 |
 |
 |
 |
Posts Tagged ‘gay dads’
(Continued from The Cocktail Hour Pt 2)
One steamy afternoon last summer, I trudged home from a particularly grueling and frustrating day of work to find my husband and several of his Botox and Restylane obsessed lady friends enjoying an impromptu after school pool party/cocktail soiree. What a cool and breezy idea they all must have thought – what better way to while away a muggy and dirty Los Angeles afternoon than by sipping Magic Margaritas, getting buzzed and nonchalantly checking on their screeching children who were dangerously racing around and diving into our wildly unsafe pool?
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)
My son Ethan spends alot of time asking me about my nuclear family. He seems particularly interested in my parent’s marriage. I find this interesting and alarming at the same time. I’m pleased that he’s developed an interest in his family, but frightened that his curiosity has been piqued by my parent’s bilious marriage. Like a beautifully wrapped Christmas present with nothing inside – my parent’s union on the surface appeared shiny and tantalizing, but below the glittering shell existed an emotional frozen tundra. To my eyes, my parents always seemed a bit out of sorts – my mother acted like my father’s faithful servant, constantly striving for his approval and affection yet seldom receiving it. Like any under-appreciated employee who receives little compensation for their life’s work, my mother vented her frustration and unhappiness on those weaker than herself, her children.
Unlike my son Ethan’s privileged, candy-colored childhood that consists of Palm Springs weekend homes, attendance at a prestigious charter school founded by his two dads, participation in a plethora of seemingly compulsory ‘enrichment’ activities, and basking in the glow of never-ending parental love and support, my own childhood was not a happy one. The kindest emotion I can remember from either my mother or father growing up was indifference. When I was 8 years old – I made the important decision to run away from home and take up residence at the Cherry Hill Mall. Granted, not a good plan – but a plan nonetheless. I must have looked odd, an eight year old child perusing the fine linens and silver clutching a small red suitcase. As I pretended to shop, a kindly Gimbel’s saleslady (remember them?) asked me where my mommy was – I replied she had been in a tragic car accident and was in a persistent vegetative state. There were no ‘Amber Alerts’ in those days so the saleslady told me how sorry she was and assured me that either my mommy would get better soon or my dad would probably remarry and I would have a new mommy who wasn’t in a coma. I shuddered at the thought.
The shopping mall closed promptly at 9, and with no place to go, suitcase in hand, I reluctantly trudged home tired and hungry. I snuck in the house through the garage and silently joined my mother who at the time was sitting in a our family room ferociously knitting and watching Donny and Marie. As I entered the room, she glanced up as if surprised to see me. She seemed to take no notice of the suitcase.
“Well?” She asked.
“I’m hungry.”
“Again? We just had dinner.”
I had been gone for eight hours and not a single member of my family noticed. Clearly, the police had not been called. There were no worried detectives scouring our backyard searching for obscure clues or relentlessly questioning the coterie of suspicious, shady neighbors that lived in our neighborhood’s manicured homes. Light years from worried, my mother hadn’t even noticed my absence.
“Sit down,” she said wearily, “I’ll make you a sandwich – I don’t want you messing up the kitchen.”
(To be Continued)
I’m not sure how to say this politely, so like tearing off a Band-aid, I should probably just get it over with as quickly as possible as to not cause undue pain to either myself or to you, the innocent reader.
Last night, my son Ethan retired early to bed after a day of bought-and-paid for frivolity. Like most of the over-supervised, under-imaginative children in the lily white enclaves of La La Land, Ethan is unfortunately off from school this week. As I have no intention of forgoing my busy schedule of massages, pedicures, shopping and lunching in order to entertain his Attention Deficit Disorder ass, I enrolled him in ‘Snow Camp’ for the holiday break. ‘Snow Camp,’ as far as I can tell, seems to be a series of death marches in driving sleet and snow amongst the ‘wilds’ of Los Angeles. As my ’I-couldn’t-care-less-as-long-as-my-kid-isn’t-unconscious-or-bleeding-profusely’ philosophy has always worked in the past, I felt no need to make any philosophical changes to this week’s Christmas vacation plan.
Upon my son’s return from Snow Camp last night, Ethan trudged into the house exhausted, turned his nose up at the meager dinner I had indifferently defrosted and uncharacteristically went to his room and closed the door. A few minutes passed and concerned he might be ill, I knocked on his door and without thinking entered his room. I’ll bet you can guess what horror greeted me among the flurry of sudden adjustments my son took to cover his crotch. Let’s say my son was having a party in his pants and I was definitely NOT invited. Ewwww!
Now you would think that a guy as queer as me wouldn’t have a problem with seeing another man’s baloney pony. On the contrary, like Julie Andrews sings in THE SOUND OF MUSIC, ‘these are a few of my favorite things.’ There is however something super gross, no matter how educated and enlightened you are about catching your kid ‘conversing’ with Rosy Palm and her five daughters.
I excused myself immediately, closed the door and darted into the kitchen to take a shot of Tequila to steady my nerves. I walked out to the living room and to my utter amazement, found my son seated upon the living room sofa neither embarrassed nor repentant.
“Dad,” he scolded, “We need to have a talk about ‘boundaries.’
The proverbial shit had hit the fan.
(To Be Continued)
Recent Comments