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by Jill Kargman

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A hilarious and deliciously scathing send-up of motherhood as practiced in the upper echelons of Manhattan society, from the coauthor of The Right Address and Wolves in Chic Clothing.The mothers on Manhattan’s chic Upper East Side are highly educated, extremely wealthy, and very competitive. They throw themselves and all of their energy and resources

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A hilarious and deliciously scathing send-up of motherhood as practiced in the upper echelons of Manhattan society, from the coauthor of The Right Address and Wolves in Chic Clothing.The mothers on Manhattan’s chic Upper East Side are highly educated, extremely wealthy, and very competitive. They throw themselves and all of their energy and resources into full-time child rearing, turning their kids into the unwitting pawns in a game where success is measured in precocious achievements, jam-packed schedules, and elite private-school pedigrees.Hannah Allen has recently moved to the neighborhood with her New York City–bred investment banker husband and their two-year-old daughter, Violet. She’s immediately inundated by an outpouring of advice from her not-so-well-intentioned new friends and her overbearing, socially conscious mother-in-law, who coach her on matters ranging from where to buy the must-have $300 baby dress to how to get into the only pre-pre-preschool that counts. Despite her better instincts and common sense, Hannah soon finds herself caught up in the competitive whirl of high-stakes mothering.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

Kargman is no worse off without writing partner Carrie Karasyov (The Right Address; Wolves in Chic Clothing) in her first solo novel, a breezy jaunt through the Manhattan nursery grinder. Recently relocated to the Upper East Side from San Francisco after her husband, Josh, took a lucrative job, Hannah Allen is thrown into the mommy snake pit by her domineering mother-in-law, Lila Allen Dillingham, who introduces Hannah to a cabal of neighborhood moms led by the "drop dead gorgissima" Bee Elliott. Hannah, a black-jeans-and-Converse art history grad and mother of too-cute two-year-old Violet, struggles to please Lila and keep up with Bee's hypercompetitive crew of "Kelly-bag-toting, Chanel-suit-wearing, Bugaboo-pushing sharks" who fret over their children's head circumferences and admissions into pre-preschools with three-year waiting lists. There's no shortage of name-dropping and light humor as Hannah struggles to win a co-op board's approval, keep her marriage afloat and get Violet into Carnegie Nursery School. Though a bevy of "awky" abbreviations litter the narrative ("unfortch" "sitch," "actsch"), Kargman writes with verve. Fans of the genre won't be disappointed. (Apr.)

Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
From the Publisher
Praise for The Right Address:

“It’s impossible to resist the charms of this modern Manhattan fairy tale.…What makes it all so enticing is watching those evil society stepsisters get their deliciously just deserts along the way.” —People

“Offers playful insight into a world…as catty as it is rarefied.” —Vogue

Praise for Wolves in Chic Clothing:

“A gossipy, Saturday-afternoon treat.” —Glamour

“For those who crave diamonds and Manolos with their fairy tales, this confection hits the spot.” —People

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I am staring at the crystalline frozen tundra of ice–licked Alaska. Surrounded by an endless snowy desert, a little Eskimo girl pounds her way through the rushing, snowflake–laden wind as cheerful music plays.

Put on your kami–kluk to stay warm and dry…”

No, I didn’t board a flight to Juneau. I’m watching Sesame Street with my daughter, Violet. It’s one of Grover’s world–friendly segments where global cultures are profiled through the dewy, pure lens of a child’s eyes. We visit a Chinese boy who is a top acrobat and can spin fourteen plates on his face and a little Indonesian girl who can balance six bowls on the top of her head. While dancing.

Today Grover has transported us to the forty–ninth state—and our local lass is suiting up to face the Arctic chill, with the help of her mother, who sews fur pelts together to fashion a tikiyook, or coat, to repel the subzero temps. She rushes out into the crisp fresh air to meet other children, also clad in PETA’s worst nightmare, and skips off into the fluffy white mounds, laughing sweetly.

It all looks so wholesome, so simple, so uncomplicated. No fancy schools to get into, no apartments to compare. It looked pleasant there, out in the bleak but weirdly alluring slate of glistening frost punctuated only by playful tykes toting their homemade lunches to school in swinging buckets.

But then the bilious pit in my stomach reasserted itself, and I couldn’t help but think this awful, impure thought: I bet one of the moms is looking over the other kids’ kami–kluks to see if the stitching is better. Or if the book sack one mom made is as creatively patterned as another. I am certain one family’s igloo is grander, another’s dogsled more impressive.

I was watching this on my television, in my apartment, not set in a downy white backdrop, but rather in the lion’s den of competitive mommies: New York City’s Upper East Side. In California, where my husband, Josh, and I lived before the relocation plunge a month ago, the one orange Bugaboo stroller on our block was so strange and uncommon a sight, people thought aliens had delivered it via flying saucer. In New York, the Rolls Royce of strollers is as common as yellow cabs—and the streets are just as jammed with them, but instead of reeking of an overpowering air–freshener–and–curry combo, they smelled of Kiehl’s–scrubbed babies.

It’s gotten to the point where I don’t even want to walk up Madison Avenue; while my kid looks like Baby Old Navy exploded, I routinely bump into neighbors with children so perfectly preened in smocked dresses, rickrack–collared linen blouses, shiny Mary Janes with lace socks, and enormous bows in their styled hair. My mother–in–law gives us baby clothes that are marked Dry Clean Only. Unless they’re linen, in which case yours truly gets to crack out the ironing board. I just want to hide. Boy, am I living in a crazy place. Maybe I should call Air Alaska.

It all started when Josh got a call from Parker Elliott, his best friend from Harvard Business School. He knew Josh was sick of his job in San Francisco, dreading working the East Coast hours on the West Coast and getting up well before the ass–crack o’dawn. The bank that employed Parker was willing to make Josh an offer he couldn’t turn down, so suddenly our laid–back California world was history. I was getting my PhD in art history at Berkeley right before Violet was born, but bagged after the Master’s because a) of the impending stork arrival and b) I didn’t know what the hell I wanted to do with a PhD. So when the call came for Josh, I was a perfectly transportable, abundantly educated, stay–at–home mom.

I grew up in rainy Seattle so the storm–whipped weather “back east” never cowed me like most California residents; in fact, even though I’m a born–and–bred West Coaster, I actually always felt more at home with the northeastern vibe—crisp autumns lazing indoors and avoiding the sun due to my ultra–pale, all–too–easily–burnable complexion. When I met Josh and we started dating, he told me straightaway that he wanted to move back to his native New York to raise a family one day. I was game; I just didn’t know that day would come so soon. I’d liked our shimmering, carefree San Francisco bubble, far from his socialite mom, cozy in our solitude between our close group of friends, our favorite haunts, and mellow routines. I always loved Manhattan when I visited every fall, but it was all a glistening October collage of Broadway shows, plush hotel rooms, designer sushi, and kissing in burgundy–leafed Central Park.

The transformation from romantic tourist to entrenched inhabitant was bumpier than I had anticipated. The offer and subsequent arrangements happened so quickly; it seemed that within days I was loading up boxes, boarding a plane, and moving into corporate housing, all before I could even get used to the thought of it.

The night we arrived, Josh ordered a Chinese feast, and after we tucked Violet into her Pack ‘n’ Play, we chowed take–out cartonloads of chow fun and General Tso’s chicken, by the flickering light of nonaromatherapy candles.

“Hannah?” he said, smiling over his chopsticks.

“Yes, sweets?”

“Thank you.”

He came over and hugged me and I blinked to release a lone tear, which he wiped away softly.

Suddenly here we were: away from our friends, my family, my coast—and planted in a new world of the elite, his mom and fancy prep school pals included. My tear flow increased.

“As if I don’t already have enough salt from this meal,” I laughed as he kissed me, wiping my cheeks.
“I’m already the fattest girl in this city and the MSG intake ain’t helping.”

“Shut up. You're beautiful.”

I looked at him gratefully and sighed.

“We’re going to be fine here,” he consoled, stroking my hair. “Better than fine. You will love New York, Han, I swear.”

Joshie has always wanted me to adore his hometown as much as he did, and he’s done everything he can to infuse me with his passion for it—from Woody Allen screenings in our den to museum binges when we visited, to excited samplings of his favorite foods (the perfect bagel, the best hot dog), and showing me the most sublime walks, to pointing out the most diverse, most intellectual, most kaleidoscopic array of eclectic, sometimes freakish citizens. He was a real die–hard, love–the–gray, eat–up–the–noise, relish–the–smell–of–streetcart–food New Yorker. Ever since I’d known him, Josh went back home every few months for his fixes, like a junkie filling up on the buzz and heat and lifeblood of the twelve–mile island he thought of as the center of the universe. He was so ecstatic to finally be back, and I was thrilled for him. But gone were the days of him rolling home at four thirty p.m., taking evening walks as a fam, and eating early dinners in our favorite holes in the wall. He had warned me that in this new job he couldn’t cut corners and would be pretty much swamped, handcuffed to the office at least for a while. And I’d be navigating the rough waters on my own. Waters teeming with sharks. Kelly–bag–toting, Chanel–suit–wearing, Bugaboo–pushing sharks.

“Bee is calling you on the cell tomorrow to meet up,” Josh said, trying to lift my spirits. “Parker said she wants to take you to some children’s clothes show or something. She’ll introduce you to all her friends.”

“Okay,” I said, exhaling and nodding. I wanted to be supportive to Josh. He had been so down at his old job and I had hated seeing him miserable. This was a chance at a fresh start for him, and I needed to match his enthusiasm. But just hearing the name Bee made me nervous.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Momzillas 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 30 reviews.
purrpleheather More than 1 year ago
This was probably the best chicklit book I've ever read. It reminded me of all the New York fashionista from Sex and the City but based around the hoity toity-ness of these snobby Moms. It makes me wonder if N.Y. Mom's actually behave the way they did in the book. It was light and entertaining. It was fun to put yourself in certain situations and ask yourself how you would act.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Great, fast read. Liked the story a lot, my only complaint is that the narrator gushed a bit too much about her husband 'Joshie' and how she sobbed whenever he left the room (ok, that's an exaggeration, but it felt like it). I also wish she would've stood up to her MIL instead of acting like a doormat. Other than that, it was a fun read.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I loved the introduction which was a dictionalry of terms mothers use. This book was a great window into the life of a woman who was determined to not become the dreaded 'Momzilla'. I like the book because it was an easy read and I laughed throughout the book. It is a little heavy on the drama of New York mothers at their best.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I am SO glad I bought this book. It is hilarious. I laughed out loud on many parts and often thought 'Wow. I thought I was the only one.'. It made me glad I'm just a small town Mom. Buy it.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I had never read anything by this author, but the title caught my eye and was exactly what I was looking for. It was a light, refreshing read that I could not put down. I loved the lingo in the book and was more than pleased with the ending. It's a great read for anyone looking for a good laugh!
Anonymous 10 months ago
Totally enjoyed the book. It was funny and totally felt emersed in Hannah and Josh's world. Really enjoyed the ending. Well worth the read.
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It was good but hannah was with a character the whole time and in the end she realized he wasnt so great but during the book u didnt how bad he was until the end.
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nvtha602 More than 1 year ago
Very funny and cute !
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Nicole Stark More than 1 year ago
A true treat from start to finish.
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MysteryStory More than 1 year ago
I really tend to enjoy books by Jill Kargman (like the Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund). The writing in the book can only be described as frenetic and challenging. While I knew who to root for, I can't say I always did. How the villain gets her comeuppance in the end is GREAT though!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Guest More than 1 year ago
I couldn't put this book down, even though I found the lingo appalling (unlike the other reviewers, below, I'm a ''slightly older' mom'). But, as an Upper East Sider, myself, I 'laughed until I cried.' I did, however, find our Heroine annoyingly naive at times (c'mon, transplanted Californians typically have lots of savior faire), and I wonder whether non-New York moms will fully relate to this book 'lots of inside jokes here'. But, overall, it's a 'blast' and a perfect beach read.