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

The Son Also Rises Pt. 2

(Continued from The Son Also Rises Pt. 1)

This morning, I was happily sitting in my enormous California-King, Tempurpedic bed minding my own business and discreetly leafing through some lusty computer porn when my six-year-old son Ethan charged into my room unannounced. (In my home, I am treated like a prisoner on suicide watch, as my son the warden has demanded that my bedroom door be kept unlocked at all times) Ethan had unilaterally decided that for today's morning activity, he would like to visit Target and buy the Lego version of the Star Wars 'Death Star.' I fumble to minimize my computer screen so my son doesn't catch a glimpse of the unspeakable acts being committed there - and as I try to look casual and formulate a way to let him down easy, a delicious, tantalizing thought passes through my mind. Why not pass the buck?

How The Grinch Passed The Buck
By Tod Abrams

The Grinch laughs and smiles with a grin most unseemly,

For he does not 'adore' providing the toys the boy enjoys oh so keenly,

For visiting Walmart or Target in search of new things is too gross,

The fugly clothes, greeters and lighting making the Grinch morose.

So what does he do this cowardly Grinch from his bed?

He comfortably rolls over and cries 'I'm exhausted, I'm dead!"

"Perhaps there are others who might provide you such pretty things,

like your grandmother, she of the endless Twinkies and Ring Dings."

"Telephone her now as she is but a short drive away,

and a trip to the Burbank Target will certainly brighten her day!"

And as the boy hurriedly leaves in search of a phone,

The smarmy Grinch curls up in bed, happily alone,

for the Lego toy the boy wants takes WEEKS to be built,

And she who will provide it racked with parental guilt,

so the Grinch is now free to pursue a much loved, much favored hobby,

the viewing of dark films starring Corey, Juan, Axel and Bobby.

(To Be Continued)

THE SON ALSO RISES

My son Ethan spends alot of time asking me about my nuclear family. He seems particularly interested in my parent's marriage. I find this interesting and alarming at the same time. I'm pleased that he's developed an interest in his family, but frightened that his curiosity has been piqued by my parent's bilious marriage. Like a beautifully wrapped Christmas present with nothing inside - my parent's union on the surface appeared shiny and tantalizing, but below the glittering shell existed an emotional frozen tundra. To my eyes, my parents always seemed a bit out of sorts - my mother acted like my father's faithful servant, constantly striving for his approval and affection yet seldom receiving it. Like any under-appreciated employee who receives little compensation for their life's work, my mother vented her frustration and unhappiness on those weaker than herself, her children.

Unlike my son Ethan's privileged, candy-colored childhood that consists of Palm Springs weekend homes, attendance at a prestigious charter school founded by his two dads, participation in a plethora of seemingly compulsory 'enrichment' activities, and basking in the glow of never-ending parental love and support, my own childhood was not a happy one. The kindest emotion I can remember from either my mother or father growing up was indifference. When I was 8 years old - I made the important decision to run away from home and take up residence at the Cherry Hill Mall. Granted, not a good plan - but a plan nonetheless. I must have looked odd, an eight year old child perusing the fine linens and silver clutching a small red suitcase. As I pretended to shop, a kindly Gimbel's saleslady (remember them?) asked me where my mommy was - I replied she had been in a tragic car accident and was in a persistent vegetative state. There were no 'Amber Alerts' in those days so the saleslady told me how sorry she was and assured me that either my mommy would get better soon or my dad would probably remarry and I would have a new mommy who wasn't in a coma. I shuddered at the thought.

The shopping mall closed promptly at 9, and with no place to go, suitcase in hand, I reluctantly trudged home tired and hungry. I snuck in the house through the garage and silently joined my mother who at the time was sitting in a our family room ferociously knitting and watching Donny and Marie. As I entered the room, she glanced up as if surprised to see me. She seemed to take no notice of the suitcase.

"Well?" She asked.

"I'm hungry."

"Again? We just had dinner."

I had been gone for eight hours and not a single member of my family noticed. Clearly, the police had not been called. There were no worried detectives scouring our backyard searching for obscure clues or relentlessly questioning the coterie of suspicious, shady neighbors that lived in our neighborhood's manicured homes. Light years from worried, my mother hadn't even noticed my absence.

"Sit down," she said wearily, "I'll make you a sandwich - I don't want you messing up the kitchen."

(To be Continued)

LOVE STORY

Some of the most intimate moments my son and I experience is in traffic. While everyone knows Los Angeles possesses the absolute worst, seven-circles-of-hell traffic jams, what many visitors find surprising is that while striving to get your kid to school on time, and attempting to navigate around illegal immigrants in their smoking, broken-down 35-year-old Honda Civics, you can gain some incredible insights into the inner workings of your child's mind. When not kicking the back of my seat, relentlessly shrieking the theme song to Star Wars, or contracting into a mean little fetal position due to my reluctance to enable his hideous sugar addiction, my son Ethan provides me hours of in-car amusement. Many unimaginative parents provide 'on-demand' Disney DVD's to their children while in transit or play dull games with their children such as 'I Spy.' I detest both of these diversions. Does any parent really want to spend ANOTHER 30-40 minutes listening to the ridiculous exploits of Hanna Montana or The Jonas Brothers? In addition, do you really give a flying fuck if your child can identify a tree, a cloud, or police car? I certainly don't.

While stuck in the molasses-like traffic patterns of Hollywood, do you want to know what truly floats my boat? I like to ask my child twisted questions such as "In a house fire, who would you choose to save, me or the frozen chocolate chip cookie dough in our freezer?" Ethan doesn't even make the pretense of debating, it's the cookie dough by a country mile. When I probe him further regarding his choice, he explains that the cookie dough is delicious, filling, and yummy whereas I'm a complete asshole and totally expendable.

While many parents would be offended by their child making such an assertion, I can only admire his candor. At least I know where I stand - and his ability to make empirical decisions is coming along beautifully. Not satisfied with the cookie-dough vs. daddy dying scenario, I ask him to again choose between saving me in house fire, or saving our dog - guess who again loses by a huge margin? Me. Ethan calmly explains that our dog gives him unconditional love, eats all the food he carelessly drops on the floor, and does fun, entertaining tricks that amuse his grade school cronies. I on the other hand 'bother' him with annoying 'stuff' like eating his vegetables, brushing his teeth, and taking baths.

After a posing a number of theoretical house fire scenarios my son has emphatically chosen to save the cookie dough first, and in descending order my husband, his dog, his teacher, our gardener, his ant farm, his Star Wars Legos, and finally his piggy bank. I didn't even crack the top 5. We finally arrive at his school and as he bounds out of the car, he cries, 'Bye Dad, I love you!' As I watch him go, I tear up and wonder if our smoke detectors need new batteries.