The Reluctant Daddy

(Continued from NATIONAL PASTIME)

In the bizarre, often terrifying pages of this blog, I’ve rarely spent any time writing about my father.  Unlike my mother, whose ‘colorful’ antics are well documented in  pages and pages of scathing commentary, my father, has been relatively untouched by my bitchy backbiting.  Why, you may ask?  Because growing up, ‘Big Mike’ (How many 5ft. 7″ Jewish men do you know refer to themselves as ‘Big Mike?’) wasn’t so much a father as he was a guest star.  Like Eve Plumb, Sean Cassidy or Barbara Eden who may appear on one or two episodes of FANTASY ISLAND,  my old man was a day player who would glamorously appear at Sunday dinner as if out of thin air. While my mother, sisters and I were the hard working  ’stars’ of the queesily imagined sitcom of our lives, my dad’s stratospheric Q score made him irresistible to Ford, Gillette, and Johnson & Johnson. Everytime my dad appeared on screen, our ratings shot through the roof.  Cue the laugh track.

Imagine my surprise, when guest star ’Big Mike’ suddenly took an interest in my athletic prowess.  Like some shop worn episode of the LOVE BOAT, where cruise director Julie McCoy’s mom played by the always delightful Bonnie Franklin, comes aboard ship and immediately begins brow beating poor Julie due to Bonnie’s own stellar career as the ‘Siren of the South Seas,’ my dad was naturally enough, a star baseball player as a youth.  Unless you are that retarded Corky from the paralysingly treacly 90′s dramady LIFE GOES ON, you can see EXACTLY where this shit is going. ‘Big Mike’ was signing my gay ass up for Little League whether I liked it or not.

You might think that ‘Big Mike’ would have acknowledged my vociferous protestations, or may have relented due to my artistic (fruity) inclinations, but believe me, ’Big Mike’ was having none of it.  Like the most ardent army recruiter, my dad believed that Little League wanted me and no amount of malingering or whining was going to change his mind.  As my dad cheerily drove me to my first practice, I sat in the rear of the car terrified. I must have resembled Damian from THE OMEN when unsuspecting Gregory Peck and Leigh Remick drive up to a church with their 5 year old Antichrist in tow.  As we approached the field, my eyes grew larger and larger and I began to sweat profusely.  My dad parked the car, and as he hastily let me out of the back seat, I projectile vomited all over his spotless chinos.

(To Be Continued)

Last week, one of the perfectly coiffed, richly attired Botox mommies who resides in our shamelessly segregated neighborhood of Los Feliz casually asked if I intended to sign my son Ethan up for Little League.  I was momentarily caught off guard when she asked me the question about Little League, for at that particular moment we were sipping Negronis in the drawing room of her fashionably decorated mini-mansion, gossiping, while our underage children rotted their brains playing some monstrously violent MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY video game in their billiard room. (Bitch has a fucking billiard room!) This particular mommy is one of those wildly stylish gals, who while maintaining a demanding business, also possesses an enviable marriage, star-studded circle of friends, and is able to juggle the demands of parenthood with a gusto and aplomb that borders on psychosis.  She’s one of those outstanding, fearless mommies that you can’t help but admire but secretly despise for she appears to do EVERYTHING better than you and looks even better doing it.

“No, I don’t think I’m going to sign Ethan up for Little League.” I said.

“Why not?” she clucked. “It’s super fun for the kids, and besides Danny DeVito and Steve Carell’s kids are on the team. It’s a great way to meet the ‘right’ people.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant by the ‘right’ people, but with all due respect to Messrs. DeVito and Carell, no amount of starfucking was worth the half day it would require for me to drive Ethan to The Valley (Gross!) watch his interminable game, and then take him and his circle of dirty, sports-obsessed cronies to Jerry’s Famous Deli for lunch.  I mean, I love my kid as much as the next guy, but the interior of my Range Rover is ‘Egg Shell’ and I just can’t see sacrificing it’s Corinthian Leather integrity all in the name of ‘childhood enrichment.’

“No, sweetie, we’re just not Little League material – now let’s have a refill on that Negroni!”

Botox mommy smiled at me sweetly, and while pouring me a fresh Negroni, shook her head sadly. I could tell she thought I was being a selfish dick. Sure, I may have been selfish, and was in this case most assuredly a dick, but believe me when I tell you I had a good excuse.  If not residing in the suburban desolation of Cherry Hill, New Jersey wasn’t punishment enough, my father had the brilliant idea of putting his kooky son in a place that possessed the warmth and charm of a Vietnamese POW camp, Little League.

(To Be Continued)

(Continued from NEEDLE EXCHANGE PT. 4)

It often seems that my married with children ‘existence’ has degenerated from one ghastly film reenactment to another.  If it isn’t my husband George and I living the boozy, abusive antics of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, than it’s Ethan and I who are now living our own Los Feliz-based version of Mildred Pierce, where Ethan is the mature and devoted mother played by Joan Crawford, and I’m the spoiled little rich-bitch daughter, Vida.

The day I took Ethan to our family physician after bathing in Dr. Yi’s fountain of bought-and-paid-for youth, I instantly watched Ethan go from playing headstrong and fearless Joan Crawford in Mildred Pierce, to playing weepy, wheelchair-bound victim Joan Crawford in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. In our Baby Jane scenario,  I naturally assumed the role of creepy Jane, originally played by Bette Davis, as it was I who had to wrestle Ethan to the ground to get him to take his shot. From the cries and shrieks that emanated from the claustrophobic examination room, I’m certain the poor schnooks in the reception area concluded that not only were we punching and kicking Ethan but were performing some kind terrifying exorcism.  As the inoculation was administered, the pain registered on Ethan’s taught face, and he shot me a plaintive, heartbreaking look. Fresh tears cascaded down my own cheeks. Of course I wasn’t sure I was crying because of the pain I’d caused my son, or whether my freshly ‘plumped’ and ‘rejuvenated’ eyes were somehow leaking the expensive elixir administered by new BFF, Dr. Yi.

I’ll let my shrink figure that one out.

As we left our family doctor’s valley office and walked to our car,  I took my son into my arms and held him tightly as he wrapped his arms and legs around me and pinned his damp, tear stained face against my puffy, freakishly youthful one. He tried to be brave, but I could tell that he was still crying softly. I whispered in his ear that he was the bravest soldier I had ever known, and was incredibly proud that he had not deserted his post despite enemy fire, medical atrocities, and torture. As his small body finally relaxed and melted into mine, I told my comrade-in-arms that I loved him more than anyone or anything. As the sun set in bourgeoisie Sherman Oaks, my heart swelled for I suddenly realized that Ethan and I weren’t reenacting a scene from BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY, SAVING PRIVATE RYAN, or BAND OF BROTHERS. He and I had become brothers-in-arms, who despite debilitating injuries clung to each other behind enemy lines.

(Continued from NEEDLE EXCHANGE Pt. 3)

Wasn’t it Franklin D. Roosevelt that once said that all we have to fear was fear itself?  In a robust speech to the nation, Roosevelt cheered America by pronouncing that in spite of the Great Depression, the dust bowl, and even those terrifyingly frumpy fashions of the 1930′s, we would eventually be alright if we did not give in to our collective fear. Roosevelt may have been a great orator, he may have also been a great president, but even Roosevelt would have run shrieking from the room were he to face my mother’s plastic surgeon, the grinning, needle wielding Dr. Yi.

After my mother force fed me a couple of Xanax, I was now serenely calm and sat in Dr. Yi’s operating theater smiling cheerfully at my son as the good doctor expertly placed gargantuan shots-of Botox, Restylane, and Juvaderm, into the yawning furrows of my forehead, cheeks, and chin.  The pain from the injections was exquisite, and I cried and whimpered like a little girl. Deeply worried, my son Ethan held my hand tightly and kept murmuring into my ear that everything would be OK despite my unadulterated narcissism, insecurity, and low self-esteem. His concern for me appeared so honest, so insightful, so touching, that fresh tears sprung from my eyes. Unfortunately, due to the Botox, I couldn’t discern these fresh tears as I had lost all feeling in my eyes and cheeks.

Finally, the ‘needle work’ was over, and Dr. Yi handed me a small hand mirror. I glanced tentatively at my reflection in the mirror and nearly swooned, for even I could recognize true genius when I saw it. The unsightly lines, grooves and wrinkles of my face were now a dim memory.  Dr. Yi had taken 10 years off my haggard face and I was overjoyed at the new and ‘refreshed’ me.  I leaped off the table, took my son and mother into my arms, and while spinning them gaily around the room sang “I’m so pretty!” from WEST SIDE STORY at the top of my lungs.  I felt younger, handsomer, and more invincible than I had in years!  What better time to race Ethan over to our family doctor and get that horrible flu shot we’d been avoiding?

I should have known better, for every time my kid gets a needle, there’s a prick.

(To Be Continued)