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(Continued from The Cocktail Hour Pt. 3)
As much as I, with the vengeful encouragement of missing and presumably dead Sylvia wanted to plunge the gleaming ice pick into my husband’s drunk, flushed face – in doing so, I would most certainly be arrested and charged with some kind of ‘crime.’ (Naturally, I would insist I acted in self defense, but I’m not confident the surly Los Angeles County District Attorney would accept my-husband-was-being-a-total-asshole defense) I calmly and resolutely approached my intoxicated husband and hissed under my breath “George dear, may I please see you in the kitchen – we need to talk.”
I could go into the cursing, the screaming, the recriminations – but why bother?! Anyone who’s had the misfortune of being in a relationship for longer than 5 minutes has undoubtedly participated in this same, retarded argument. I stomped upstairs, packed my gayer than gay, overpriced Louis Vuitton overnight bag and raced out of the house. George, the determined entertainer that he is, wiped a small tear from his eye, smoothed the surface of his 2008 cinnabar hued Williams Sonoma apron, and bravely marched out to the pool deck to inform his drunk, oblivious guests that dinner was served.
In my zeal to avoid murdering my husband, I realized I had no plan. I couldn’t escape to our Palm Springs weekend house as I had stupidly rented it to a family of pasty faced Norwegians, who despite the blinding sun and scalding 115 degree heat, seemed to possess an insatiable, ‘tanorexic’ desire for heat stroke. Fuming, I sat in my car with nothing to do and no place to go. Missing and presumably dead Sylvia soothingly suggested I visit Home Depot, pick up an ax, return home and murder the entire group – but as my desire for vengeance had somewhat abated, I found that plan unworkable. Disappointed, Sylvia labeled me a ‘fucking Puta’ and like a wounded, dangerous El Chupacabra slunk back into the darkest recesses of my cluttered mind.
As D-I-V-O-R-C-E was a near certainty, I decided to cut and run to the ONLY place where for a mere $500-700 a night, you can take out your petty personal problems on someone else. A place so refined, so accustomed to indulging entertainment industry dickheads, they almost beg you to treat them like shit – and still gratefully put a delicately wrapped chocolate on your snow white pillow. I am referring to my little slice of divorce heaven – The L’Hermitage Hotel in Beverly Hills. Crammed into the stifling cabin of my Toyota Prius, I telephoned Heaven. I had no need to telephone 411 to connect to The L’Hermitage – they were in the number 1 position on my Blackberry’s speed dial. (I have a very low tolerance for pain) The phone rang only once before my personal angel perkily answered.
“Thank you for calling the L’Hermitage, Gretchen Speaking – how may I assist and serve you today?”
“Hello Gretchen, It’s Tod Abrams calling.” I blubbered. “I may need my old room back.”
(To Be Continued)
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