Dear Stepford Wife, Let Me Rephrase That.

Last weekend at my son Derek's baseball game, this British man/husband/father of one of the boys on the team, asked if Derek would like a playdate with their son Kyle. I graciously reciprocate the offer, but we decide on his house in the end. Several hours later, I go to pick up Derek. Here's how it went down:

Ding dong (...I wait..............................)

Door opens... wife is there.

ME: "Oh Hhhhiii!! How are you!!! (big Dawn smiles) I'm Derek's mom, Dawn? So nice to meet you!!!! " ( I solidly shake her hand )

ME: " I'm soooo sorry I'm 5 minutes late, i forgot I was picking him up here-because you're sweet husband usually always drops him off with me after the boys play, but i spaced there for a minute. " I giggle.

(no response)

(I enter the house.)

ME: "Woww!!! What a beautiful home. This is great!! So clean. My god!!! How do you keep it like this??!

Did you guys just move in?!!! It's so pretty! Wow this is great..." (I get the infamous female up and down scan...)

MOTHERS RESPONSE: "Ehm..no.. we've been here....'Derek! Your mother has arrived."

(I nervously giggle.)

ME: " Thank you so, so much for having him over this afternoon. He loves your son. Anytime you'd like your son Kyle to come by me, just call- he's welcome anytime. (pregnant pause)

MOTHER: 'Derek!.....your mother is here!" (I get the scan again.)

ME: " I'm so sorry hes taking so long...I think he likes it better here than at my house. haahahaaa. "

(awkward silence)

*throat clear*

ME: "...So what are you guys doing for the memorial day weekend? Just chillin out here? it's so beautiful out, it almost doesn't matter what you do right?" (I'm thinking, did i just say 'chillin'-this woman doesn't have a chill bone in her body. I'm 100% sure she thought I was there to mug her).

(I get no smile back.)

THE MOTHER: " Well I'm trying to have a rather big dinner party / get together tonight..."

ME: " OMG, I'm sooo sorry...I had no idea..Derek!!...come on hun, Mrs. Smith has some people coming over soon...we need to go, can you put some gas on it please?"

ME TO MOTHER: " Yeah I know how dinner parties are- so much work, I try and do it whenever I can...I love cooking for people...but it's not easy when the kids are home...giggle...I'm such a scatter brain that I actually have to write everything down that I'm doing- with the exact time I'm supposed to do everything, or forget it- the pastas overcooked, the chickens dried out, I forget something in the oven... if I don't write it down, I'll forget to even take a shower haha. ha. ha."

(stares at me)

(long stare)

MOTHER: "Yes. Derek's a wonderful child. Oh you have another child? "

(scan #13)

ME: "Yes. I have another KID. Justin. He's 13. Great kid. But was real challenging to deal with when he was Dereks age..." (Ooops, maybe too much information there. Because I'm getting the 'WE DON'T TALK ABOUT OUR PROBLEMS HERE' look.)

Derek rounds the corner in his baseball uniform I left him in after the game, but wearing his friend Andrews T-shirt instead of his own. ME: " Hi baby..wheres your baseball shirt honey? "

DEREK: " Oh they washed it for me and gave me this one to wear instead. "

She walks into the kitchen to grab Derek's T-shirt that she washed for him, that he initially came to their house wearing.

As I quietly follow behind her, I see the live-in housekeeper / nanny subserviently postured in the kitchen over a bowl that has about 15 nachos in it. I glance at the dinner table and see its set for 8.

Once again, I apologize for Derek being such a grassy mess in her house. She sort of musters a grin in my direction, and responds rather tersely and indecipherably as she escorts Derek and myself to the front door. I thank her again profusely for having Derek there, give a big toothy smile and wave goodbye to the housekeeper, wish her a wonderful weekend, and step outside with Derek and get in my car.

That's how it went down.

But here's how it REALLY went down, in my head:

DIIIIIING DOOOOONG.... ( Jesus Christ, what the hell was THAT.....guess I'm here to see The Wizard.)

(...waiting...) 

(.........judging......)

Door opens, "(Holy Fucking Never Got Laid) ... I mean, "Hi!!! ... I'm Derek's mom Dawn!...and yeah it'd be a super deal if you actually smiled back."

ME: "So not nice to meet you! " I firmly shake her hand and step inside.

ME: " Question...Does your hand actually have any muscles in it that contract, or have you been paralyzed by some unfortunate tragic accident. Wwwow....Sooooooooooo.....this is your lovely home... *snnnort* ... I'm guessing that either nobody lives here....or you're doing a commercial shoot for Pledge in 5 minutes. So I'll try and be quick then.

Hey, do you and your husband perform surgeries here in the living room, or is your home possibly always this devoid of love and life. I'm getting the distinct feeling that i should've been wheeled in here on a hospital gurney. My apologies for walking... I think my dirty flip flops may cause your Infra-red dirt detecting laser beams and alarm systems to simultaneously go off. Should I maybe start crawling on the floors to avoid the poison blow darts, or am I cool. If you'd like, I'll take my sandals off. Really. I will. It would give me great pleasure to see you wince at my calloused feet. So just say the word.

Hmmm. I see no cats or dogs either...maybe that's what you're eating for dinner. Well, I guess everything warm blooded and living is off limits here. So I'll make my visit quick. " Ooooh look...the diminutive housekeeper. Let me guess, you're here to whisk something off the floor in case it so happens to God forbid fall there. But yay. At least a person of color. Maybe you, Mrs. Buckingham, are an open minded, 'people person' after all. Or do you perhaps have a cotton grove in the backyard, behind the labyrinth. And you too could smile a little Miss Bodyguard of the nachos.. Unlike your master, I wont beat you if you should decide.

Let me see..what the fucks hiding in this bowl.... 15 chips?...for an 8 person get together? That's 1.195 chips per person. Lady, Auschwitz death camps gave more food. You call this a get together??? I call this a Get The Hell Outta Here As Fast As You Can, Together. And I smell a big fat nothing cooking. Not one braised or sauteed anything. All I smell is disinfectant combined with Febreze, and some odorless gas I call frigidity. So toots, a party huh? So wheres the wine? Where's the frivolity? Where's the laughter? And where the hell's a smidgen of dirt? Oh wait, THERE he is! Its my son Derek! The other pigmented person. But this one comes fully equipped with a big ass smile, and chunks of grass and soil and some decapitated slugs pressed into his knee caps.

ME : " Hi sweetheart! I'm so glad I got here before they performed surgery on you in their boiled living room and extracted your heart. Phew. Just in time." " So honey...how the fuck did you play in all this ....lack of fun. And where's your shirt Derek.....you know.... the one that I left you in this morning after the game that resembled 'The Shroud Of Turin'? "

DEREK: "Oh, they washed it for me and gave me this one to wear instead. "

ME : "Oh they gave you one of their sons to wear while they washed yours? Awww so delightfully germiphobic of them. "

ME: "...So....wheres that pompous British husband of yours that incessantly flirts with me at your sons games that you're too detached to come to.???... You know, that guy that's always bragging about his dumb ass sailboat to me? Oh right, you have him on another Decontamination Run. Got it. Then again, I understand why hes not here... if this mausoleum is what your house feels like, i can only imagine what the sex feels like. You know...sex? a man, a woman? passion?? ...eh never mind." "OK, well bye bye miss housekeeper... I'll pray for you, and I'm growing rather concerned about your lack of ability to smile by the way. And I've convinced myself that its due to embarrassment because you most definitely have a mouth full of broken teeth as a result of these hi-resin, ice skating rinks you call 'floors' (...and so you know, the key to your shackles are under the Soul Vaporizer machine in the vestibule, I peeked). "

ME: " Well, Gotta run Mrs. Buckingham, have a wonderful time starving your friends. And by the way, your little 'chip off the ole ice block' son is never allowed in my house- since i never did care for statues. And I'm sure you wouldn't approve anyway, because I, on the other hand, have 3 dogs, and cats and plants, and framed family pictures, and some dog nose smudges on my doors, and prefer a slight degree of chaos, rumpled pillows and litter pan aromas in my house to remind myself that i have blood coursing through my veins...unlike yourself, who I'm convinced, like a scallop, would not bleed if I cut you. But i wont stab you with a steak knife to find out, seeing that this is only our first meeting.

...and please...don't forget to tell your arrogant, bumptious husband that I'll see him next week at the game, where I'll continue to pretend I'm listening to him as he's waxing eloquently about his haughty, pontifical nautical adventures while I fart in the wind. " "Well, I gotta get the fuck outta here before my face cracks off from all this fake smiling. It was an absolute nightmare to meet you. Goodbye, and...goddamn. And I hope to never see you again."

Ta-Ta. For now.

;)

Not So Pretty In Pink: The Men of Westport, CT.

It was Labor Day 2009, the end of the summer and i innocently thought, why not celebrate it by having a little barbecue, a little Frisbee and some much needed cathartic time taking notes dismantling the residents. That's always a favorite family pastime.

My idea of beach outing preparedness is a cooler packed with beer, grabbing a hoodie, snacks, and some stained sheet no longer usable for the dog bed.

But for the greater majority of well-to-do Westport residents, a typical families pilgrimage to the beach for a 'Casual' Labor Day bbq becomes this elaborate setup that Martha Stewart could masturbate to.

There's tiki torches abound, matching flame heights of course...your basic run-of-the-mill pop up tiki huts , coordinating beach recliners made from biodegradable sea grass, tents pitched whose sizes would rival Barnum and Baileys elephant wing, brandy snifters, smoking jackets, William Sonoma barbecue sauces, Clap-On gas grills, and loud obnoxious discussions about the Dow. Talk a little louder please. My aunt in the far corners of New Zealand cant quite hear you.

All this affected celebratory competitiveness, as they proudly sip their wines from only high lead crystal wine glasses overflowing with wine that is exclusively set aside for the Vatican church but with one phone call is air dropped to Compo Beach from Italy that morning.

And to top off the afternoon festivities, thanks to the added convenience of live-in nannies, ( hmmm, live-in...guess the Dow Jones is doing better...or so i fucking HEAR... ) I've been reminded that all of Westport's offspring are irritatedly named Zachery and Skyler. I know this because I heard it in yelled across the beach in Ecuadorian, Venezuelan, Brazilian, Trinidadian, Polish, Hungarian, Peruvian, and Michigan. I am now fluent in Zachery and Skyler.

It certainly does challenge my childhood memories of family beach bbqing at Coney Island... where we'd sit around and talk near a fire that was made by tossing some homeless persons stray articles of clothing into a stolen beach garbage pail and setting it on fire with gasoline we siphoned out of someones car. Those were the days.

So there I was, at Compo Beach, Westport CT, hellbent on relaxing and trying to feel somewhat welcome... with my stained broken cooler, the beach provided pre-seagulled-shat-on picnic table (you know, to open my beer) and my spider web enshrouded lawn chair I dug out of the mildewy shed. (I know how to blend. I'm super chameleon-like.) The more I look around, the more desperately I need a beer, my hoodie and come to think of it, a semi-automatic paintball gun.

To make myself feel completely invisible, I thought playing some Avenged Sevenfold out of my Jeep would be a nice backdrop for the adjacent family with the Foie Gras, Braised Ostrich and Frog Legs beach entree. I was doing my best.

When I get out of my jeep, at first glance I thought I got the wrong directions and inadvertently drove to the coast of South Africa during an active migration of the Puna Flamingos.

But much to my chagrin I was unfortunately right where I set out to go. Compo Beach, Westport Ct. 06880.

And the chaos of pink I witnessed before me wasn't in fact something as awe inspiring as the tropical flamingo, it was rich men in pink shorts. Pink. Linen. Shorts. Everywhere you looked.

Lets just call it the garden variety of hubris you only see with financially able Westport residents of the male gender.

Who else wears bright pink or powder pink linen shorts but Westport men and the mannequins in the window of Banana Republic Fag (a new division).

As far as the eye can see, upon this long expanse of sand and blue skies is a sect of full grown men dressed like they raided their daughters laundry basket. Is this perhaps to.... show their softer, more feminine side? If so, please give me some helpful pointers seeing that the only thing pink in my closet is a package of Hubba Bubba bubble gum, strawberry flavored Astro Glide and my Breast Cancer Awareness ball and gag.

See, I call rich men wearing pink shorts "Sailboat Arrogant". The message is clearly..."I don't get dirty." "I wont get dirty" "I don't do dirt."

Oh trust, you will Hendly... Before this day is over, I'll have you begging for camo shorts....once i trip you and cause your glazed Labor Day catered meatballs and red wine to careen off your turned up nose and cascade onto your crotch. You need some balls down there anyway, sir. So I'm expecting some flowers, or at least a thank you, or at the very least, an all knowing nod and grin. And my apologies for tripping you.. I didn't see you standing there, I was temporarily blinded by an abundance of sun-reflected fuchsia into my retina. You're so getting my Dr's bill.

And then of course, to compliment the flowing pink shorts , we have to have the 'I'm enjoying the good life" effect....also known as the Sweater-Tied-Around-The-Neck look. Taken right out of a vitamin commercial for retired bicycling seniors with osteoporosis. I'm guessing the "Tied around the neck" thing is an attempt to cajole female onlookers into believing that he's 'casual', yet aggressively prepared. Always ready to quickly shimmy it over his head, you know... in the event of the earths sudden shift in polarity.

He thinks aloud in a bellowing voice: "I'LL BE ONE OF THE FEW TO SURVIVE....BECAUSE. I'M WEARING MY FUZZY CAPE OF PREPAREDNESS. I'M ALWAYS THINKING. ALWAYS ON CALL. I AM SUPERMAN. IN PINK SHORTS."

And we can't forget the absolute completion of this runway disaster by wearing sockless, tasseled, leather loafers....Damp feet in dressed up wedding shoes. Very sexy. This clearly is the subconscious message...." Who has time for all this sock nonsense, putting on socks takes TIME!!! TIME I don't HAVE!! I'm too important, too on the go, too busy....dry cleaning Liberace's shorts here...."

Or is he's simply thinking, well, since my shit doesn't stink, nor will my hairy, sweaty sockless feet.

I say get some real shorts, grab a t-shirt, and get yourself a damn pair of sandals. Sandals are for sand. Loafers, are for loafs.

And I'm sure they sell them, somewhere, in pink.