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My husband George makes the most amazing, blended Margaritas. As a matter of fact, I rarely need to consult the calendar to know when summer is upon us. Like Yosemite’s grizzly bears, our Williams Sonoma blender suddenly emerges from it’s winter hibernation – crammed in the cupboard of our butler’s pantry to make it’s much anticipated seasonal appearance on the wet bar by our swimming pool. Like a trusted friend, it will remain there all summer. Loyal and unwavering, our blender sees us through Memorial day weekend, the doggiest of summer’s dog days, and even into Indian summer, which in LA lasts until Halloween. Now, I’ve had a TON of Margaritas in my life – but none can hold a candle to the magic Margarita turned out by my spouse. George is not a more-is-better Margarita type of guy. As gay as we are – we don’t ‘do’ strawberry, peach, watermelon or chocolate (heaven forbid) Margaritas. We are old school – straight blended Margarita with our without salt – if any of our friends have the audacity to request fruit in their drinks, we kindly but firmly suggest they visit their nearest El Torito.
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)
I’m about to shock you. I am one of the few card-carrying fags in America who could give a shit about the Academy Awards. That’s right ladies, contrary to popular belief and despite what your tweaked-out hairdresser tells you, there are gay men in this country that find the myopic antics of AMPAS to be self-congratulatory bordering on delusional. I don’t care who hosts the show, nor do I care who wins or who loses. Were it not for the copious amounts of liquor, illegal drugs, and tasteless catered food provided to me free-of-charge at LA’s swankiest Oscar® after parties, I would elect to undergo a rigorous colon cleanse at a Montana fat farm rather than watch Anne Hathaway and James Franco pretend they appeal to America’s feckless ‘youth demographic.’
This year, instead of mindlessly boozing and drugging my way through Academy Award weekend (In Los Angeles, that goddamn show has now morphed into an evil weekend-long ‘happening’) I selflessly decided to teach my eight-year-old son to ride a bike. Instead of donning my insanely overpriced Brioni tuxedo and drunkenly rubbing elbows with Snookie and Kim Kardashian at the Elton John Academy Award® after-party, I would instead be spending quality time with my son in the bowels of Griffith Park surrounded by other comatose mommies and daddies.
After we arrived at the park, we unpacked the bike and my son Ethan ‘suited up’ for his first lesson. Unlike the days when you and I just hopped on our bitchin’ banana seat bikes and ‘winged it’ without any kind of protection whatsoever, my boy eerily resembled Jeremy Renner from THE HURT LOCKER. Every inch of him was covered by some kind of shield, padding, or guard. I marveled he could pedal at all what with the 30 pounds of armor now heaped on his small frame.
During our lesson, my son worked extremely hard to move the bike forward under his own power and even found the time to shout words of encouragement at me like, ‘I know this isn’t the Vanity Fair party, but you’re doing great dad!’ and ‘After all this hard work, you’re going to LOVE the Martini I make for you tonight!’
I’m proud to say that my eight-year-old son Ethan didn’t fall once during our lesson, and true to his word made me the most kick-ass Pomegranate Martini for our own, private Oscar® viewing party. True, I may be a queer, a drunk, and an Academy Award® hypocrite, but goddamn it, my kid can ride a bike – can yours?
I’ve often been ‘advised’ by the over-caffeinated, bewilderingly ambitious moms in my neighborhood that my son Ethan and I should spend more ‘quality’ time together after school. Apparently the after-school activities you and I took for granted like watching endless hours of THE BRADY BUNCH while your alcoholic mother slips into a ‘Pink Lady’ induced coma are long gone. Now instead of the joy you received from scraping your semi-conscious mother off the floor and walking her around the room so she wouldn’t swallow her tongue, parents must suffice with ‘kid-centric’ necessities such as Tae Kwon Doe, Mandarin Chinese, and electric guitar lessons. It appears that in order for my son to compete in the new, globalized world, bitch needs to be a member of a hipster garage band that sings in Chinese while Kung Fu fighting. I’m sorry, but that shit is just too exhausting.
Lo and behold, while taking my son Ethan to the allergist and finding out that the poor kid is allergic to just about EVERYTHING, my after-school, quality time quotient with my son was decided for me. There would be no time for electric guitar lessons or Mandarin Chinese (Thank God) as Ethan and I would be spending three, fun-filled days a week bonding over allergy shots! My afternoons wouldn’t be spent getting my ‘Pink Lady’ buzz on like my woefully tuned-out mother, but instead would be spent shuttling a terrified, needle-phobic 8-year-old through the traffic-clogged streets of LA.
Today, while navigating my battered Prius through the cavernous pot-holes of SMELL-A, my son Ethan sat in the rear seat of my car with a worried expression on his face. The way he wrung his hands and talked to himself, you’d think he was mentally prepping himself for a job interview. He probed me endlessly about the size of the needle, the consistency of the solution, and finally, what if any, side effects he can expect. (That boy has been watching way too much HOUSE on Netflix!)
After Ethan received his shot and bravely stifled the tears threatening to course down his sweet face, I shuttered, for I know that someday he is going to complain to his incredibly empathetic shrink that the only real ‘quality time’ he spent with his father was battling hellacious LA traffic on the way to a painful injection. I can only hope that Ethan’s future shrink is an embittered, Kung-Fu fighting, Mandarin-speaking member of a garage band whose insane TIGERMOM is more fucked-up than me.
This morning while battling over our child’s school expenses, I found myself hoping that my husband George would suddenly keel over and die. While my shrink has told me on a number of occasions it’s perfectly natural (and fun!) to fantasize about the death of one’s spouse, the joy I felt envisioning the choking cough, the hand coming to his throat in alarm, and finally, George’s headlong crash through our mid-century modern chrome and glass coffee table after suffering a fatal heart attack was a little too enjoyable. During this financial ‘discussion,’ George prattled on interminably about ‘fiscal responsibility’ and ‘matrimonial coloboration,’ concepts to which I have only the VAGUEST understanding. I kept thinking about whether I would wear my Prada or Brioni suit to his funeral.
In the end, I decided on the Brioni, as it’s navy blue with the slightest bit of herringbone patterning and in my mind shrieks my ‘Yeah, my husband is dead, but that doesn’t mean we can’t party!’ funereal philosophy perfectly. As George talked, I day dreamed about party-planning his massive (hopefully, fatal) coronary. I envisioned the floral centerpieces, the Japanese/French fusion food, the guest list, and even George’s memorial FACEBOOK page. I even fantasized about his graveside service, where our son Ethan, dressed like a Jewish John-John Kennedy, would throw a handful of dirt on George’s coffin while saluting to the assorted guests, dignitaries, and assembled press corps. Naturally, I would remain the stalwart husband maintaining an air of sophistication and dignity during the entire ‘ordeal.’ While delivering George’s eulogy, my voice would crack and a single tear would roll down my cheek as I delivered a moving speech about my husband George’s ‘humanity,’ ‘selflessness,’ and ‘innate goodness,’ traits that I would NEVER in a million years associate with the actual living person who stood before me now.
I suddenly realized that George had stopped badgering me about my personality flaws and was glaring at me.
“You were mentally planning my funeral again, weren’t you?” he asked accusingly.
“Of course not, I heard every word!” I protested.
“Then what did I say?”
“Umm…I better ‘man up’ and take my parental and fiscal responsibilities more seriously?” I stammered.
“Lucky guess.” he shot back grinning.
I smiled to myself for in that instant I realized that while death and taxes were a certainty, so was the confounding love of this strange little man. In the words of Robert Cody, ‘Have the courage to live, anyone can die.’
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