identically outfitted Wells Park mom even though that's impossible (a) because she's Chinese and (b) she's maybe used her House of Yogilates membership, like, two times.

  “Sucky Look Number two we'll just call ‘Aspiring Corporate Mom’ (early nineties, charcoal gray, get-out-of-my-way-I'm-late Armani suit). This is, like, some futile attempt for Lucinda to channel the high-powered world of finance she never experienced let alone conquered so she always ends up looking kinda tragic. I mean, she is a housewife in the burbs, not some I banker on Wall Street.

  “Wanna know why? Cuz it was like this. Nineteen years ago, just weeks after being recruited by Sanderson Consulting in New York, Lucinda met Stan. She was ready to board her Kennedy-bound flight at SFO, matching Tumi bags set to go, but then Stanley literally bumped into her and an unlikely magic transpired over a spilled cup of instant coffee on an Ann Taylor button-down. She never did make that flight and quit the profession before she ever even began, opting instead to become Stan's full-on wife, and shortly after, a not-so-full-on mom. Which brings us to …

  “Sucky Look Number Three, ‘Aspiring Connecticut Homemaker!’ (oversized fisherman's sweater, matching jodhpurs, L.L. Bean wellies). This, no doubt, is the look that's by far Lucinda's fave. Dressed up like this she's the VISION of Greenwich itself, and in, like, total Ralph Lauren, she probably pretends to host these very exclusive weekly salons in her lovingly restored nineteenth-century REAL colonial, musing by a perpetual fire that, like, mirrors the amber hues of September leaves tumbling forth from ancient, stately trees—strolling hand in hand with her erudite, philanthropic-type husband who's, like, maybe an expert in Greek—someone who'll clasp her woolen mit-tened hand tight as they, say, savor the air of a crisp and true New England fall….

  “But hold on. This fantasy is by far the farthest from the truth which is why it disturbs me the MOST. She might be a WASP mind trapped in a Chinese body but Lucinda has never even been to Connecticut! Wells Park is all about new money on the West Coast anyhow where the temperature rarely dives below seventy so no one's about to bust out with wool or wellie anything unless it's Zeyde playing Santa at Christmas. He's a Christmas-tree Jew. Kinda hypocritical, wouldn't you agree?”

  The lights dimmed, the Red Carpet rolled up and POOF! disappeared.

  Chloe wanted to empathize with her mom at least a teensy bit. Her mom's conflicted fashion statements were, after all, like, therapy. They were important role-playing games where Lucinda could at least try on identities even if they weren't for real.

  Tonight, … Lucinda was featuring some very all-black situation (a clear sign she needed to be taken seriously). It was kinda festive, kinda fancy, and kinda corporate—definitely high collared with shoulder pads. Yuh-huhhh. Festive, fancy, corporate, and hold on … ethnic too?

  Whoa … Definitely a bold departure from seasons past. Lucinda was dressed like some kind of imperial Chinese matador, metallic slotted spoon held at attention. Her dramatic bolero jacket was shiny and square—a blinding jacquard print with bell sleeves paired with what appeared to be (oh god why) very pleated (hmm) wide-leg pants. The pants ballooned over two-toned black and tan ballet flats (typical), exposing some (ew) opaque and (double-ew) nude panty hose.

  Well, OK. Chlo knew this certainly wasn't the worst thing her mother had ever worn but it wasn't making any top-ten list either (not that she was making a list). The bolero jacket was especially displeasing since it featured these jumbo pearl buttons, champagne colored, each the size of golf balls. They even had dangling gold tassels. Lucinda's bobbed hair was tucked behind her ears with her requisite mono-grammed satin headband, tiny seed pearls outlining her preferred initials, LL. Oyy vey. EW.

  And then, just as Chloe tried to move forward she was struck. She felt clammy, dizzy, faint … and Oh god, not here, not now. It was too late. She had seen enough and was going to hallucinate.

  The stairs closed up all around her and began to spin out of control. A fuchsia curtain wiped away Lucinda's silhouette, the kitchen slowly faded from view, and POOF! Chloe was no-longer-there-at-all. Everything in the kitchen, like, disappeared.

  Chloe stood all alone once again in a tiny little studio, far, far away … preparing for—Wheel of Fashion. Kinda. Complete with audience participation and, like, a grinning Botoxed lady spinning the wheel. Together, Chloe and the wheel had to determine the fate of the fashion victim at hand, Lucinda Wong-Leiberman, and fix every single last faux pas. At least they'd try!

  DING DING DING! The wheel stopped and Lucinda now stood transformed. She featured a sleeveless cowl-neck blouse in cream silk paired over dark denim jeans—straight leg, no pleats, natural waist, falling midheel over a pair of tweed slingbacks, two, maybe, three inches. Nothing hookerish but still kinda hot. Mom hot, of course (if there is such a thing). Headband be gone! Instead, Lucinda's bobbed and banged hair was straightened and slick, pulled completely back in a neat chignon sans bow or bell. Smallish gold and diamond hoops replaced the mammoth pearl studs, a threaded gold cuff encircled an elbow, and the woman now stood relaxed and at ease instead of like a frozen Popsicle about to melt. For one glorious minute, at least in her head, Chloe's mother actually had style.

  But, you see, this was just a hallucination—a fantasy—a mirage! And all hallucinations, good or bad, must come to an end. It wasn't like Chloe consciously chose to hallucinate about re-dressing people! It was just something that automatically kicked in, like, to try to alleviate stress, kinda like serotonin but not. Or is that endorphins that do that stress-relieving thing?

  Lucinda didn't even notice that Chloe was standing at the entrance to her Shabby Chic slash Williams-Sonoma shrine at all. Why? Because she was very preoccupied studying the low-carb, wheat-free matzoh ball soup, that'
s why. All helpless, she waved her ladle up and down like some petulant child left to swim in the pool for the first time without floaties. Beneath her, the lone matzoh clump looked like something that had died a long time ago and wasn't too into being resuscitated.

  “But Lupe said just add water and stir!” Lucinda threw her skinny arms up in the air and pleaded for sympathy. Pau naturally ignored her. She was dozing off in the light-soaked breakfast nook while half engaged in what apparently was a favorite pastime, solitaire. Her signature blue slippers dangled from the chintz-upholstered bench a good six inches off the floor.

  Lucinda started tapping a silver spoon against the bubbling pot, once, twice, then like an outright gong. Pau slammed down her pudgy fists and a queen of hearts went flying into the soup.

  “Hi-yaaah! Kok nay gan tuh!” Pau snorted. She shuffled toward the Viking range and kicked Wally aside (not, like, hard or anything). Lucinda gasped while Pau began to stir and smooth the mealy pot, grumbling the whole time in mixed-up Cantonese. Chloe managed to make out something that sounded like mother white ghost cook, or lousy ghost soup, or something like that. In typical fashion, her mother and grandmother started slinging bilingual insults and wheatless matzoh, but then, her mom abruptly stopped—finally noticing her daughter.

  “Don't tell me that's what you plan to wear to my dinner tonight, Chloe Wong?”

  “What's wrong with it?” Chloe asked. She had worn pearls and everything.

  Her mother grimaced. “You reject my novelty sweaters and yet an ‘Ole!’ T-shirt is not exactly fancy, now is it?” Lucinda really overemphasized the word “fancy,” which she knew was, like, Chloe's least favorite adjective, ever.

  “It's really a ‘Go Lakers!’ T but some of the letters are faded. Plus no one said we were doing tea at the Ritz.”

  Chloe tried scooping up Wally for support but he wouldn't budge. Poor Wally: fat, dumb, and lookin’ for love in all the wrong places.