The Reluctant Daddy

(Continued from NEO CLASSISM PT. 3)

Believe it or not, there are times that I am slightly conflicted about the bonding time and life lessons my son Ethan and I share.  As I’ve never bothered to read actual parenting books nor bother soliciting the opinion of ‘experts’ like licensed family therapists or health care professionals in these matters, I instead rely on the trusty advice gleaned from frazzled mommy bloggers or the Psychic Friends Network.  Each of these invaluable ‘sources’ encourages me to ‘go-with-what-you-know’ when trying to figure out what activities to do with one’s children or the sagacious advice one hopes to pass on.

Why only last week, I decided to cure my son’s snobbery and elitism by demonstrating the profound difference between a hand-made $8,000 Brioni suit usually bought by the super rich, and an off-the-rack, machine-made, dogshit, $1,800 Dolce and Gabbana suit that ‘normal’ people are forced to purchase.  As I power walked through the cavernous men’s department at Sakes dragging Ethan by the hand towards the Brioni boutique, he glanced up at me, and out-of-the-blue asked if I preferred the Los Angeles Dodgers to the New York Yankees.  I was caught slightly off guard, as I had at that moment been patiently explaining to a bored-looking Ethan the importance of buying on sale versus paying retail.

The Dodgers or the Yankees?  How should I know?  The closest I ever get to the sport of baseball is when I wear a raggedy ass baseball cap on my head because my hair looks like shit.  ”Um…I like the Dodgers,” I respond weakly.

Ethan gives me a piteous look.  ”I like the Yankees.  Alex Rodriguez’s RBIs were unbelievable this year, and I’m pretty sure his OBAs and SLGs are gonna gonna be great too!”

I stare at Ethan blankly.  Who the fuck is Alex Rodriguez?  Wasn’t Alex Rodriguez the ‘Culture Vulture’ from Queer Eye For The Straight Guy? You know, that guy who recently made a cameo as a news reporter in Lady GaGa’s Telephone video?  I stare at Ethan dumbly and nod my head in agreement thinking that I might appear less faggy if I say nothing.

Undeterred, my son Ethan prods, “Daddy, why do you like the Dodgers?  They’re OPBs and SLGs are way below average.”

OPBs, SLGs – what is he talking about?!  Aren’t OPBs the heady, fabulous disco drugs that Liza Minelli, Halston and Biana Jagger scarfed down at Studio 54?  As I rack my brain from some kind of cohesive answer, I’m rescued by a gay sales associate who seems baffled by the site of an old queen in a silk ascot conversing with the blond haired street urchin in a skull t-shirt.

(To Be Continued)

(Continued from NEO CLASSISM (PT. 2))

Remember in the old days when you got so sick of talking about yourself in therapy that you, like me, would concoct some outrageous story about not being able to return for a few weeks due to the UNFORTUNATE world cruise you were FORCED to take?  You, like me, might even smile wryly and continue this retarded charade by remarking that in addition to the claustrophobic state rooms and inedible food one is forced to endure on board, you would have to ‘press on’ with your trip despite lacking the gems of self discovery that only your shrink’s special brand of psychiatry are able to unearth.   Maybe your shrink, like mine, would give you a concerned look and alarmingly suggest that you talk to the receptionist about rescheduling your missed appointments THE ABSOLUTE SECOND you return from your ‘vacation.’

“Thank fucking God,” you’d think as you breezily left her office, for the next few weeks, you, like me, could be as big an asshole as you wished and when confronted, drunkenly tell everyone you were in therapy and ‘working-really-hard-right-now.’  Perhaps you, like me, used that same line after waking up underneath some trick’s coffee table while he holds smelling salts under your nose and a cold compress to your head?   Am I ringing any bells?  No?  Well, fuck you Nancy Drew.

Sadly, my K hole and Jagermeister bender glory days are long gone, but I’m still trying to find new, underhanded ways of ditching my shrink appointment.  Now, of course, the bitch has SKYPE and makes me keep my appointment whether I’m in Los Angeles or Timbuktu. This week, while sunning my fat ass on the glittering beaches of Mykonos surrounded by gorgeous boys with easy smiles and dubious natures, I dropped my Mojito and nearly fell off my lounge chair for my shrink had the audacity to suggest that my son Ethan’s inability to understand and/or empathize with those less fortunate than himself might actually be MY FAULT!

“What,” I snarled.  ”How can this be my fault?”

“Well, didn’t you tell me that after Ethan suggested that New York smelled like poor people, horrified, you cancelled your ‘field trip’ to Cartier and instead took him to H&M to see ‘real people?’

“Of course, not!  What kind of a fucked-up parent do you think I am?  I would NEVER inflict my child to that kind of abuse!  H&M, please. I took him to Saks you bitch and you know it!!!”  As I screamed at the bored looking shrink on my computer screen, Stavros rubbed my aching neck as Niko ran to get me another Mojito.

(To be continued)

(Continued from NEO CLASSISM)

Dear Friends,

Please forgive my recent absence, but in lieu of parenting, working or whining in the pages of this blog, I’ve instead for the last three weeks been galavanting around the French countryside terrorizing the locals with my unintelligible French and insatiable demands for attention. FINALLY unshackled from the thankless demands of my familial life, I decided to leave my computer at home, and like the proverbial locust, shamelessly plunder any bottle of wine, loaf of bread, or frustratingly indifferent cabin boy placed before me.  I am pleased to tell you that I have now returned to the US and found that unlike the French, what with their boring old interest in art, politics, and gastronomy, our American cultural cup brims over with Pizza Hut, oil spills and Kim Kardashian.

God – it’s good to be home.

When last you heard from me, I had brought my son Ethan to New York City and was prepared to deliver him to the good people at Camp Walt Whitman.  As you might expect, New York in June can get ungodly hot, and this June was no exception. The city was stifling and smelly, and my son Ethan who is very much accustomed to the air conditioned comfort of his chauffeur-driven, politically correct Toyota Prius began to wilt.  As I dragged him down a blazing 42nd street towards the subway, his gait slowed and his small palm sweated in mine.  He grimaced, put his hand to his nose and said “Daddy let’s take a town car. It smells gross here. It smells like…I don’t know… like poor people!”

Despite the blazing sun and acrid stench I stopped in my tracks and gave Ethan the stink eye.  While his statement was candid and snobbishly amusing, I wondered at what point in his alarmingly sheltered life had my son, Marie Antoinette, concluded that poor people smelled like rotting garbage?   To my knowledge, Ethan’s pampered, priviliged life of private schools, nanny-monitored play dates, and palatial weekend homes, was devoid of actual poor people. The only poor person Ethan knew personally was ‘Crazy Mary’ our Los Angeles neighborhood homeless woman whose unabated screaming and morning ‘toilette’ consisting of relieving herself in our Armenian neighbor’s faux-marble lawn fountain had become the stuff of legend.  While Ethan may have observed Crazy Mary thrashing about the neighborhood, my husband George and I had never permitted Ethan to get close enough to Crazy Mary to actually smell her. Where did Ethan pick up this troubling association?  I was so disturbed by my son’s snobbery and lack of empathy, that I decided to cancel our field trip to Cartier and Louis Vuitton and instead planned on showing Ethan the ‘real’ New York.

(To be Continued)