Sunday, May 17, 2009


This past weekend, I had the good fortune of being able to pawn off my six-year-old son Ethan on some unwitting friends and depart for a weekend of hardcore frivolity in Palm Springs. Ethan was chomping at the bit for me to leave, as the choices of snack foods and desserts at our friend's home far surpasses the meager choices I tend to offer him. As Ethan joyfully bounded out my car with his small, SPONGE BOB overnight bag and charged through our friend's front door, I reminded him to give me hug as we said goodbye to one another.

He placed his SPONGE BOB valise carefully on the ground, turned, and then strode up to me purposely. He wrapped his small thin arms around my waist, grabbed my love-handles hard and said,

"You look really fat."

He then turned and bounded up the stairs to join his young buddy who was no doubt surfing the Internet and being exposed to emotionally scarring porn as none of my friends have had the foresight to put any type of parental controls on their computers. I casually glanced at the family matriarch who having heard Ethan's departing words was slightly horrified. I assured her that this last remark was Ethan-speak for 'I love and will miss you, dad.' She didn't appear convinced. In fact, I wasn't that convinced either.

Over the course of the last 6 3/4 years, my son Ethan and I have developed a private language that I consider 'creative,' 'playful,' and 'charming,' in direct contrast to our narrow-minded friends and loved ones who've labeled our small talk as, 'abusive,' 'hurtful,' and 'acidic.' Ethan and I often find ourselves in childish arguments where he tells me to 'shut-my-stupid-trap' and I respond that I'm calling the nasty government 'lady' who will officially take him into foster care. (I cruelly explain that the mean foster family that will take him will starve him and beat him with belts - and mind you, not the nice Prada or Gucci Belts he gets beaten with at home) Unimpressed, Ethan further tells me to 'shut-it' and tells me that the government doesn't listen to fat retards with 'muffin top' love-handles. At this point, I'm doubled over with laughter and kvelling from Ethan's innate charm. Who can resist such witty repartee?

My husband, George-the-Good, finds the annihilating banter between Ethan and I slightly unsettling. While Ethan and I hurl verbal bon-mots at each other, George squats on the floor of our dining room and rocks back and forth like an inmate at mental institution. His Apple Ear Buds are jammed in his ears blasting Lady GaGa at deafening levels desperately trying to drown us out. In an attempt to playfully draw George into our drama, Ethan will poke George in the arm and shout "Papa, daddy's being really mean and threatening to make me a ward of the state again. Kick his ass - I'll hold your coat." George glances at us and mouths that he can't hear a thing. Ethan takes the opportunity to punch me in the ass and make a run for it. While chasing him throughout the house, Ethan hurls fresh 'truth bombs' at me like "You got no business wearing those skinny jeans, you're too old and too fat!" I corner Ethan on the upstairs landing. We size each other up for a second or two and having spotted my opportunity, I make a ferocious pounce. As I drag Ethan to the floor, tickling him madly, he convulses in gales of laughter while at the same time crying, "Get off of me, lard ass!'

As I lay in the oppressive heat of Palm Springs, my too-small Speedo plastered to my middle aged hips - I realize that I miss my son horribly. Though my body has certainly seen better days, I am proud of my 'muffin top,' for having lived 'peacefully' with my son for almost 7 years, I've earned it!

Friday, May 1, 2009

The Son Also Rises Pt. 3

(Continued from The Son Also Rises Pt. 2)

April 5, 2009

Mommie Dearest aka Darth Vader,

George and I are ever so appreciative of the delightful truck load of 'trinkets' you provided to young Master Ethan on this of all days, Cinco De Mayo. I'm certain his comrades at school will
be spitting mad when they see that Ethan has the ENTIRE line of Star Wars Lego Toys. Gracious, I feel as though I could take on that pesky rebellion myself what with the Death Star, Battle Cruiser, and General Grievous Lego sets, not to mention the Landspeeder bedroom set,
Luke Skywalker costume, light sabers, and Han Solo 'Carbonite' sculpture! (It was the devil to mount on the wall having been cast in solid bronze and all - but so worth it!)

As I write, my husband George 'Obi-Wan Kenobi' Abrams is painfully hunched over the 'battle plans' for the Death Star, his reading glasses perched precariously on his nose as he sorts through the half-million individual, made-in-China, plastic pieces that make up the body of the Empire's ultimate weapon. What fun! As you know, I lack the patience, talent and inclination to assist in assembling such things. I'm sure it has NOTHING to do with the endless Martinis, bottles of wine, cigarettes, 'dolls' and nameless hormones ingested while you were pregnant with me. (It was the fun-loving 60's after all, and common sense went right out the window with Eisenhower)

Anybirthdefect, Ethan is basking in the glow of his AMEX 'Black Card' purchased bribes and like the Star Wars evil Emperor has decided to place me under house arrest again. He's threatening to have me executed for some ridiculously minor infraction this time. Apparently my 'offense' against the Ethan Empire is 'unauthorized fraternization' with an alien life form with an intent to abandon my assigned post. (Yes, I had been flirting outrageously with Ethan's cute, young gymnastics coach and had become dazzled by his snow white grin and washboard abs. Further, I did fail to notice on the car ride home that my child wasn't in the car. But let's be honest, it could happen to anyone! ) I tried to bargain with the Emperor to spare my life, but he's in one of his tiresome, spare-the-rod-spoil-the-child moods again. It doesn't look good.

In closing, Obi-Wan and I did want to express our most gracious thanks for your shameless attempt to buy our child's love. You will be gratified to know that your feeble attempts to assuage your parental guilt through the purchase of poorly-made crap pleased the Emperor immensely. Further, he has signed my death warrant with the same pen I use to write this 'thank you.' (He scribbled on a piece of construction paper - "Daddi Dyes Tomarow") As tomorrow is gymnastics, I can only hope that the Emperor finds it in his heart to postpone the execution until after I've had a chance to watch a shirtless, Coach Bobby work the pummel horse.


Princess Leia Organa