Like a mad man, I navigate my way through the ugly, unkempt streets of hell-hole Hollywood, which inexorably and thankfully give way to the tidy, manicured bungalows of West Hollywood before finally ending my journey in the spacious and immaculately clean boulevards of 90210 Nirvana. My angel Gretchen had thoughtfully notified the hotel’s staff of my impending arrival and due to my ‘fragility’ was to be treated with the utmost kindness and civility. As I pull my politically correct, environmentally sensitive Toyota Prius up to the pearly gates of Heaven, the mono chromatically outfitted valet opens my door, greets me by name, and expertly whisks my ridiculously impractical overnight bag from the trunk. He catches me slightly off guard, when he stops me, takes my sweaty hand into his, holds it firmly, and while looking directly into my weary, bloodshot eyes says with real authority, “Welcome home Mr. Abrams, we’re so pleased to have you back with us again.”

I stand there dumbfounded. I don’t move – I don’t speak. I stare dumbly into the face of St. Peter the valet and realize with profound relief that I’ve been called home to sweet Jesus. Like the biblical Abraham of yore who agonizes whether to sacrifice his only begotten son for the lord he reveres, I am forced to endure that hideous, thankless life in Los Feliz so that I may earn my rightful place among the angels. I nearly weep as I pass through the pearly gates and begin my American Express paid ascent into Heaven.

I am escorted to my large airy room by a gorgeous, young angel whose beatific smile and ingratiating manner dazzles me. I can only nod and grin stupidly as he runs through the endless list of services Heaven provides 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I hand him $20 for his cuteness, and lasciviously assure him there’s PLENTY more where that came from! I then spitefully turn off my cell phone, place my hotel house phone on DO NOT DISTURB and collapse on the pristine, cloud-like bed. Like a much older, much queerer version of Eloise at The Plaza, I giddily call room service. My food magically appears on a sparkling silver tray and as I greedily wolf it down – I can only pity my spoiled, drunk husband George grilling veggie burgers on MY expensive barbecue, and our parasitic, ungrateful son carelessly splashing around and enjoying himself in MY heated pool. Stuffed, I finish my first dinner in Heaven and am happily lulled to sleep with the comforting thought of angels weeping when George and Ethan are cast out of the Los Angeles Garden of Eden I have wrought and forced to dwell in some ghastly and rundown Echo Park or Washington Heights duplex.

The next morning, I wake refreshed and clad in the luxurious white robe and slippers provided to me by the L’Hermitage angels make my way to the rooftop pool for a spot of breakfast. As I’ve woken early, I am alone on the roof save for a tall, thin man magisterially reclining on a lounge chair reading a newspaper. A small dog sits patiently on the lounge next to him and a single, male attendant stands directly behind him unmoving. As the tall, elegant man on the lounge lowers his paper to regard me, I recognize him instantly and gasp, as he is the talented but erasable actor James Woods, sworn enemy to my husband George and the bane of his miserable existence years ago!

(To Be Continued)

(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)

When George and I conceived our swimming pool design, safety was not at the top of our ‘must have’ list. Like many of the over sized, stage set looking vintage homes built in our area of Los Angeles in the 20′s and 30′s, the imposing front facade of our house promises an ‘estate-like’ setting that the greedy developers did not feel compelled to deliver. Our backyard is surprisingly small and required a great deal of planning in order to accommodate my selfish, wanton desire to own a swimming pool. In the end, George and I designed and built a pool that serves beautifully as a backdrop for a an intimate afternoon of adult conversation, cocktails and quiet introspection aboard a rubber raft. It never occurred to us that our aesthetic choices of highly fashionable, yet insane razor sharp glass liner tile, quicksand-like pool plaster, in addition to a veritable minefield of cement channels, fountains, and extraneous ‘water features’ might at all be hazardous. George and I often marvel that even to this day, not a single child or adult has seriously injured themselves cavorting in our sparkling, dangerous pool. Even the youngest, most inexperienced child intuitively knows that our viper-like pool, while beautiful and alluring can also give you a nasty bite if you run too fast or have the hubris to violate the 11th commandment: “Thou shall not go swimming less than 30 minutes after eating.”

Upon my arrival, the boisterous party was already in full swing. My husband George was dutifully manning our blender and was in the midst of drunkenly and cavalierly regaling the guests with the rather sordid tale of how he and I originally met. Like many gay men of the time, George and I met under less than ideal circumstances. Let it suffice to say that at our first ‘introduction’ our real names were not exchanged and it was REALLY, REALLY, dark. Already three-sheets-to-the-wind, the guests were already on their fourth round of Magic Margaritas when I made my angry entrance. Not a single attendee glanced in my direction, acknowledged my presence or daned to offer me a Magic Margarita. When my presence was finally acknowledged by my drunken husband, I was offhandidly asked to scoot over to the 7-11 and pick up some ice as he had just run out.

As the color drained from my face and the hair on the back of my neck rose in fury, the ghost of missing and presumably dead Sylvia cackled maniacally in my ear. It was certainly she who encouraged me to murder my intoxicated husband with the ice pick that he had just been using to chip the ice for HER particular brand of Magic Margarita.

(To be Continued)

During her all-to-short life, poor missing and presumably dead Sylvia could never have known that her priceless family legacy, the recipes for Magic Margaritas and Holy Guacamole would be passed to a family of greedy gringos who would unscrupulously exploit her secrets for their own selfish means. While George and I poor pitcher after pitcher of a stolen recipe for Magic Margaritas into the glasses of our fucked-up friends, and thousands of organic-obsessed Los Angeles housewives devour plastic tubs full of outrageously fattening Holy Guacamole, Sylvia’s bones mildew under the eaves of the San Diego Avocado trees that ironically became her undoing. Poor missing and presumably dead Sylvia, the tragic and mysterious nanny who gave her own life so that we may happily compromise our livers and clog our arteries would have the last laugh. Her diembodied, vengeful spirit lingering patiently while her murderous previous employers frollicked carelessly at their festive barbecues, pool parties, and caucasian-only Cinco De Mayo celebrations. We would soon come to know her wrath!

To Be Continued

Many of our drunk and aggresive friends have pressed George for the recipe. Like a secret elixir – he guards the recipe jealously. I have been married to the man for 14 years, and have yet to learn the components. One night, shitfaced, George became unusually vocal regarding the origin of the magic Margarita recipe. While not disclosing the recipe itself, I came to learn that my husband’s secret recipe wasn’t actually his – but was gleaned from his nanny – a mysterious woman named Sylvia. This came as somewhat of a surprise to me, as I had heard Sylvia’s name mentioned (in the hushest of hush tones) several times by my husband’s family. When I innocently inquired after Sylvia’s last name, country of origin, household duties and present whereabouts, nervous looks were exchanged and the subject was quickly changed. I concluded that Sylvia was either unceremoniously fired for some petty household pilfering, or George’s family had strangled her for the magic Margarita recipe and had been haphazardly buried in the lush Avocado orchard that abutted their San Diego home. Not only did Sylvia bequeath (I intentionally use this term, as I’m relatively certain my in-laws murdered this woman) her magic Margarita recipe – but also passed along an outstanding recipe for Guacamole that my enterprising in-laws have turned into a successful avocado empire ironically named Holy Guacamole.

(To Be Continued)