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Archive for 2010
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)
(Continued from BONE OF CONTENTION)
I can’t think of anything that brings on more foreboding than the statement, “I would like to convene a family meeting.” Like most of the New-Age parenting techniques embraced by the ‘enlightened’ yet bewilderingly terrified LA parents I know, I find family meetings to be like my Botox treatments, painful and consistently unnecessary. Besides, I don’t remember forgoing my God-given right to be judge, jury and executioner to my child only to be turned into an impotent ’board member,’ whose responsibilities aside from the usual drivel of cooking, cleaning and driving is to rubber stamp my son’s ceaseless demands for luxuries that go far beyond the call of duty. You know, useless shit that kids are ALWAYS asking for like equality, respect, and fairness.
My son Ethan, who’d I just caught committing the sin of self gratification, sat imperiously on the sofa and motioned for me to sit. I slunk into the living room and flopped down on the sofa across from him. As I was immediately on the defensive, I pulled a horrifically trendy Jonathan Adler throw pillow to my chest, crossed my arms around it and glared at my son provocatively. My son could tell from my rigid posture, and the way I held that fruity needlepoint throw pillow, I wasn’t going to take this admonishment laying down. I intended to stand up to him and tell him what’s what! This was my fucking house wasn’t it? The only sad, pathetic, sexless person who was going to be pleasuring himself around here was me, and if he didn’t like that, well then he could pack up his bags and move in with our hippie neighbors the Friedlands, who subscribed to terrifying activities like Vegan family dinners, game nights, and camping trips in addition to ‘do-gooder’ crap like feeding the homeless and saving the Earth. I’m sure they would adore Ethan’s prurient interests and afford him the privacy he required to pursue his ‘hobby.’ He could go jump in the lake as far as I was concerned!
Ethan regarded me with a look that conveyed neither malace nor judgement, but rather pity. “Dad,” Ethan said sadly, “I’m very disappointed in you.”
He said nothing else, he didn’t have to. He used the secret weapon that all parents keep in their arsenal, the dreaded ‘I’m disappointed in you’ nuclear bomb. I sat on the sofa as God, the angels and Jonathan Adler wept for me.
I’ll bet you can guess what happened next! That’s right, I threw in the towel immediately and told my son that he could jerk-off as much as he wanted with total impunity. The family meeting was quickly adjourned and this board member went back to doing what he does best, looking busy when the boss is around.
I’m not sure how to say this politely, so like tearing off a Band-aid, I should probably just get it over with as quickly as possible as to not cause undue pain to either myself or to you, the innocent reader.
Last night, my son Ethan retired early to bed after a day of bought-and-paid for frivolity. Like most of the over-supervised, under-imaginative children in the lily white enclaves of La La Land, Ethan is unfortunately off from school this week. As I have no intention of forgoing my busy schedule of massages, pedicures, shopping and lunching in order to entertain his Attention Deficit Disorder ass, I enrolled him in ‘Snow Camp’ for the holiday break. ‘Snow Camp,’ as far as I can tell, seems to be a series of death marches in driving sleet and snow amongst the ‘wilds’ of Los Angeles. As my ’I-couldn’t-care-less-as-long-as-my-kid-isn’t-unconscious-or-bleeding-profusely’ philosophy has always worked in the past, I felt no need to make any philosophical changes to this week’s Christmas vacation plan.
Upon my son’s return from Snow Camp last night, Ethan trudged into the house exhausted, turned his nose up at the meager dinner I had indifferently defrosted and uncharacteristically went to his room and closed the door. A few minutes passed and concerned he might be ill, I knocked on his door and without thinking entered his room. I’ll bet you can guess what horror greeted me among the flurry of sudden adjustments my son took to cover his crotch. Let’s say my son was having a party in his pants and I was definitely NOT invited. Ewwww!
Now you would think that a guy as queer as me wouldn’t have a problem with seeing another man’s baloney pony. On the contrary, like Julie Andrews sings in THE SOUND OF MUSIC, ‘these are a few of my favorite things.’ There is however something super gross, no matter how educated and enlightened you are about catching your kid ‘conversing’ with Rosy Palm and her five daughters.
I excused myself immediately, closed the door and darted into the kitchen to take a shot of Tequila to steady my nerves. I walked out to the living room and to my utter amazement, found my son seated upon the living room sofa neither embarrassed nor repentant.
“Dad,” he scolded, “We need to have a talk about ‘boundaries.’
The proverbial shit had hit the fan.
(To Be Continued)
(Continued from NANNYGATE – Pt. 3)
An hour later, our insomniac baby had miraculously fallen asleep and Mary Poppins came downstairs to view the wreckage of our under construction home. As she meandered through each of the rooms, her expression changed from curiosity, to concern, to one usually reserved for murderers and rapists. She scolded us for our careless indifference to hidden ‘dangers’ such as open electrical sockets, sharp edged coffee tables, our lack of childproof latches on toilets, cabinets, and drawers and worst of all, the complete absence of baby gates on every door, staircase, threshold, and landing. She labeled our house a veritable ‘deathtrap’ and marveled that our son hadn’t already died from asphyxiation, electric shock, or worse. Content that that the Australian cavalry had finally arrived, this soldier broke ranks and passed out on the living room sofa. I slept for 28 hours straight.
Mary Poppins stayed and assisted with Ethan for a couple of days. After nearly urinating in my pants due to my inability to unlock any of the newly installed toilet guards, not to mention the relentless barrage of a ‘thousand-ways-your-baby-can-die’ lectures, George and I decided that Mary Poppins had to go. As I stood on the porch waving goodbye, Ethan snug and quiet (for a change) in his baby sling, Mary Poppins gave me an over the shoulder wave – the usual look of constipation on her face giving way to one of pity. She had clearly drawn the conclusion that our baby was doomed. As she carefully picked her way down the front stairs of our home, nimbly stepping over loose nails, termite infested shingling, razor blades, screwdrivers and discarded bricks, she turned slightly and said, “You know, all this stuff is a hazard, if the baby steps on one of these nails, he could get Tetanus. Do you know where the nearest pediatric hospital is?”
I hadn’t the foggiest idea.
“Of course I do.” I responded.
Unconvinced, she got into her car and drove away. I glanced down at my sleeping son, kissed him gently on the forehead and thought if he someday stepped on a rusty nail, ate a discarded razor blade, or stuck his finger into an uncovered electrical socket George and I would deal with it. After all, we’re gay we can do anything, right?
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