THE FIRING SQUAD

Before my son Ethan came barreling into our shallow, self-absorbed lives, I used to really savor my evening hours as this was the sacred time I reserved for Tivo’d episodes of SEX AND THE CITY and a very tall, very dry Martini. As if remembering a pleasant dream, I recall leisurely dinners with my lover George, who after stuffing ourselves fully, would float to our media room in a haze of red wine-induced goodwill. George would curl up next to me on our overstuffed, spotless sofa and begin to snore softly as I downed my for-medicinal-purposes-only, industrial-strength Grey Goose ‘nightcap.’ Despite the thrilling, melodramatic adventures of Carrie Bradshaw and company, I would soon join George in snoring away on our sofa due to the gentle warmth of his unconscious body and my exhausting, near manic obsession with cataloguing the crazy, Patricia Field costume changes wrought on poor Sarah Jessica Parker. (Gym shorts paired with athletic socks and Jimmy Choo strappy sandals, anyone? Girlfriend, please!)

Like Keanu Reeves who in the MATRIX is ‘unplugged’ from his cushy computer world and awakened to the gritty and depressing ‘real world’ of smarmy Laurence Fishburne, (By the way, speaking of THE MATRIX, I sure as shit would have taken the blue pill and stayed the fuck in MATRIX land. Despite my affinity for Pleather cat suits and hand guns, I would have avoided the whole cyber-messiah, save-the-world thing like the plague. Besides, I’m at my most charming when I’m stupefying drunk or deeply and irretrievably unconscious.) my evening existence has changed from a vodka-induced dream into an alcohol-free childcare nightmare. I have come to call this time of day ‘The Firing Squad,’ as getting my son prepared for bed has evolved into a formal ceremony that has the order and precision of a military execution but lacks all the charm one expects from capital punishment.

Despite my utter lack of interest in the agonizingly painful set of treaties I must negotiate with Ethan that gets him from our dinner table, through bath and reading time and finally (mercifully) into bed, I do find one small, fleeting aspect of ‘The Firing Squad’ enjoyable. I love to tell him a bedtime story. His favorite is a story that is based on real-life events and is aptly called ‘The Coyote Story.’

It goes something like this:

Once upon a time, there lived two men who despite their unrelenting narcissism and selfishness, offhandedly and cavalierly decided that having a baby would be ‘Like...totally fun!” So the two men who were biologically and divinely barren, paid a pot of money to a bunch of lawyers, psychologists, agencies, egg donors, and surrogates (…and a partridge in a pear tree) and were ‘blessed’ with a gorgeous, magical baby that could only be lulled to sleep if his loving, yet blithely unprepared parents death marched with him in a kind of sling, ominously and frighteningly called a ‘SNUGLY.’

Despite princely sums spent on cribs, bassinets, mechanical swings, vibrating chairs, and boxy pack-and-plays, the magical baby would not sleep on his own and would not be appeased. His ear-shattering, nerve-jangling screams and cries would reverberate clearly in the densely packed, overbuilt canyon the men lived, so fearing that the kingdom's protective services would take the magical baby into protective custody the men packed him into the hateful SNUGLY each night, EVERY NIGHT and set off into the forbidding, inky darkness that is Los Feliz.

(To be Continued)

BIRTHDAY BASH - PT 4

(Continued from Birthday Bash Pt. 3)

Eons ago, when I was but a small, impressionable child, my mother would often drag me on many of her manic shopping 'benders' at Loehman's. After sternly warning me not to move from a hard, leather bench situated at the front of the store, she would relentlessly roam the sale racks looking for bargains. My mother would check on me every 20 minutes or so, as she knew that left to my own devices, her 'creative & arty' son had the humiliating habit of trying on every deeply discounted, Halston, Yves Saint Laurent or Mary Mcfadden dress that caught his eye.

I wouldn't say that I was a transvestite in the true sense of the word, as I wasn't particularly desirous of being a female as much as I wanted to be something pretty..something different. My mother deeply worried that there was something definitely 'unusual' about her young son, who in addition to his inexplicable attraction to marked-down, couture gowns, exhibited an annoying habit of wrapping her whiter-than-white percale sheets around himself and fluttering around the backyard exclaiming he was 'Madame Butterfly.' My mother would queasily watch these 'displays,' and alarmed, would knock loudly on the kitchen window while shouting 'No!' at the top of her lungs. She would storm out the back door, stomp across the yard and rudely strip the sheets from my body.

"Stop doing that!" she would say.

"Why?" I would ask.

"Because it's faggy and weird."

As I was only 6 or 7 I had only the basest understanding of what 'faggy' meant. I only knew that being 'faggy' probably wasn't a good thing.

"Why don't you play with the baseball glove and ball we gave you?" she demanded.

"I don't like baseball."

"Well, learn to like it. I'm sick of washing these fucking sheets - Jesus, would you please stop acting like such a fruitcake already!"

With that, my mother angrily turned on her heel and headed into the house, my alabaster 'costume' clutched firmly to her breast. While my resolute, determined mother may have clipped my wings she should have never underestimated the power and determination of a 'faggy' boy. As my mother angrily shoved the soiled sheets into our washing machine, I stealthily snuck upstairs and pulled the over-sized terry cloth bath sheets from the hall closet. Within a few short moments, I was attired like a
JC Penny version of Marie Antoinette - the opulent towels piled turban-like on my head, the others used to form my bodice and billowing skirts. I regally descended the staircase, crossed our formal, never-used living room, and even dared to perch myself on my 'throne' which in this case was a tacky, plastic slip covered French Provincial wing chair. I knew that I was committing a supreme act of sedition, but like Marie, was prepared to die for my right to be fabulous. I held court in our ghastly living room for only a few minutes, before my mother caught site of me and furiously chased me from the room. In my haste to escape her, my poly blend 'hair' and 'skirts' would fall away, the sickening smell of Downy left as the only reminder of my short, tragic reign.

Having been summarily dropped by the flirtatious Aquaman, who was surprisingly astute in determining that our personal association would not lead to a 'break-out' role on GOSSIP GIRL, I aimlessly wandered around the maddeningly, over-decorated villa of The Duchess. As I hadn't seen my son Ethan in over two hours, I figured I might want to check on him. I planned to bribe him with whatever toy or treat he wanted so that we could hastily depart.

I gradually made my way to the living room veranda and peered out over the expansive, sweeping lawn of the backyard. Unexpectedly, I caught a glimpse of my son engaged in a spirited game of soccer among the festively dressed Supermen, Captain Americas, Spidermen, and Jokers. His face was joyfully flushed, his rent-a-nanny, hand stitched cape flew behind him as he made a miraculous kick at the ball. I couldn't tell if he had actually scored, for I momentarily lost sight of him among the blur of older, taller boys. He suddenly appeared, surrounded by a gang of high-fiving grade school dudes. His young, soft face beamed with pride as our eyes inexplicably and magically locked. The Mojitos must have finally caught up with me, as strange, unfamiliar tears stung my eyes. Ethan raced over to me, and breathlessly exclaimed, "Dad, do you see that - I scored!"

"You were awesome!" I choked out.

My son grinned, waved and happily rejoined the game. The desire to leave abated, and like Marie Antoinette, I daintily took a seat on a rented, gilded chair and cheered on my young 'champion.'

As twilight fell, the party finally began to break up and my son who had gorged himself on cake icing and gummy worms, had had enough. As the valet fetched our car, Ethan bid goodbye to his super hero pals. He obediently boarded the 'Bat Prius' and instantly passed out. As I stared at him peacefully asleep in my rear view mirror, a bright red juice mustache covering his mouth, I couldn't help but envy his having no desire to be 'pretty' or 'different.' Ethan was destined to be the popular, 'normal' kid whose ordinariness my parents would have loved, but were denied.

The house was dark and slightly forbidding when we arrived home. I scooped my sleepy child from the car, and as he laid his sweaty head on my shoulder, he held me very tightly and slurred in my ear, 'I love you, dad.' As I mounted the towering staircase leading to our home, I had to steady myself several times, for the extraordinary and weighty treasure I held in my arms nearly caused this queen to lose her head.

Birthday Bash (Pt. 3)

Recently, after a round of near-lethal apple Martinis, my mother drunkenly confided to me that my 7th birthday will always stand out as one of her most cherished memories of motherhood. Remarkably, she can recall the color of balloons (red), flavor of the cake (chocolate - baked from scratch!), and the number of guests who attended. With a look of quiet contentment, she muses how at first I was reluctant to ride the miniature ponies and baby elephants she and my father graciously rented for the occasion, but with some gentle prodding from the assemblage (and the press), straddled the little beasts with gusto and delighted everyone by bravely cantering around the backyard, smiling and whooping it up madly. My mother's eyes moisten and her voice cracks as she recalls how I gently blew her a kiss and lovingly mouth 'Je t'aime maman' while surrounded by a treasure trove of presents as the crowd sang a rousing and stirring version of 'Happy Birthday To You.'

"You were so precious - so darling! We were all so happy then." She recalls, her moist eyes giving way to full-blown tears.

For a moment, I am dumbstruck as I have no memory of this party. When I further probe my mother, I realize with horror she has mentally co opted the infamous birthday party scene from the film 'MOMMIE DEAREST' and unconsciously inserted herself in the part of Joan Crawford and relegated the role of the long-suffering Christina to me.

That about sums up my childhood experience with birthday parties. Not only did my mother never make me a birthday party, she has brazenly and conveniently pilfered scenes from infamous films and TV shows and chosen to mentally store them as her own personal birthday memories. I'm certain that in the near future she will recall how at my 8th birthday, our devoted live-in housekeeper Alice, made a delicious Gateau De
Chantilly, as my siblings Marsha, Jan, Cindy, Greg, Peter, and Bobby sang their own adult-contemporary version of 'Happy Birthday' to me while she cuddled up to her loving, permanent wave-wearing husband, Mike.

When one takes into account my staggering inexperience and naivete regarding children's birthday party etiquette, it's easy to understand how I could have made a few small, inconsequential faux pas at Cody's creepy, over-the-top birthday grande fete. As Ethan and I made our way down the obnoxious red carpet, the rent-a-paparazzi swooped in and nearly blinded me with their flash bulb assault. I resembled Posh Beckham, and covered my face stoically as I hadn't taken the time to shave, do my hair nor change out of my creased, wrinkled pajamas. My son Ethan on the other hand, worked the red carpet like a withered old pro. While preening for the cameras, I half-expected he would announce to the assembled 'press' whom he was wearing and shamelessly plug his upcoming film projects.

Once past the phalanx of intrusive photographers, Ethan and I stumbled into the grand foyer of Cody's mansion. A liveried butler gave us the stink eye, whisked away our measly gift, and grudgingly beckoned us to join the festivities in the garishly decorated main salon. As Ethan raced off to join his school chums who at the present time were lasciviously and obscenely licking the icing off a Cat Woman cake, I ventured forth to acknowledge and thank our hosts before making a speedy departure.

The sheer size of the house, and the outrageous number of invited guests made locating our hosts difficult. Thankfully, I caught a glimpse of one of Cody's two dads, whom I will call 'The Duchess' barking orders at the cowering waitstaff. After a round of requisite gay-boy air kisses and meaningless LA small-talk, I innocently inquired as to what time the party was going to wrap up so that I knew when to pick my kid up. The Duchess looked flabbergasted.

After giving me a steely look she remarked "You can certainly leave Ethan, but do you really think that's a good idea? I mean there are so many people, so many 'entertainments'...I just don't feel comfortable accepting that kind of responsibility."

An awkward silence passed and I continued to stare dumbly at The Duchess. With mounting panic, it began to dawn on me that there would be no sweet escape for me. My dream of running to yoga and a quick coffee in Larchmont Village were dashed to bits on the hard, unforgiving shores of hideous parental responsibility island.

"No, I guess not." I responded lamely.

"Of course not." The Duchess soothingly cooed back, "Now, go find the bar darling, our bartenders are moy caliente."

As I was now formally dismissed, The Duchess was free to continue the relentless debasement of the rented staff. I mercifully located the bar out by the enormous, Olympic-size swimming pool. As I sipped on a blood-red watermelon Mojito, I began to wonder when the rules for children's birthday parties changed. When did it become compulsory for parents to attend these things? As a child, my parents were startlingly young and attractive, they wouldn't have been caught dead at the same children's birthday party as me. (I was way too nerdy and awkward for them) Why was my pathetic presence necessary here? Laying supine on a lounge chair, I was on my third Mojito, fucked-up and feeling really sorry for myself, when God took pity on me. Like Neptune, a scantily clad man rose from the depths of the pool, hoisted himself to the pool deck, and shook the water from his gleaming blond hair and rippling body.

He extended his hand and said, "Greetings land-lover, I'm Aquaman would you like to pet my sea snake?"

(To Be Continued)

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)