The Reluctant Daddy

Several weeks ago, I received an email from my son’s teacher informing me that my son Ethan’s class was mounting a play.  Naturally, I was thrilled as I adore the bite of live theater and welcome any excuse to stage-mother my child.  However, as I read through the email, I was profoundly dismayed to see that this ‘play’ was not to be staged in the hallowed halls of the main auditorium, but was to be presented in Ethan’s trailer-like classroom.  Even worse, the piece was to be an ‘original production’ – a sock puppet retelling of the ancient Greek battle of Thermopylea.  I could tell this was going to be a snore, so I scheduled a Pilates lesson and lunch at the Polo Lounge for that day and texted my spouse that he was to represent the family.  Imagine my horror when my spouse responded that he would not be available to witness this tube sock ‘spectacular’ as he had recently taken a job with Hollywood’s ‘it’ director J.J. Abrams, and J. J.’s directorial needs superseded my own selfish desire to avoid the mangled line readings and cloying stage presence of my son Ethan and the pack of Fruit of the Loom-attired misfits that make up his class.  Just because wunderkind J.J. Abrams (no relation – goddamn it!) was now employing my husband, did that give him the right to subject me to a play whose awfulness was going to violate every tenant of the Geneva Convention?  Come on J.J.- where’s your humanity?

As the play was scheduled to take place at 11 AM, I arrived at 11:01 hoping to avoid the awful parental small talk that usually precedes this type of thing.  As I barged into the classroom , I was shocked to see the class overflowing with row upon row of Botoxed mommies and hipster daddies with their FLIP video cameras artfully illuminating their beaming faces.  WTF?  Did none of these people have jobs, responsibilities, or like my ass-kissing husband, dictatorial director’s to service?  To add insult to injury, I was forced to to wedge myself between a large plastic trash can and an empty glass aquarium that reeked of hamster shit in the rear of the class.  Due to the industrial-strength, presumably toxic cleaning solvents Los Angeles Unified School District uses to sanitize their archaic sites, I suddenly found myself mentally transported back to the year 1971, when as a frightened seven year old boy, I took the school stage in Joyce Kilmer Elementary’s muscial version of Voltaire’s Candide, and after seven curtain calls, left a man. This was a hollow victory, for the adulation I sought most was from my parents who were an inexplicable ‘no show.’

(To be continued)

(Continued from WILD RICE PT. 2)

To people who do not know us well, George and I appear to be the happiest of happily married couples.  To the uninitiated, we have all the shiny trappings one expects of any ‘A’ personality gay couple. We maintain a beautiful, (over-decorated) home, possess a wonderful (frightening) child, and are active (manipulative and controlling) in community affairs.  In addition to our fraudulent pillars-of-society standing, our neighbors smile and wave at us for the insane, OCD manner we keep our home. George and I may be profoundly obnoxious and complete frauds, but none of our neighbors seem to mind so long as their property values keep climbing due to the noveau-riche curb appeal of our ghastly home. The outward appearance of our house serves as an all-to-real metaphor for our married-with-children existence as a whole. Our home’s glittering, neo-Georgian exterior masks an interior that is complex, meandering, and at times utterly confounding.

As George and the dreaded terrorist Ethan ‘bin Laden’ Abrams haggled over the ‘deal points’ regarding the consumption of dessert, I sat in my dining room chair, stone-cold sober, my mouth agape, my eyes wide.  bin Laden had shrewdly convinced George that there never was, nor had there ever been a clear definition of ‘finished.’  As far as the dreaded bin Laden was concerned, his sullen appearance at our table and his listless mashing of the plate’s contents entitled him to dessert. George, whose powers of child negotiation can swing wildly from immensely insightful to utterly dismal insisted that bin Laden consume all the rice on his plate in order to ‘qualify’ for dessert.  Ethan bin Laden eyed the mountain of rice on his plate dubiously.  He took a moment, thought, and countered by mockingly asking George to hand count the exact number of rice grains he must consume in order to again ‘qualify’ for dessert.  George resembled a defeated Henry Kissinger as he began to physically count each grain of rice one-by-one. Ethan bin Laden crossed his arms and shot me victorious look. He had won and was now going to rub my nose in it.

My rage boiled over. All at once, I bolted from my chair and rudely grabbed Ethan bin Laden’s plate tossing it carelessly into the kitchen sink where it shattered dramatically.  Chicken, rice, and wilted broccoli flew everywhere as a startled Ethan bin Laden and George Kissinger gaped at me.

“Negotiations are at an end, there will be no dessert tonight – nor any other night!” I hissed.

In the aftermath of my ‘shock and awe’ action, I savored the sudden look of fear in Ethan bin Laden’s eyes, but was somewhat dismayed when my defeated spouse, George Kissinger, reminded me that while my aggressive actions might have won us this dessert battle, we were probably going to lose the dessert war.  Suddenly, my own victory seemed very small indeed.

(Continued from WILD RICE)

Negotiation.  My home life is one agonizing negotiation after another.  When my spouse George and I thoughtlessly decided to have our son Ethan years ago, none of our so-called ‘friends’ warned us that living with a child was like living with a member of the Taliban.  You may foolishly think your child is satisfied with their wholesome dinner of broiled chicken, rice, and ‘green zone’ broccoli, but be prepared to have your embassy bombed, your defenses breached and be metaphorically annihilated when the subject of dessert rears it’s ugly head. It never fails – I’ve seen more of our family dinners go to shit the moment the ‘So-what’s-for-dessert?’ question leaves a dinner guest’s mouth.  In our house, there are 3 things we make it a habit not to discuss over our low-carb, ‘Zone’ style dinners: politics, religion and dessert.

Two nights ago I had the misfortune to join my family for what I was lead to believe would be a quiet, home-cooked meal.  My spouse assured me that our son, Ethan bin Laden, would be on his best behavior and would be prohibited from discussing either American imperialism, Israeli settlements, or the most dreaded of subjects: dessert.  As George and I munched on our putrid 350 calorie salads, our son Ethan bin Laden listlessly nibbled his chicken nuggets, gummed a broccoli head and pushed the wild rice around his plate.  George and I were in the midst of a rather heated conversation regarding the meteoric rise in commodity prices, when a bored Ethan impulsively asked ‘What’s for dessert?’  Naturally, like any good diplomat, I ignored the question.  George and I resumed our conversation when Ethan had the audacity to yet again ask ‘Daddy, what’s for dessert?’

I shot Ethan a look and said calmly, “Ethan, you know the rules, you can have dessert when you’ve completely finished your dinner.”

“I am finished.” Ethan responded.

“No, you are most certainly not finished.  There’s a ton of food left on your plate.”

“Dad, really, I’m totally finished. I actually ate alot.”

I knew exactly where this conversation was going.  Tempted to start screaming at Ethan bin Laden immediately, I rubbed my temples and thought to go to my happy place, which in my case is the King Cole bar at the St. Regis Hotel in New York City.  As I mentally conjured the glistening bottles of vodka, gin and scotch housed in their handsome mahogany cases, a delicious calmness overcame me. I reasoned that negotiating with Ethan bin Laden, a known terrorist, would be pointless so I foolishly deferred to my spouse George to carry on negotiations in my stead.  As the endless dessert negotiations spiraled downward, it suddenly occurred to me that when dealing with terrorists, never send a clueless gay boy in to a man’s job.

(To be Continued)

I’ve always been somewhat leery of my powers of negotiation.

Don’t get me wrong, being descended from a disreputable clan of jewish money lenders and usurers certainly has it’s benefits.  As a matter of fact, I am often asked by my gentile friends to accompany them to Sunday morning flea markets as I’m one of those annoying queens willing to mercilessly torture some elderly antigues dealer for a 25 cent discount on a Hummel figurine on their behalf.  The vendor is invariably left in convulsive tears, my blue blood friends pocket their drastically discounted figurine, and while clapping me on the back loudly exclaim, ‘Boy, you people really know how to negotiate!”  By ‘you people’ I’m not certain whether they mean gays or jews, but I seldom take offense as all my friends are borderline alcoholics and generously buy me round after round of industrial-strength ‘thank you’ Mimosas at Sunday brunch.

My son Ethan has inherited my uncanny abilities and unlike his dad who has chosen to use his classless, Jewish Ashkenazi inherited talents for the forces of good (the random, near-catatonic flea market dealer aside) my son Ethan has turned tragically to the dark side.  Living with my son Ethan, who I’ve come to call Norma Rae, is like living with an irritable, over-worked-under-paid union agitator.  It’s gotten to the point that every meal we make for him is entered into with the seriousness and intensity the UAW reserves for Ford or Chrysler. As an example, last night’s meal negotiation went something like this…

The following parties, Ethan Abrams (The Exalted Master) and Tod Abrams (Douchey Slave) agrees to enter into a contract for the formal consumption of dinner. Ethan Abrams (The Master) agrees to eat (organic only) steak for supper. However, if the steak is ‘perceived’ to be too rare by the master, master agrees to eat only the parts he deems as fully cooked and to his liking.  If the steak in question is to be accompanied by a vegetable, (preferably broccoli) the vegetable (Steamed only, please!)  in question must be slathered in pricey, imported Parmesan cheese.  As for the meal’s starch, The Master prefers shoestring french fries, but will consider wild rice as a secondary option. In the event that shoestring french fries and wild rice are not available, master will consider macaroni and cheese as a satisfactory substitute. Under NO circumstances will the The Master agree to eat a baked potato as baked potatoes are ‘yucky’ and cause the master to fart uncontrollably.

Now, in the matter of desert……

(To Be Continued)