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(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)
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