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Archive for January, 2011
(Continued from ALLEY CAT DAD)
After our ‘vacation’ in Florida and as our airplane landed in smoggy Burbank, I channelled my inner MOMMIE DEAREST. After all, since TIGER MOM had the balls to exclaim to TIME magazine that expecting less than perfection from one’s children was for pussies, I felt it was high time for for my eight-year-old son Ethan to clean his room, cook his own meals, do the family laundry and change the oil in my politically-correct Toyota Prius, in addition he would be required to maintain a 4.0 grade point average and speak all seven dialects of Chinese perfectly.
In hindsight, this may have been a little ambitious, for like all the privileged, lily-white children of elitist Los Angeles, my clueless son Ethan is unable to perform the simplest tasks such as making a bowl of cereal or dressing himself in any kind of coherent manner. This is due in large part to my husband George, who is such a hovering, cloying presence, that my son Ethan is now practically helpless. I’m convinced that were Ethan to be left in our home unattended for any length of time, our scarily maladroit son would resemble one of those manacled skeletons you see on THE PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN ride at Disneyland for he lacks the basic skills a human requires to feed, clothe, or nourish himself.
For example, were you to be the proverbial fly-on-the-wall at our ostentatious house, you would be horrified at the endless rounds of negotiation, threats, and emotional fisticuffs that I must resort to each morning to get my son ready for carpool. Pressed for time and at the end my rope, I’m convinced that my son views me not so much as a parent, but rather an innocuous manservant or valet who’s nagging and badgering is easily ignored. I am so frustrated that I am forced to shriek about living in the time of Charles Dickens, where boys his age toiled away in a dangerous workhouses, nearly starving to death, unable to enjoy the luxuries he takes for granted like pricey private schools, nanny-supervised play dates, laser tag birthday parties, and endless trips to hellacious Pinkberry.
My son Ethan remains silent but gives me a look that seems to convey curiosity, pity and condescension all at the same time.
“Well,” I ask, “do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“Did you have your morning coffee?” my son asks out-of-the-blue.
“Of course I had my coffee,” I answer perplexed, “what’s that got to with anything?”
“Because coffee makes you hostile and argumentative, and when you act like that, it makes me not want to communicate with you.”
I react as if slapped, for I realize with dawning horror that my sweet, innocent son has been carefully forged into a carbon copy of the most frightening, manipulative and loathsome force in the universe; my husband George, AKA ‘The Feeling Monster.‘
(To be continued)
Yesterday, en route from a ‘family vacation’ in Florida – I use the term ‘Family Vacation’ in the loosest sense of the word, for whenever one travels with one’s children on an airplane, no aspect of it can be truly considered a ‘vacation,’ I had the good sense to pilfer a copy of Time magazine from the old lady dozing next to me. Maybe you saw the cover, it was all about TIGER MOMS. The magazine’s cover intrigued me as I had never heard the term TIGER MOM before, and anytime I see a photo of children cowering before their parent while trapped in a corner I’m hooked.
From what little I could tell from the article, this frighteningly ambitious Chinese/American mom decided that merely raising her children with the usual mixture of boredom, frustration, and exasperation just wouldn’t ‘do’ for her kids, so she took it upon herself to infuse a little old school, boot-camp style violin and academics ‘training’ into the mix. To her way of thinking, why would one want to have an ‘ordinary’ kid, when with the right mixture of bullying, haranguing, and nagging you can turn your child into a superstar? Sure, your kids will probably have a nervous breakdown by the time they’re 12, but who gives a fuck – just imagine the money you’ll save on your champagne brunches when little Sarah or Jayden is forced to play their violin or harp for hours on end to the delight of your enthralled guests?
Having digested the entire TIGER MOM article, I took a long moment to honestly appraise my eight-year-old son Ethan who while seated next to me, viewed a wildly inappropriate episode of FAMILY GUY while mindlessly carbo-loading an entire bag of Doritos into his greedy mouth. Believe me, It wasn’t pretty. His gaze remained fixed and glassy, locked on the tiny screen in front of him, as each chemical and preservative-infused chip went from bag to mouth, raining fresh Dorito crumbs on his shirt and lap.
It suddenly occurred to me that TIGER MOM wouldn’t have put up with that crap. Bitch would have probably put the proverbial gun to her kid’s head by running up some quantum mechanics flash cards, and just like that kooky ‘Russian Roulette’ scene from THE DEER HUNTER, screeched at her kids to solve that shit by the end of the flight or risk ‘dying’ in hail of failure and shame bullets.
(To be Continued)
I am now as far from my glittering ‘future’ at Lincoln Center and the Sherry Netherlands as I can get. I’m at Target and considering killing myself. As we join the throngs of bargain hunters scavenging the sale racks at our local Burbank Target Store, my eight year old fashionista turns up his nose at every Cherokee shirt, Osh Kosh B’ Gosh jean, and Mossimo cargo short. After 30 minutes of fruitless arguing, Ethan and I are finally overcome by the noxious stench of polyester, ghastly florescent lighting, and oppressive screeching of illegal aliens. I throw in the towel, and head to our favorite, over-priced kid’s boutique in Silver Lake.
As we enter the store’s elegant grand salon, an attentive sales lady offers me a soy latte and begs me to have a seat on the spotless, velvet divan while she takes Ethan through ‘the collection.’ Ethan who is tall and thin and looks frighteningly fabulous in EVERYTHING he tries on models an astonishing variety of expensive, imported children’s wear. A agree to buy him two pairs of imported french jeans which happen to be on sale for 40 bucks each – but draw the line at a $98 t-shirt with Lenny Kravitz emblazoned on the front in garish silver.
Incredulous, Ethan cannot understand why he cannot have the t-shirt. “But Daddy, I look so good in it.” He complains.
“I don’t care – take it off.”
“But I want it.”
“Take it off, it’s too expensive. I’m not buying a six year old a $98 t-shirt.”
“But you buy yourself $98 t-shirts.” He says snidely.
I was horrified. My young son had come to believe that not only were he and I intellectual equals, but financial partners as well. Were I to stab him where he stood, he would bleed entitlement. He continues modeling the shirt and flirting shamelessly with the overly attentive sales lady.
Outraged, I take him by the arm and hiss in his ear “I can assure you we are not equals. Now, take the Goddamn shirt off, before I rip it off your back!” Ethan’s eyes grow large, he knows that I mean business. He dresses quickly and we leave the store empty handed, even forgoing his deeply discounted French ‘skinny’ jeans.
In the car ride home, Ethan and I are both pensive. I reflect on Taylor/Lindsey/Donatella and the alternate universe I will never reside. I silently mourn the glittery New York City Ballet events I will not attend, the standing ovations I will miss, and the crowds of adoring fans who will never seek my autograph. I reluctantly resign myself to the task at hand of driving a recalcitrant straight boy around town looking for discount jeans. In the midst of feeling completely sorry for myself, I glance at the small blond boy seated in the rear of my car who tunelessly hums the theme from STAR WARS. I catch his eye in my rear view mirror and we exchange a smile.
“Dad, I don’t want any clothes – let’s just go home and draw together.”
‘Ok, I would like that.” I say. My voice breaks slightly as in that moment I realize that I have never been nor will I ever be his equal.
(Continued from GIRL OF MY DREAMS PT. 2)
I am undone by fantasy ballerina daughter’s grace. I hurry across our wildly expensive suite and place my head in her lap. Like a child, I sit on the floor of her boudoir, tears coursing down my ruddy cheeks. All the years of work and sacrifice by husband George and I come rushing to the surface.
Taylor/Lindsey/Donatella holds my head firmly, stroking my glorious silver hair, and due to her strict Bolshoi training, offers me kind words in fluent Russian. Though I don’t understand a single syllable, I’m comforted nonetheless.
“I hate Target.” Ethan reminds me in the car. “Their clothes are boring.”
“Tough, we’re in a depression, so get used to it buddy!” I respond. Ethan gives me a contemptuous look and decides to scowl for the rest of the ride.
I am now as far from my glittering fantasy ‘future’ at Lincoln Center and the Sherry Netherlands as I can get. As we join the throngs of bargain hunters scavenging the sale racks at our local Burbank Target Store, my eight year old fashionista turns up his nose at every Cherokee shirt, Osh Kosh B’ Gosh jean, and Mossimo cargo short. After 30 minutes of fruitless arguing, Ethan and I are finally overcome by the noxious stench of polyester, ghastly florescent lighting, and oppressive screeching of illegal aliens. I throw in the towel, and head to our favorite, over-priced kid’s boutique in Silver Lake.
As we enter the store’s elegant grand salon, an attentive sales lady offers me a soy latte and begs me to have a seat on the spotless, velvet divan while she takes Ethan through ‘the collection.’ Ethan who is tall and thin and looks frighteningly fabulous in EVERYTHING he tries on models an astonishing variety of expensive, imported children’s wear. A agree to buy him two pairs of imported french jeans which happen to be on sale for 40 bucks each – but draw the line at a $98 t-shirt with Lenny Kravitz emblazoned on the front in garish silver.
Incredulous, Ethan cannot understand why he cannot have the t-shirt. “But Daddy, I look so good in it.” He complains.
“I don’t care – take it off.”
“But I want it.”
“Take it off, it’s too expensive. I’m not buying a six year old a $98 t-shirt.”
“But you buy yourself $98 t-shirts.” He says snidely. I am mortified and debate murdering him on the spot!
(To Be Continued)
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