 |
 |
 |
 |
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)
Recent Comments