I’m advised not to respond to reader reviews, but sometimes it’s tempting! One recent review on Goodreads assumed that my sister and I had lost touch. Chanel Bonfire is dedicated to my sister, who I consider to be the hero of the story in many ways, and we remain close.
Another common critique is that the book has no pictures. This was an editorial decision made by my publisher, Gallery Books. You can go to the Chanel Bonfire Facebook page or the website www.chanelbonfire.com and see photos of many of the people who appear in Chanel – friends and family.
Rest in peace, Jeremy Lloyd, who has a brief cameo in Chanel Bonfire. He made uncredited appearances in A Hard Day’s Night, Help! and our living room. He was, more famously, a writer and co-creator of British sitcoms including Are You Being Served? and ‘Allo ‘Allo! He was a friend of Mother’s during and after his super brief marriage to Joanna Lumley. And he too was Absolutely Fabulous.
I just had the best time with the Twin Cities own Lori & Julia on MyTalk 107. A wonderful interview and discussion about Chanel Bonfire and moms and crazy moms and who gets out alive!
Click the link to the podcast of the show. I think we come in around the middle of the hour!
I live in Los Angeles and am a stay-at-home mom with two children.When my elder child was starting kindergarten, my husband and I expected certain adjustments for him—separation anxiety, socialization issues, exhaustion from the demands of learning.What we didn’t expect was an adjustment issue of our own—the birthday party predicament.
Having lived in LA for a few years prior to kindergarten, we had heard birthday party stories: glamorous high-powered parents with lots of money, lots of guilt and not much time trying to top each other with pinatas stuffed with $5 dollar bills, swimming pools drained and filled with salt water and barking seals, goodie bags from MOCA!To these people, their child’s birthday party is a tone setter, a first impression that says, “This is who we are and would you like to get your face painted?”But we thought we had avoided all of this.
We had chosen our son’s school—a low-key Episcopalian one–for its committed teachers, its sweet and polite children and for its uniforms.We saw the uniforms as a great leveler of class and affluence barriers in the land of “I can do anything better than you.”What we didn’t realize was that at school in their light blue shirts and dark blue pants everyone might be equal, but after school, the gloves were off.The lesson came with the first invitation to the first birthday party.
It was a catered affair in a private room at the House of Blues on Sunset Blvd.—the flagship location of a chain of Rock-n-Roll nightclubs.Walking in, I felt slightly guilty about the $9.99 tub of plastic dinosaurs from Ross Dress for Less I had brought as a gift, but I ate a lot of pasta salad and soon I felt better.After the kids had feasted on pizza and chicken there was a reptile show with iguanas, chameleons, and an absolutely huge snake that was passed around and then placed on a mom’s head.The kids had fun but for me it was less like a birthday party and more like going out to lunch.I enjoyed sitting on the overstuffed furniture, eating food I didn’t have to cook off a china plate, chatting with the other parents.But I wondered, who was the party really for?Was all this really necessary?It was probably costing more than my wedding.I mean, my wedding didn’t have valet parking.I also couldn’t help but wonder if, for the kids, the same effect could be achieved with, say, a rented video and a little cereal tossed on the floor.
To compete or not to compete–that was the question we faced for the next few months before our own son’s birthday.Should we pull out all the stops so people wouldn’t think we didn’t care, or, God forbid, we couldn’t spare the money?Or should we just low key it and lay it off on our own Generation X-ness?We agonized over a party at a gym (too expensive), our apartment (too small), our backyard (we didn’t have one).Then we struck upon an idea–bowling and pizza.What could be more wholesome and fun?It even had an anti-establishment blue collar feel to it.Bowling and pizza?Three hundred dollars.That nixxed that.The fact was that the money we needed to even contemplate becoming serious contenders in this contest was being spent on tuition.
In the meantime, the competition was closing in from behind.At party for a friend of my younger child, a petting zoo was set up in the backyard complete with “farmhands” dressed in overalls and red checked shirts. The children could enter a sparkling clean corral filled with fresh straw and pet bunnies, ducks and goats while Aaron Copeland’s “Appalachian Spring” played on a boombox.I couldn’t stop thinking about what they had given the animals to keep them from pooping. In that respect it was certainly unlike any farm I had ever been to.Then I overheard a man reminding a toddler that they had met before in Hawaii while he and her mommy were making Jurassic Park–didn’t she remember?It was at this moment that I grabbed my husband’s arm and told him we had to leave. “The party?” he asked. “No, Los Angeles,” I answered.
Whatever happened to Musical Chairs?Remember when a birthday party was at someone’s house and they decorated the dining room with crepe paper and balloons and you played games?Pass the Parcel?Pin the Tail on the Donkey?We didn’t have the room for it but other people did and yet… no one seemed to be able to make the leap.
We finally decided to have my son’s party at the beach. It was a gorgeous cool February day and the kids flew kites.My son loved his Pikachu cake that my husband had cleverly crafted and iced a fluorescent yellow.At the very end of the party, a California Grey Whale rose up out of the ocean, shooting spray out of it’s blowhole.All the kids ran down to the water, screaming and pointing.The whale breached, rolled over and flipped it’s tail up in the air as if it were waving at the children and wishing my son a happy birthday.“Happy Birthday from the Big Guy!”There was a stunned silence as everyone absorbed this vision of nature’s power and beauty.
My husband and I looked at each other and smiled.We had pulled it off.Not only had we thrown a terrific party for about fifty bucks, including bagels, cream cheese, fruit salad, cake and $1.99 kites as party favors, it had all been capped by a perfect moment–a celebrity sighting of one of the largest mammals on Earth.
It was a day we would all remember and our son was thrilled.We turned away from the water and walked slowly back up the beach, thinking and talking about how beautiful and rare it was to see a whale. Then one of the Dads tapped me on the shoulder.His own child’s birthday was coming up and he wanted to know if I would mind giving him the whale’s card.
This Essay First Appeared in the Larchmont Chronicle
“… the way his cologne smelled, the sheen of his hair, and his eyes covered by sunglasses just like a character in a Fellini movie. My Marcello.” Chanel Bonfire
From my dear friend, bill madison, the authorized biographer of madeline kahn!
Wendy Lawless’ Chanel Bonfire is subtitled A Memoir, but really it might have been called “A Thrilling Tale of Survival” or even “A Most Dangerous Book for Girls.” I’ve known Wendy for years, since she began dating a friend from the Columbia Writing Program, David Kidd, and I’ve heard some of the stories she tells here: I even read a couple of chapters in manuscript. Yet I suspect that no amount of familiarity could prepare me for the full impact of Chanel Bonfire.
How on earth did Wendy survive her mother — to say nothing of how Wendy and Dave managed to construct one of the sanest households I know, inhabited by two of the coolest children I know? Wendy’s mother, Georgann Rea, was a monster of narcissism whose pursuit of her own fancy led her to upend and sometimes jeopardize her daughters’ lives again and again; she drank too much and spent too much and dated recklessly. It goes almost without saying that she suffered from mental illness, yet numberless people fell for her most outlandish self-dramatizations. Reading the book, I found myself mentally pronouncing her name “Gorgon.”
Wendy spent much of her youth apologizing for her mother and covering over her worst faults and lapses, largely but not entirely in order to protect her younger sister, Robin. But Wendy has come to terms with the truth now, and by “terms” I do also mean language, and that much at least is no surprise: any actor who can handle the furious wordplay of David Ives’ All in the Timing, as Wendy did Off-Broadway, must wield the language dexterously, and Wendy does.
One of my favorite people — and now she’ll be one of your favorites, too. Yet there’s not a single note of bitterness in the book, even when she’s describing, for example, how Georgann kept Wendy and Robin apart from their father for years (telling them he no longer loved them, telling him nothing at all) or how Georgann vamped Wendy’s boyfriend and drove him away. Instead, Wendy writes with a serene objectivity and a healthy dose of wit that led me to call the book “horricomic.” Her prose can be laugh-out-loud funny, even when it’s breaking your heart.
It all seems so glamorous, on the surface, as Georgann indulges in designer clothes and vintage wines and spins around Manhattan nightclubs and London salons. But there are all kinds of price tags attached to those fancy labels. Georgann is indifferent to her daughters when she isn’t actively hostile (and violent, especially toward Robin), and every time she jets off to a new man and a new address, she forces the girls to make their way in another new environment, alone. They’re perpetual outsiders, constantly on the move, and with a military-surgical precision, Georgann cuts her daughters off from everyone they care about, especially adults who might save them: their father, their stepfather, a beloved nanny.
Awful as the details may be, Chanel Bonfire is never depressing, not only because of Wendy’s wryly humorous perspective but perhaps also because at heart the book is a coming-of-age story, and we watch (white-knuckled at times) as Wendy wins her independence from Georgann. It would be rather hard to believe her victory, if we didn’t hold the evidence in our hands. And, as I say, I can testify that, in this regard, Wendy isn’t acting. She’s writing — exceptionally well — and living proudly with her own grace and intelligence.
