Birthday Bash (Pt. 2)

(Continued from Birthday Bash)

Bleep.

Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

BLEEP! 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 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)

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.'

UP, UP AND AWAY RESIDENTS OF METROPOLIS!

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)

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!

Yours,

Emily Post

Eulogy
(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.

Gracias.

(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!”)

Death Doesn't Become Her Pt. 2

(Continued from DEATH DOESN'T BECOME HER)

It is said there are only two things to which we can all count in life - death and taxes.
In my rarefied and entitled world, I have learned to count on three. Death, taxes and psychotic nannies who either threaten to kill me or themselves. I have absolutely NO Mazel with nannies.

When my husband George and I are asked to join our well-heeled friends for an intimate evening of cocktails, dinner and sparkling conversation, we covet not the sumptuous and 'daring' decor, magnificent food, or enchanting, immaculate children 'presented' to us, we stare hungrily at the beaming, underpaid nanny whose tireless efforts make such displays possible. Raised since birth on a diet of near-perfect TV nannies and mannies such as the ever-present, never-takes-a-day-off Mrs. Livingston from THE COURTSHIP OF EDDIE'S FATHER, perky, true-blue Alice from THE BRADY BUNCH, the kindly Mr. French from FAMILY AFFAIR, and even Florence from THE JEFFERSONS whose lackadaisical attitude toward work and abusive, codependent relationship with her employer were charmingly 'colorful' (no pun intended), George and I were convinced that if we looked really hard, interviewed scores of legal (and quite a few illegal) immigrants, and ran enough criminal background checks - we too would find our wisecracking, heart-of-gold nanny, who despite being ridiculously underpaid would raise our son, clean our house, cook our meals and still find time to toss out some outrageous zingers to our studio audience. Cue to the laugh track.

What we got was Maria.

Sung to the Lyrics 'Maria' from WESTSIDE STORY

The most hateful sound I've ever heard:
Maria, Maria, Maria, Maria . . .
My outrageous needs and demands go unheard
Maria, Maria, Maria, Maria . . .
Maria!
I hired a girl named Maria,
And suddenly the blame
for her Zoloft-induced shame
falls To me.
Maria!
I'm fucking pissed off at Maria,
For tonight I had a plan
and the bitch up and ran
away from me!
Maria!
Say it loud and your blood will boil
trapped here with my son I must toil
Maria,
I'll never stop loathing Maria!

The most hateful sound I ever heard.
Maria.


What could poor, manically depressed Maria have done that would engender such feelings of rage, you ask? What act of underhanded treachery and unmitigated selfishness could this woman commit that would cause me to completely lose my shit? That traitorous, self-absorbed little vixen had the nerve to blow me off so that she could visit her supposedly 'sick' mother in the hospital.

"Bullshit!" I screamed into my cell phone, "Don't you know that I have reservations at Osteria Mozza - it took me two months to get that table! If you don't appear in 20 minutes NOT ONLY WILL I FIRE YOU, I WILL FUCKING RIP YOUR HEART OUT!" Maria blubbered incoherently into the phone, choked out a few incoherent Spanish words and hung up. I angrily threw my cell phone across the room and watched it disintegrate against the tile wall of the butler's pantry.

Clad in my expensive Brioni suit, I sat down on the cork floor of my tastefully decorated kitchen and burst into uncontrollable tears. I was yet again denied an evening of adult conversation and enjoyment so that I could have the pleasure of defrosting chicken nuggets for my son. As I sorrowfully sat on the hard floor, the tears coursing down my cheeks and my head between my legs, I suddenly felt a small hand on my shoulder. I glanced up to see my son looking down at me - horrified and ashamed I knew he had seen everything.

(To Be Continued)

Death Doesn't Become Her

I have always had rather conflicted feelings regarding my son's nanny. While she has always been loving, nurturing and dependable towards my son, she is manipulative, needy, and at times an unmitigated, white-hot mess to me. This is the same woman who when we brought our infant son home from the hospital, fearlessly took him in her comforting, fleshy arms despite his infuriating predilection for ear-splitting, colick-induced screaming, and would lull him to sleep with an endless mental play list of obscure Peruvian folk songs. While George and I flitted around the house obsessing over Donghia mohair fabric swatches for the new living room sofa and the newest Farrow & Ball wall colors for the dining room, Maria would stand sentinel in our son's nursery guarding him against the harmful effects of home decor faggotry. When our infant son came down with a hideous cold and we were told by our physician that Ethan could only sleep with his head elevated, it was she who selflessly sat in a chair for days-on-end holding him upright so that he could sleep soundly. During Ethan's extensive convalescence, I marveled at her patience and fortitude as I raced out of the house on my way to Yoga and a colonic irrigation. (Feeling extremely charitable, I even said two prayers for her during both my Kundalini Meditation and colon 'voiding!')

As the years passed and our son grew, I came to realize that Maria's kindness and devotion came at with a very high price. Not only was her escalating salary, car reimbursement and extensive health benefits becoming a greater and greater piece of our financial overhead, she required an inordinate amount of emotional hand-holding. To my lily white, noveau-riche eyes, her life resembled some kind of dreadful Spanish novella that you see late at night on Univision - a never ending cavalcade of dead or dying relatives, pregnant teenagers, life-threatening illness, INS Inquisitions and emotional upheaval. "Mr. Tod," she would say in broken English through tear-stained cheeks, "My brother - he not so good. He lost his eye at a cockfight when a rooster he train go crazy and try to kill him. I need $250 to send to him so he can get a new, glass eye. I don't know where else to go - please Mr. Tod, I need your help!"

I mean, what the fuck do you say to that? In my fantasy world, I would have liked to say, "Sorry Maria but I'm a card-carrying member of PETA and your brother's support of cock fighting totally violates my personal code regarding the welfare of animals. Plus glass eyes are really icky and kind of gross-me-out." I would kindly offer her a Kleenex and after wiping her tears and blowing her runny nose she would regard me with a look of gratitude. Even she would recognize the futility of purchasing a glass eye for a man destined to die hideously a la Tippy Hedren in 'The Birds.'

Needless to say, after a few short minutes of soul-deadening Spanglish groveling, I gave in and gratefully gave her the $250 in exchange for some peace and quiet. I have no way of knowing if Pedro ever received his glass eye - apparently you don't get photos of beaming, underprivileged vivisectionists like you do with those Sally Struthers, Save-The-Children kids.

(To Be Continued)

MUFFIN TOP

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!

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.

Sincerely,

Princess Leia Organa