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Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category
Hey guys…the good people at http://bunchfamily.ca asked me to write a love letter to my spouse in honor of Valentine’s day. I found this somewhat challenging, for in my mind love and marriage have very little to do with each other. Enjoy!
February 1, 2011
Dear George,
Below, please find some liner notes to the ‘Do You Love Me?’ number from the all-male version of FIDDLER ON THE ROOF that we’re staging in four weeks time at the Manhole in Long Beach. I’m thrilled to tell you that I have an entirely new ‘take’ on this Broadway standard when instead of setting our production of FIDDLER in early 20th century Tsarist Russia (which I think is just too damn depressing) we find Tevya (Thomas), Golda (Gerald) and their three smokin’ hot triplets Hayden, Tristan and Bruce are now modern-day WASPs asked to leave their family compound in West Palm Beach because their ‘marriage’ isn’t recognized by the fascistic government of Florida!
Imagine the comedic possibilities when in a stroke of gender-blind casting Yenta (Yale) played by Chaz Bono swings by the family compound hoping to secure a match between the youngest son, sizziling hot bodybuilder Hayden, and Palm Beach’s most well-respected but long-in-the-tooth plastic surgeon, Paul St. Maurice! LOL! In any case, I’ve taken the liberty of using our relationship as the inspiration for the long suffering Tevya (Thomas) and Golda (Gerald) for the ‘Do You Love Me?’ number, because after 16 years of marriage, 5 different homes, a hopelessly spoiled child, and COUNTLESS therapists, counselors and advisers I can honestly say that the love I have for you is like the mold growing in our shower – it’s ugly, it’s smelly, but no matter how much Tilex I use, that shit refuses to go away!
Faithfully, (What a laugh!)
Tod
Your quasi-legal, recognized only-in-California, sort-of husband.
PS…I’ve decided to call the play DIDDLER WITH A ROOFIE – What do you think?
(Thomas)
“Gerald I have decided to give Clay Aiken permission to become engaged to our son Hayden”
(Gerald)
“What??? American Idol was a fluke – even ELLEN won’ t have him on the show for Christ’s sake! He’s washed up!
(Thomas)
“He’s a good man, Gerald.
I like him. And what’s more important, he’ll sing for free at our brunches.
So what can we do?
(now singing)
Do you still love me?
(Gerald)
Do I what?
(Thomas)
Do you still love me?
(Gerald)
Do I still love you?
With our boys getting offers
From every chicken hawk in town,
take a Xanax, have a shot
Go inside, go lie down!
Maybe it’s your alcoholism.
(Thomas)
“Gerald I’m asking you a question…”
Do you still love me?
(Gerald)
You’re a tool.
(Thomas)
“I know…”
But do you still love me?
(Gerald)
Do I still love you?
For sixteen years Illegal aliens have cooked
our meals, cleaned our house, serviced our wheels,
A surrogate was even paid to have our sons
With what we’ve spent, I’ve got the runs!
(Thomas)
Gerald, The first time I met you
Was on gay pride day
I was scared
(Gerald)
You were drunk.
(Thomas)
I wish I could remember.
(Gerald)
In those days you were a hunk
(Thomas)
All those boyfriends who dove for cover
Setting themselves ablaze rather than be my lover
Why would you still love me?
(Gerald)
I’m your partner
(Thomas)
“I know…”
But do you still love me?
(Gerald)
Do I still love him?
After sixteen years, I have a house,
a California mandated live-in spouse,
Facebook says it’s complicated
If that’s not love, then I’m constipated.
(Thomas)
Then you would still ‘friend’ me?
(Gerald)
I suppose I would.
(Thomas)
And I suppose I’d ‘friend’ you too
(Both)
It change a thing
Blow by blow
After sixteen years
It’s nice to know
In my terrifyingly expensive married-with-children existence, I am the idiot charged with maintaining the family finances. In other words, not only am I the schmuck whose ‘pleasure’ it is to pay for everything my never-buys-on-sale spouse desires but it is also my sole obligation to pay for my son’s ‘hot mess’ nanny, scarily-devoid-of-nutritional-value groceries, and atrocious imported clothing. It is also my responsibility to throw vast sums of money at an army of teachers, tutors, instructors, and coaches in hopes of ‘giving my son everything I didn’t have.’ I do all of this on the off-chance that some future, highly disrespectful Ethan won’t tell me to go fuck myself after accusing me of being the world’s worst father. Call me crazy, but I don’t think it matters how many violin lessons I give my kid, he’s still going to tell me to go fuck myself. Call it daddy intuition.
The bills come in, and the money goes out. Like a tidal wave, when the end of the month comes, a tsunami of Nordstrom, Gelson’s, and Verizon bills crash against the lonely shores of my pathetic bank account. I’ve come to accept this as the natural order of things as one might accept old age, senility and eventual death. With every invoice there are the five stages of grief:
Denial – “This bill can’t be ours! You spent $800 on candles at Williams Sonoma – how’s that possible?”
Anger – “You are coven of financial and emotional vampires trying to suck the life out of me!”
Bargaining - “I’ll pay the electric bill this month only if you agree to stop shopping at that ridiculously overpriced Bristol Farms and start shopping at Trader Joes where you belong!”
Depression – “Let me get this straight – you want me to cut my monthly Juvederm and Botox injections to every-other month? Why bother living at all?
Acceptance – “Leave your bills and get out! I can’t stand the sight of either one of you.”
My husband George has resigned himself to these dramatic performances each month, and like a discerning critic saves his savage reviews for his circle of housewife friends who no doubt encourage him to take Ethan in his Pilates-worked arms and run screaming from the building.
Believe me, I’m NEVER that lucky. Instead, my husband ‘The Feeling Monster’ likes to schedule meetings with our couples therapist and tease out childhood memories best left repressed. It’s in those ghastly sessions that I would welcome death like a long lost friend.
(To Be Continued)
(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)
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