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(Continued from PLAY TIME PT. 2)
“You know, I’ve read your latest blogosphere missive,” my mother sniffed icily into my ear, “And believe your suffering from early onset senility.”
My cell phone rarely rings anymore. As a matter of fact, people who telephone me are easily divided into two distinct camps. Those to whom I owe money, and those who insist on telling me to fuck off. As you can imagine, there’s a fair amount of crossover, as those poor souls misguided enough to work for me, or worse, have the misfortune to be related to me all seem to agree on one thing – I’m a total asshole. In my unapologetically narcissistic world, there’s very little difference between the contempt in which my gardener, housekeeper or pool boy holds me, and the scorn exhibited by my mother after she read last week’s PLAY TIME PT. 2 blog post.
Several minutes after I hit the ‘Publish’ button on my blog dashboard, my cell phone began to blow up with cryptic texts from my mother like “Honor thy Parents!” and “Et tu, Fruité?” I marveled at the way my written word, passive -aggressive naughtiness caused me to be both exhilarated and terrified all at the same time. Hoping my mother’s wrath might fade after a few days, I cowardly hid in my Los Feliz rathole before mustering the courage to call her.
“In what way am I senile, mom?” I responded coyly.
“Are you serious?!” she railed. “I mean I may have gotten a tiny bit ‘tipsy’ on a few school nights as you allege, and may have opted out of seeing your theatrical ‘triumphs’ in those dull-as-dishwater plays so that I could stay home and watch RHODA, but as God is my witness, we NEVER sat in the rear of the mezzanine when we went to the theater! I mean ‘artistic liscence’ is one thing, but you’re out-and-out lying and I won’t have it!”
As I listened, my mother methodically and without any kind of reservation revised our sordid family history. In addition, she requested that in my future writings, I take the time to rethink her ‘character’ and concentrate less on her White Wine Spritzer-induced indiscreations, and focus more on the loving and devoted, Jewish American Princess, Carol Brady image that she had so carefully cultivated for herself. In light of the mountain of money I’ve thrown at therapists, finally forgiving my mother and agreeing to her audacious ‘re-write’ request did make a certain demented sense.
Now, days later, as I sit in my son Ethan’s claustrophobic class room, watching his tortuously unfunny performance as sock puppet Xerxes in The Battle of Thermopylae, my knees shoved painfully against my chest, choking on the putrid stench of industrial-strength Formula 409, day-old chicken fingers and hamster shit, I am astounded for who should be sitting in the front row but my head-to-toe, PRADA-clad mother! I’m momentarily dumbfounded, but quickly brought out of my stupefaction by my irksome cell phone whose staccato vibration indicated I’d received a text.
“He’s got more acting talent in his little finger than you have in your whole pathetic body – mom.” I laugh out loud and promise myself not to rewrite a single word.
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