Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Birthday Bash (Pt. 2)

(Continued from Birthday Bash)


Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.


My Blackberry is nagging at me. Like crazy Glenn Close from FATAL ATTRACTION, my Blackberry 'WON'T BE IGNORED!" At first, my Blackberry issues me a friendly reminder that I have an 'appointment' in the next 15 minutes. When I don't respond to it's friendly reminder, it starts to become indignant, it's bleeps stronger and more insistent. I refuse to touch it. I curl up in bed and childishly pretend that if I don't respond to my Blackberry, that my parental responsibilities will disappear and I won't have to drag my fat ass to yet another child's Saturday morning birthday EXTRAVAGANZA. Enraged, my Blackberry starts to vibrate, it's friendly chirps have turned into something darker and more sinister.

"Get up, Queen."


"GET THE FUCK UP, QUEEN!" my Blackberry seems to be shrieking.

I pull the covers over my head and contemplate throwing my Blackberry out the window. My 6 year old son Ethan, who has the high frequency hearing of a Labrador, bursts into my room, dressed in his homemade, handcrafted old-school Batman costume. (Of course I didn't make it. I hired the nanny from across the street to stitch that shit together. Do I look like Betsy Ross?!) Ethan lovingly scoops up my spurned Blackberry. He expertly keys in my access code and stops the infernal thing from chirping. I remain under the covers motionless, hoping Ethan will come to believe I've died in my sleep.

"Get up, Dad."

I ignore him.

"Dad, Get up!"

I continue to ignore him.

"Dad, I know you're not dead. I can see your chest going up and down."

"I'm in a coma." I mumble.

"If you were in a coma, you wouldn't be able to talk."

HOW DOES HE KNOW THESE THINGS? Goddamn high-performance charter school!

Ethan rips the covers off of me. I have shifted my position and am now on my side fetus-like. Ethan drops to his knees and stares into my blank, red-rimmed, puffy eyes. My breath remains shallow, my body tortured and contorted, the drool silently oozing from my slacken mouth. I resemble Sunny von Bulow, save the graying, douche bag beard I'm presently sporting. My son regards me pitifully and even places a tender kiss to the top of my head. He rises as if to leave, his hands and face out of my field of vision. An instant passes, and all at once I feel a wet, sloppy index finger shoved into my ear canal while my son shrieks 'Wet Willy!' Ethan's hands are tiny and disturbingly raccoon-like. I'm convinced his pointy little index finger has not only punctured my ear drum, but has skewered the living daylights out of that pile of putrid, decaying shit that serves as my brain.

I howl in pain and leap out of bed.
I resemble Jack Nicholson from THE SHINING, my hand to my wounded ear, chasing an unrepentant, Batman-attired Ethan while careening throughout the house knocking into walls and stumbling over the 'wealth' of tasteful gay debris that my husband George and I have meticulously collected over the years. I finally corner Ethan in our kitchen. Like a wild thing, his eyes are nervous and shifty - his face flushed. As I burst into the room, he fakes right, but I anticipate and am able to grab him from the left. I pull him close to me and grind my course and unruly douche bag beard against his tender cheek and 'motorboat' his tummy. He shrieks in fake pain, and through his tears of laughter insists that we have to get the 'Bat Prius' ready for 'Cody's Super, Superer, Superest Birthday Party.' He informs me that I am to serve as Alfred, to his Bruce Wayne. How appropriate I think dryly, I'm his faithful servant even in our fantasy lives.

Batman and I pile into the 'Bat Prius' and head down to ritzy Handcock Park. As we make our way though the immaculate, verdant streets and pull up to friend Cody's stately mansion, I am alarmed to see not only a fully staffed valet stand and balls-to-the-wall security detail, but a fully festooned red carpet repleat with fake paparazzi wildly snapping glittery photos of arriving guests. Ethan is astonished and squeels with delight while I make a silent vow to find the bar as quickly as possible!

(To Be Continued)

Thursday, July 9, 2009

Birthday Bash

The other day while perusing the emails I usually get for erectile dysfunction and exciting business opportunities in the exploding economy of Nigeria, I had the extreme displeasure to receive the following emailed 'invitation.'


Mark Raymond Anderson-Goldstein and Stanley Richard Anderson-Goldstein

invite your child to the year's most SUPER birthday party when

Cody Trevor Anderson-Goldstein (aka Super Man)

turns 8 years old Saturday, August 15th, 2009!

Your child will have to muster all of his super powers to join this SUPER FRIENDS party as we require that all of our young heroes come dressed in homemade, handcrafted 'Old School' super hero, heroine or villain costumes.

(Please no store-bought BEN 10, STAR WARS, CLONE WARS, HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL, DORA THE EXPLORER, DIEGO or HANNA MONTANA outfits. We not only find the exploitative and abusive employment practices of the Chinese manufacturing establishment offensive, we also abhor the violent, consumerist message cleverly disguised as 'content' contained in these shows. In addition, we've been advised by our family physician that prolonged exposure to the harsh chemicals used during the manufacture of these costumes can cause headaches, seizures, brain damage, and eventual death. As we've just put down a sizable deposit at RED WOOD, LA's most exclusive and expensive private school - this policy will be strictly enforced!)

So we can get a proper a proper headcount, an RSVP is MANDATORY!

Call me crazy, but are these queens CONTROL FREAKS or what?

When George and I drunkenly decided over Sushi 9 years ago what 'fun' it would be to have a kid, we not only fantasized about our future son or daughter's supermodel looks, intellectual genius, and irrepressible charm, we also fantasized about the glamorous 'Velvet Mafia' friends we would have. Like unicorns, elves, and space aliens, there lives an urban legend that a secret society of 'A' list gay men and Lesbians exists. Supposedly, this super-secret society of cultured, effete rich men and women travel the world on their solid gold yachts hosting lively cocktail soirees while discussing the important works of Christopher Isherwood, Alice B. Toklas, and Herman Melville. We had been told by God-knows-how-many queers that the entrance 'ticket' to such a select, chummy club would be a child, as newborns were the new status symbol that practically every gay couple was clamouring for!

Now remember people, this was nearly ten years ago! Nowadays, you can't swing a dead cat in LA without hitting some beaming gay couple, their Starbucks in hand, pushing some dreary, overpriced Bugaboo stroller. I know you've seen them too - their perfectly outfitted baby strapped securely in the BabyBjorn pressed against their maddeningly perfect, gym-worked pecs. Why is it whenever I see these guys, their baby is always peacefully asleep while their golden retriever walks patiently at their side? They look like a Bennetton Ad - I can't decide whether I despise them or want to sleep with them!

(To Be Continued)

Saturday, July 4, 2009

Death Doesn't Become Her Pt. 3 - Requim

(Continued from Death Doesn't Become Her Pt. 2)

From the Desk of Emily Post

Darling Tod,

I was so sorry to hear of your loss. Losing one’s domestic staff due to a death or disability can be so frustrating! Why only last week I found myself having to do my own laundry as our housekeeper carelessly sliced her hand open shucking the tasty Skookum oysters I particularly enjoy. The little so-and-so required a mere 56 stitches and actually had the gumption to request the rest of the week off. (Ridiculous! Whatever happened to personal responsibility? It’s not like I cut her hand!) Not only could I not operate the darned washing machine, it took me nearly two hours just to find it. Thank goodness I thought to ask our chauffeur where the washing appliances might be found. He directed me to small, windowless room somewhere in the sub-basement of our estate’s main house. I found myself so traumatized by the experience, that I have decided to keep buying new, unsoiled clothes until a suitable, more dexterous housekeeper can be found. Keep your fingers crossed! In any case, I’ve taken the liberty of making some changes to the eulogy for your nanny’s recently deceased mother. (See my red lined notes below)

In any case, buena suerte, sweetie! LOL!


Emily Post

(First Pass)

Hola Amigos - Habla Gringo?

(Try to think of something less banal and ‘obvious’ here - At a funeral it's always best to lead off with something really unique!)

My name is Tod Abrams and I can't tell you what an unpleasant shock (honor or 'thrill' - less bitchy) to be asked to give the 'keynote' eulogy for the recently departed Estella Theresa Agalia Immaculata Conception Hernandez-Rodriguez. As Estella was a complete and utter stranger to me, (proud, independent, self-possessed lady) our hateful (kindly) nanny Maria, in lieu of filing a stress-based disability claim with our insurance agent, blackmailed (graciously persuaded) me into drafting a final farewell for her nondescript (delightful) mother, Estella. Apparently, Maria connived (had the presence of mind) to digitally record my latest cell phone temper tantrum, and threatened to not only take it to her power-to-the-people, side-of-the-bus advertising lawyer, but further threatened to release the recording to her tech-savvy, sound engineer son who would promptly remix my diatribe into a power dance track repugnantly titled “Bitchy Queen Goes Crazy” and release it to YouTube and iTunes without my consent! Oh the injustice of it all!

My dear friends, it mattered not that Maria had spent weeks updating me on her mother’s deteriorating condition. On that particular day, I could swear that Maria said “Mr. Tod…my mother is much better.” as opposed to “Mr. Tod…death has come to get her.” as she and her barracuda attorney allege. (I must admit, it was a little difficult to understand her as she was in tears at the time. Silly me, I thought they were tears of joy!)
Believe me when I tell you, I had important, non-cancellable plans! Even you kindly, simple people must understand how difficult it is to get a decent reservation at Osteria Mozza! The Burrata, Bocconcini, Strachiatella are simply divine - Brad, Angelina, Tom, Katie, the Olsen Twins, Carrot Top – ALL THE BEST PEOPLE have had the pleasure of dining there.

(Consider ‘spicing up’ this list with Megan Fox, Sacha Baron Cohen, and Audrina Partridge – Tom and Katie are SO last year!)

Yes, all the best people, except the richest and most entitled person in this room – ME!

Surely you can understand my extreme displeasure when instead of feasting on Francobolli di brasato al Pomodoro or Crisp Duck al Mattone with pear mostarda & brussel sprouts,

(Yum! Their menu sounds fabulous – do you know if their pasta is vegan?)

I was reduced to splitting a year-old, frozen veggie burger with my traitorous six-year-old son who has subsequently threatened to file charges with the state prosecutor were I to even consider firing, the ungrateful, draft-dodging, M.I.A Maria!

(Hmmm… a lot of background here – simplify, simplify, simplify! “Estella had a full and bountiful life, in addition to a loving and ‘enterprising’ family. My son, my husband and I are far richer than all of you… for having known her.” - Clever play on words, n’est-ce- pas?)

While it is sad that we must lay the little-known, seldom heard Estella to rest, it is even sadder that as a condition of my ‘agreement’ with Maria’s legal representation, I must continue to keep her gainfully employed. As I bid a fond ‘Via Con Dios’ to Estella as she makes her ascent to heaven – I am financially and legally ‘humbled’ descending back into nanny hell.


(Darling, this ending is a bit of a downer – it may be a eulogy, but let’s try to be a little more perky and upbeat! How about…”Estella may be gone, but she is hardly forgotten – her indelible spirit lives on in her daughter Maria whose vice-like, determined ‘hold’ on our family will be felt for years to come!”)