LIFE AND DEATH (PT. 3)

(Continued from LIFE AND DEATH PT. 2)

Last week, my seven-year-old son Ethan nonchalantly told me that upon my death, he intended to use his sizable inheritance to buy mountains of candy. He further asserted that as my funeral service and burial would be a mere formality on his way to a life of sugary goodness, he had no plan to attend either.

"But wouldn't you miss me?" I asked naively?

"Maybe a little, but it's OK if you decide you want to die." he answered.

Ethan maintained a rather pragmatic view of death. To him, my death would be an unfortunate, but necessary step on his way to a dreamy, polysaccharides future. The moment my small, wiry, Juvaderm and Restalyne infused body was placed in the sun-kissed yet stunningly fire-prone, Forest Lawn grounds (I was not able to purchase a plot near Micheal Jackson, as those fascists at Forest Lawn insisted I was neither a celebrity nor a 'person of note.' To my dismay, I had witnessed the funereal equivalent of the velvet rope!) my son Ethan's life would morph into the real world equivalent of CANDYLAND. His dreams of a never ending buffet of M&M's, Snickers, Three Musketeers, Kit Kat Bars, and Butterfingers would FINALLY come true and would culminate in a fantastical marriage to the dowager of CANDLYLAND, Princess Frostine, who would no doubt be administering the Insulin injections he will ultimately require. Like a high-fructose corn syrup SID & NANCY, Ethan and Princess Frostine will wind up in some seedy motel, the floor of their room littered with empty candy wrappers, cookie bags, and cake tins. Unable to break their shared addiction, Princess Frostine will have to support them both by turning tricks in the molasses swamp with Lord Licorice, Jolly Dino, King Candy and those fucking annoying, tree-stump-living Keebler elves, while Ethan lies unconscious in the filthy motel bed due to an Entenmann's-induced sugar coma.

I've decided to keep living, just to spite him. Besides, whatever sizable inheritance he thinks is coming his way will be spent on 'necessities' such as costly facial fillers, plastic surgery, and various go-go boys who will moonlight as my 'assistant' or 'companion.'

Of course, none of this occurred to me years ago, stranded in that ghastly Iowa town. I stood alone in a church basement, surrounded by narrow-minded biddies, protectively clasping my crying baby son to my bosom. Having not the slightest inkling that the tiny, helpless infant I held would someday blossom into the stunningly beautiful, yet frighteningly conniving cave troll who would eventually wish me dead, I decided to take a political stand. (I pray to God that I'm NEVER placed on life support and left in my son's 'care' as I'm certain that given the choice of keeping me alive and finally realizing his dream of never-ending, golf ball-sized chocolate bon bons, he will make speedy, legally-binding use of the non-resuscitate clause in my will. I can almost see him feigning sadness at my Shiva while sneering to assembled loved ones that he preferred to end my life with 'dignity,' while a big, chocolate mustache stained his greedy mouth.)

As the narrow-minded, Pat Buchanan-loving, Fox News-watching town matriarchs slithered up to me, I resembled a Prada and Gucci-clad version of The Madonna with Child. I sat imperiously in a chair and allowed each old lady an opportunity to view the infant. They all finally gathered around me in their TJ Maxx sweater sets, munching on mayonnaise sandwiches (I kid you not) and clucked about George and his mystery wife being so lucky in producing such an adorable baby. As I stared incredulously at these clueless old broads I began to wonder if these women were so sheltered and delusional that the appearance of two immaculately attired and coiffed 'confirmed bachelor' men (wink, cough) bearing an infant could be ANYTHING but two LA fruit flies and their larva. I suddenly channelled my inner Margot Channing and instantly came to my feet. I twirled around furiously and snarled, "Ladies, fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy night. George has no wife and I'm neither his business partner, army buddy, or 'colleague.' I'm his lover and this is OUR baby."

They stood silently gaping at me, their cheap, Cover Girl hued mouths forming a perfect 'O.'

(To Be Continued)