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Posts Tagged ‘hell’
Last night at the dinner table, my eight year old son Ethan suddenly announced that he would like an Apple Iphone. My husband George and I were startled, as Ethan is not very materialistic and rarely asks for anything.
“Why do you want an iPhone?” I asked.
“Well because it’s black, cool and plays music.” he explained excitedly.
When further pressed about which songs or artists he favors, he said that he likes the theme from STAR WARS in addition to the theme from his favorite movie IRON MAN. I don’t know what alarmed me more – his gross materialism or his complete lack of musical knowledge and taste. I mean I don’t have anything against John Williams, but I was hoping that Ethan would name some cool but obscure chanteuse, he would say Mozart, Beethoven, or Brahms, I would have even settled for Hanah Montana. Nope, I’m stuck with a child who does tone deaf renditions of tunes that were orchestrated the same year I was Bar Mitzvahed.
My first impulse was to say ABSOLUTELY NOT! What six year old requires a musical device that until recently I felt was inappropriate for a teenager? I was about to shut Ethan down completely when I got a brilliant idea.
“Sure,” I said “You can have an Apple iPhone if you get a job and pay for it yourself.” At first my son looked hopeful, but then a frown covered his face and he coyly reminded me that he was six and due to child labor laws was unable to get a ‘legal’ job. “Nonsense,” I countered “A lad of your intelligence, fortitude, and craftiness could certainly find a way to earn the money”
‘Like how?’ he asked doubtfully.
I thought. Hmmm…”Well, now that you mention it, you could start by dusting the house. How about washing the windows? Clean the car? As a matter of fact I think you’re old enough to do the laundry and ironing.” The more I thought about it, the more chores I felt could be offloaded to my child. He’s certainly capable – nice strong back, wiry arms, small hands for dusting behind those first editions George and I had collected for our library. Why not? I could let the cleaning lady and gardener go and finally have the live-in servant I had always wanted.
His expression grew from doubtful to frightened.
I went on to explain that he would not attend school anymore as he would be home all day cleaning, ironing, food shopping, skimming the pool, tending bar, performing oil changes on our cars, and mowing the grass. He would sleep downstairs in the furnace room and I would rent out his room to borders.
Like any good interviewee, my son considered my offer and calmly asked how many days he would have to work as my servant to buy the Iphone. I told him that I could easily outsource this position to a 8 year old from India for pennies a day, (globalization -it’s a bitch) so that it would take him roughly 3 years. Of course I would have to deduct his food, clothing, and medical expenses so the 3 year tour of duty was probably more like 5. I asked him if he would like to tour his new subterranean sleeping quarters and test the straw mat I had chosen for him to sleep on when Ethan’s eyes got red rimmed. I knew that he was trying to be brave in light of having to accept a position that was less than ideal.
My saintly husband George who never appreciates my cruel games, interceded by suggesting that instead of becoming our live-in, Ethan could retain his current position as our son and could collect cans and bottles from our neighbors for recycling. Ethan brightened. “How many cans and bottles would I need to collect?” he asked.
George explained a iPhone is about $199 – so if each can or bottle is worth 5 cents you would need 4000 cans or bottles.
“That’s alot of cans and bottles,” Ethan observed “I’ll have to get back to you.”
George and I never recieved Ethan’s counter offer. Apparently he had done his due diligence with the neighborhood moms and had discovered that we were low-balling him. My offer of domestic servitude and George’s bottle and can offer were not going to fly. The whole iPhone thing died on the vine. I’m stuck having to shine my own shoes, do my own laundry and cook my own Eggs Benedict as my son hums an off key version of DARTH VADER’S IMPERIAL MARCH theme.
Globalization, it’s a bitch.
I love Disneyland. I can’t help it. As cynical and embittered as I might be – the second I enter that crazy, Third Reich-inspired Anaheim parking structure I squeal with pleasure. I delight in the incredibly ordered, military precision of those polite Disney ‘Cast Members’ who direct me into my Donald Duck, Mickey Mouse, or Chip n’ Dale parking space. Southern California may have the nation’s worst traffic, filthiest air, and unrelenting poverty – but I am able to buy unrestricted, go-anytime-you-want, zillion dollar platinum passes for my family. (I can’t be bothered with pesky black-out days or having to stand in line with those sandal wearing, German tourists)
I’m one of those truly embarrassing dads that wears his Mickey Mouse ears around the entire park and has the gumption to rock-out to that bizarre ‘Block Party’ parade where all the cute, young dancers dressed as flowers bounce up and down on stilts. Naturally, I maintain a standing reservation at ‘Ariel’s Grotto,’ the chicest place at Disneyland. (Ariel’s Grotto is Disney’s version of the Stork Club, all the prettiest most poised Disney princesses visit your table and make small talk. I’ve developed a very close personal relationship with Cinderella who calls me ‘Sir’ Tod when she sees me – it’s a gas!)
Last weekend, we arrived at the park promptly at 8:30 AM and the moment I slid my Platinum pass though the gate scanner I was like a thoroughbred charging down main street. Anxious to get to Space Mountain, The Haunted House, Indiana Jones, and all the choicest rides I took no notice of my son having come to a complete stop behind me. I whizzed past a tour group of Japanese housewives and was but a few, precious steps from jumping on the new (minimum two hour wait) FINDING NEMO ride when my cell phone rang. My husband informed me that our son Ethan was staging a sit-in and refused (REFUSED!) to go on any rides. My husband George, who works in film production and at times talks to me like I’m his production assistant, ordered me to return to base camp at once.
Angrily, I returned to our ‘base camp’ which of course turned out to be that hokey, general store where Disney sells their ghastly treasure trove of high fructose corn syrup-laden candy, cookies, and Mickey Mouse shaped Rice Krispie treats. Ethan was in tears and made the most grotesque pronouncement I had ever heard.
“I don’t like Disneyland rides,” he cried “I only want to go to the playground.”
George explained to me that the majority of ‘adult’ rides were too loud and hurt Ethan’s sensitive ears. Munching on a Goofy shaped scone, Ethan was resolute. He was absolutely NOT going to go on a single ride that I favored. No Indiana Jones, no Haunted House, No Space Mountain and certainly no Tower of Terror. He even nixed IT’S A SMALL WORLD and PETER PAN for Christ’s sake! My fury began to build.
“You can’t be serious,” I demanded, “What is the point of coming to Disneyland if you don’t ride the rides?”
“I’m afraid this day isn’t about you,” George replied, “This day is about our son and he wants to go to the playground in California Adventure.”
“Yeah, Dad it’s about me.” Ethan sneered as the scone crumbs fell from his mouth.
Hand in hand, George and Ethan began to head down Main Street towards California Adventure home of the infamous ‘Tree Playground.’ I was outraged. Clearly this was some kind of cooked-up conspiracy. What did they mean ‘This day wasn’t about me?’ Excuse me, but EVERY DAY is about me. I work hard. I break my back making the money to pay for those elitist entry passes. It’s my God given responsibility – no scratch that, God given RIGHT to ride THE MATTERHORN with with my family. I was seething and sulked all the way to the gates of California Adventure. I wanted to kill them both.
Upon arriving at the ‘Tree Playground’ which I’ve come to learn is called ‘Grizzly Peak’ Ethan scampered off to climb a rock wall. George and I sat there staring at our son and at each other. It was 9:05 AM and I insisted on getting a frozen Margarita from Rita’s Baja Blenders. (My second favorite watering hole at Disneyland after Ariel’s Grotto) Standing there in my Mickey Mouse hat, sipping my alcohol day-glo drink, I watched my son climb the same rock wall 30 times.
It was probably the cheap tequila that had permeated my brain, but by 9:25 I began to see the Zen of this situation. I had no place to go – I had only to be. My job was to sit there, watch my son climb the rock wall an infinite number of times and shout words of encouragement. My husband George tentatively came next to me and squeezed my neck.
“How’s my baby?” he asked soothingly.
“I’m sad.” I responded.
I mourned that there would be no thrilling rides on ‘California Soaring.’ I mourned that there would be no witty cocktail banter with my close friend Cinderella. Worst of all I would be forced to be my son’s valet, carrying his half-eaten scone, Mickey Mouse ears, and water bottle for the rest of the day.
George put his head on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “I love you, you know.”
I pulled my husband close to me and kissed him deeply. I pretended not to notice the German tourists gawking at the two full-grown, drunk men wearing Mickey Mouse ears kissing.
Several days ago I received the most thrilling email of my life.
A children’s modeling agency was interested in possibly representing my son Ethan. Liz-Beth, the agency owner was seeking ‘talent’ for a prominent childrens clothing catalogue and had heard through a mutual friend that my son Ethan possessed the ideal All-American ‘look.’ Liz-Beth suggested that I bring Ethan to the set early Sunday morning for some test shots. She assured me it would be in intimate affair and was really just a formality – Ethan’s good looks, poise and natural ‘ability’ was certain to land him the job and a fabulous future career in childrens modeling. My head began to spin with excitement. Just the words ‘set’ and ‘test shots’ sent me into a tizzy. I fantasized about attending New York’s Fashion Week, front-and-center with my good friends Dita Von Teese, Mary Kate Olsen and Anna Wintour discussing Ethan’s meteoric rise to the top of the childrens modeling world.
“He’s a winner, an absolute doll!’ Dita would shout during the crowd’s standing ovation for my son.
Anna, who generally said little during fashion shows, sat in her folding chair sobbing.
“I’ve seen the face of God,” Anna moaned “Ethan. Ethan. Ethan.”
“Stop it, you two,” I would chide playfully “He’s just an ordinary kid.”
“Only much better looking!” Mary Kate would giggle.
Anna, Dita, Mary Kate and I would dissolve into peels of laughter, our little ‘joke’ causing crocodile tears to roll down my cheeks. The other ‘lesser’ children in the show might as well have been wearing burlap sacks – their mediocrity eclipsed by my son’s incandescent beauty. Not wanting Dita, Anna, Mary Kate, the fashion press or (God forbid) the paparazzi to see the tears of joy rimming my eyes, I planned on wearing my Faux Semblant Carré Louis Vuitton sunglasses that I adore, but my husband George swears make me look like Edith Head.
“We’ll do our best to make it,” I replied (trying to sound blase in my email response ), “But Ethan’s been working like crazy – I had hoped that he might have at least ONE day off this month. I’ll see what I can do.”
The next few days at our home consisted of model boot camp. At regular intervals I would bark at Ethan to ‘find the lens‘ and would demand he give me varied ranges of facial expressions. I would carefully critique his ‘look’ and then fine tune his poor ‘performance.’
“Look Ethan,” I said during one frustrating posing session,”Modeling is not for the faint of heart. It’s a career, not a job!” He shrugged his shoulders and continued to throw a tennis ball against my bedroom wall.
Sunday finally arrived and I sprang out of bed. I carefully dressed Ethan and styled his hair to look ‘sporty.’ With great anticipation, we set off for West Los Angeles and our thrilling new life in childrens modeling!
The audition was being held at a large hangar in close proximity to the Santa Monica airport. As we entered the building I could hear the cacophony of dozens if not hundreds of children. A small, dark vestibule opened into large open room that served as a photo studio where throngs of the most gorgeous, blond haired, blue eyed Hitler Youth looking children frolicked. It was as if I had entered the modeling equivalent of VILLAGE OF THE DAMNED. I was stunned. My son happily joined the throng of boy clones currently engrossed in some kind of twisted video game, and I stationed myself at a table with a mother who never glanced at me nor spoke a single word. From what I could tell, she was too busy downing espresso shots and emailing her son’s extensive modeling portfolio to perspective agents, photo shoot producers and magazine editors.
An hour later, my son’s name was called by a bored production assistant who informed me that they had already met with 500 children in the last two days – and were in desperate need of some Red Bulls. I had difficulty in locating Ethan as he had officially joined the Aryan Brotherhood. I had a hell of a time differentiating him from the Austin, Trevor, Brandon, Malcolm, and Henry clones so I loudly called out his name and took the child that responded in the affirmative.
The entire photo session lasted 15 seconds. My son looked at the camera, yawned and made a half-hearted attempt at smiling. The photographer snapped a dozen or so listless digital photos, high-fived my son and it was over. My son raced back to join his buddies in the brotherhood and I watched my, I mean his dreams of modeling go down the tubes. There were no fashion shows in our future, no fabulous lunches at NOBU with Anna, Dita and Mary Kate, and certainly no future bidding wars by IN-STYLE for our ‘candid’ at-home photos.
On the drive home, I casually asked the child in my car (I think I took my child) if he had enjoyed his modeling experience. I was shocked to learn that he thought it was ‘cool’ and asked me to set up a playdate with his blond buds from the brotherhood.
I put the number for NOBU back in my Blackberry’s speed dial.
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