In a Kinder, Gentler Time, BMW Has to Go

“Bree, I’m selling the BMW,” said Dirk the second he walked into the house.

No kiss on the cheek for his wife, who was unwrapping the plastic-boxed dinner that she’d picked up hot from Haute to Go. No “Honey, I’m home!” No “What did the market do today?” No “How was your day?”

And he damn well sure didn’t burn the American flag. Just a simple but shocking, “I’m selling the BMW.”

“But Dirk, why?” asked Bree, placing the paillards of charred chicken breast with ancho-chili butter in the pink Fiesta plates.

“We’ve become a satire, Bree. Listen to me,” he said. “Put down the mesquite-grilled chicken breasts.”

“They’re not mesquite-grilled,” she shot back with fire in her eyes. “They’re charred. Nobody does mesquite anymore. Now, what do you mean, we’ve become a satire?”

He paused to whistle, to take stock of his life, to take a deep, cleansing breath. (He was still practicing Lamaze, even though the baby was born six months ago.) “Mesquite-grilled, blackened, charred--what’s it all about, Bree?”

Now Bree was angry, hurt. She grabbed the remote and started switching stations. Gesturing toward the black bean cakes in avocado salsa still sitting in their carton, she said icily, “Go make your own dinner.”

“Look, Bree, what I’m trying to tell you is that the yuppie thing is dead, played out. The Reagan Era is over. Sure, we’ve had a few laughs. We’ve worked hard and worked out. We stopped eating junk food and started buying junk bonds. But we’ve become predictable, a stereotype, and it’s time to get real.”

Just then Celestina, the au pair, came in from the yard with little Rachel Whoopi. “Buenos nachos ,” Bree said carefully. She was so proud to be raising a bilingual child.

“I’m going to do the laundry now, Mrs. Miller,” Celestina said, passing her as she passed the little Oshkosh B’Gosh-clad bundle to its mother.

“Please, Celestina, I told you to call me Bree,” said the former Barbara (Babs) Wellington, Smith ‘71, Stanford Law ’77 and New Mothers Support Group ’88 and partner in Sharkey, Sharkey, Goniff & Wellington.

“Sorry, Ms. Bree,” Celestina said, grabbing the Tide.

Bree spread the Amish quilt on the solid-oak floor and placed Rachel Whoopi down on her stomach. She turned her attention to her husband, who was now watching “The Nightly Business Report.”

“So what exactly does getting real consist of?” asked Bree, turning off the television.

“It means reassessing our life, looking into the portfolio of our hearts. Accepting that all our fantasies may not come true.”

Here, Bree could no longer contain herself. “Oh, yeah? Does that mean you get rid of the Frederick’s of Hollywood catalogues?”

“You found those?” said Dirk, grabbing a black-bean cake with his bare hands.

“Dirk, I even know about the tootsie you’ve been exchanging mash communications with through the computer network. But that’s OK. See, I believe in fantasy. Have you read ‘Keep Your Marriage Alive by Dreaming of Other People’ by Dr. Fay Banter?”

“No, but I do admit to prurient thoughts about the woman in front of me at that Workout for the Homeless you dragged me to,” he said, dishing out her bean cake and watching her eat it, too. “OK, so in a kinder, gentler America we can have our fantasies. But I’m tired of being a joke, a satire, a materialistic, acquisitive clot on the debt of humanity. I’m selling the Beamer.”

Suddenly, Bree screamed. She pointed to Rachel Whoopi, who for the first time in her life was sitting upright, cooing and drooling. The proud parents stood before their little star and applauded. Dirk put his arm around his wife and said, “I’m buying a Mercedes 300 turbo diesel wagon. We’re a family now.”