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Posts Tagged ‘kids’
(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)
(Continued from The Cocktail Hour)
Holy Guacamole – the burgeoning avocado conglomerate whose products figuratively (and probably literally) are derived from the ashes of my husband’s missing and presumably dead nanny are a resounding success and can be purchased at many of southern California’s most popular farmer’s markets. My in laws graciously employ their underage relatives to act as ‘Brand Ambassadors’ for the company and suspiciously overpay them to meander through these markets shrieking the company mantra ‘Holy Guacamole – God is it good!’ while accosting shoppers with golf ball size samples of the green goop. Each sample of Holy Guacamole is perched on a single tortilla chip and like communion is administered by shoving the entire thing, chip and all into the gaping mouth of hungry shoppers. Like crack or heroin, once you’ve tasted Holy Guacamole there’s no going back. You’re hooked.
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
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?
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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