We were soon approaching seven o’clock and I desperately wanted to take a nap. I looked in on the playroom at our place, and her kids had boundless energy, which convinced me even more that she was putting Ambien in their bedtime milk. For an hour as we sat outside in our backyard, Nancy had moved on to how much she loved Pandora charm bracelets and proceeded to tell me the story behind every charm that Tom had bought for her on special holidays. There was one called Forever Together, Wanda’s Garden, and well, I just blacked out until she told me she and Tom were also planning on spending a little alone time on an upcoming Pandora Cruise, which advertises “Unforgettable Memories Together.” Now, if she would have been an independent consultant for Passion Parties, where they sell sex toys, we might have had more in common, but this was simply not working. By eight, Nancy and I were watching the children in the playroom. I was lying down on the couch as she sat in a chair beside me. She was babbling on about how she bought a dress at her friend’s house, which was in a different pyramid—excuse me, I meant to say multilevel marketing scheme—for Cabi Clothes and how embarrassed she was that following Sunday when eight other women in her parish sported the same dress. That’s about the last thing I remember before I was passed out in my son’s Pixar Cars Steve McQueen mini chair with Nancy next to me still going on about getting in on the ground floor of something.
I was startled back to semiconsciousness by Nancy as she shook me, screaming, “Heather! Heather! Peter, call 911, there’s something wrong with Heather!” Both Tom and Peter came into the room and Drake said out loud, “Nothing’s wrong with Mommy. She just gets sleepy from her lemonade.” No sooner than that, Tom and Nancy were packing up their sleep-deprived children (as it was now eight thirty) and heading out our door. Tom said he would call Peter to play golf, and I shouted to Nancy, “Send me a brochure on the cruise! It sounds like one charm of a trip.”
If Nancy had a problem with me being drunk in my own home, she would have gone apeshit over the situation Peter and I found ourselves in a couple weeks later. A fellow school parent, Brady, offered to drive us to a party to watch a boxing match on pay per view at a mutual friend’s home. We didn’t have any pregnant friends at the time and we were so happy that we could go to a party and drink without having to drive, because that responsibility would fall on our designated driver, Brady. It never occurred to us that Brady did the majority of his drinking before getting behind the wheel.
Peter and I hopped into the minivan, and because there was a car seat, I had to sit in the middle next to Peter, while Brady’s wife sat in the front. We had to go through a canyon to get to the party, which is when we realized how drunk Brady truly was. Brady was speeding up and passing slower cars on a two-lane road. I was more worried about embarrassing him and telling him to slow the fuck down than for my own safety. Because of where I was sitting, I had no air bag. Peter had one, as did Brady and his wife.
Thankfully we eventually got to the party without any maiming. But the first chance we had, I pulled Peter aside and said, “I don’t care if we have to take a cab home, we are not traveling back with them. Do you realize I could have gone through that window if there was an accident? I’d never work in TV again!” Peter said, “Actually, I was calculating the maximum amount of insurance he might have had, and divided that by four people. Your portion would not have been enough to put you back together. How would I even work if I had to push you around in a wheelchair all day?” I gave him a death stare. “Really? You do realize you added up math calculations and not once spoke of your love for me. I think you need to go out and get me a diamond Pandora bracelet with a charm of a car.”
After we got safely home via taxi from the party, we took an inventory of our friends with kids and realized the list was shortening. We just wanted to party with a couple like us, and who were honest about who they were.
I didn’t want a hypocrite like the mother at my preschool who preaches against vaccinating our children, insisting on a nondairy, and all-organic gluten-free diet and yet left her baggie of cocaine in a prescription bottle with her name on it in the bathroom during a PTA meeting. I thought coke addicts were supposed to be less scattered and more on top of things like Charlie Sheen in the original Wall Street movie. Besides, my kids don’t eat that bad. In fact, they’re quite sophisticated. The other day they requested truffle oil on their French fries. But that’s when I thought that maybe we could list our friendship needs on Craigslist. The ad would read:
Married heterosexual couple with children aged four to ten looking for pool-party friends with similar-aged children who can swim without floaties, to share good times. Parents must enjoy meat and regular grocery-store-bought foods, and like to day-drink beer, wine, or vodka on the weekends. No drugs or smoking; however, cigars welcome. No swingers. Family must live within a fifteen-mile radius and have a pool to reciprocate. Golf and no scrapbooking a plus.
19
BAD WORD
When Peter calls me and says, “Hey, the school called and . . .” a lot races through my brain. But I admit the one thing that never pops into my brain is Drake/Mackenzie/Brandon will be awarded Student of the Year. So on one occasion Peter continued, “Drake was caught trying to sell a bad word for two dollars.” Yes, just like you, that was the first time in my life that I ever heard of anyone trying to sell a word for cash. I’ve heard of cash for gold, and in the case of my single friend Tara, gold for Botox when she was so desperate to remove an expression line from her forehead that she traded a gold bracelet an ex-boyfriend had given her for 60 cc of the good stuff.
According to the teacher who called Peter, Drake and his friend Evan, while in the classroom, were overheard telling another boy if he wanted to know the new bad word, he’d have to pay two dollars. The teacher sent all three to the vice principal’s office, where each was questioned separately. Drake and Evan were given a slip of paper for their parents to sign saying they used inappropriate language. The third boy did not get the slip at all. Maybe because he didn’t have any money and therefore the word transaction was never officially closed.
I asked Peter as I was driving home, “Well, what was the word?” Peter took a deep sigh and said, “It was ‘nigga.’ Not ‘nigger,’ but ‘nigga,’ with an a at the end. According to the vice principal, Evan heard it in a rap song and told Drake about it.” I was appalled. “Let me talk to Drake alone when I get home,” I said, and I disconnected my Bluetooth in my car and let my hip-hop radio station continue. I thought, How did Evan even hear the word? It must have been from Evan’s older brother, who was in eighth grade. I continued to listen to one of my favorite tunes, DMX’s “Party Up,” and couldn’t help but sing along in my operatic voice, “Y’all gon’ make me lose my mind up in here up in here . . . Y’all gon’ make me act a fool up in here up in here . . .”
I admit I listen to hip-hop music all the time. I always loved it, even before I started working with the Wayans brothers. I adore hearing about the ghetto and the LBC, short for Long Beach County, which despite being a beach community seems a little rough. However, the only time listening to hip-hop music caused me trouble was when I accidentally pulled over thinking a cop was behind me, but it was actually just the police sirens they like to lay over the tracks to make you feel like you really in da hood just tryin’ to make a dolla’ to feed your daughter. I admit I was never one of those moms who played Disney CDs in my car when the kids were with me. I always played popular music. Sometimes it’s cute when Brandon sings a Justin Bieber song in perfect pitch, but other times it’s not as cute, like when he was coloring a picture of Jack and Jill in day care and just started singing, “Roll up, wait a minute, let me put some kush up in it.”
After dinner I took Drake into his room to talk about the word. I said to him, “Now, Drake, tell me exactly what happened today at school.”
“Well, first of all we were never going to charge our friend. That was just a joke. I never would have made him pay me the two dollars,” he said as his eyes widen
ed.
“The money is not the issue here, Drake, it’s the word. Tell me how you heard the word,” I demanded.
“Evan saw it on his older brother’s computer when he was downloading a song off iTunes. It was in the title of the song, and Evan told me it was bad,” he answered.
“So what did you think it meant?” I asked.
“I thought it meant something like the F word or the S-H word. But now I know what it means because the vice principal told me,” he said.
“And what does it mean?” I continued.
“The word is used when you’re being mean to African Americans,” he said.
“Yes, that is true,” I said.
Drake got an inquisitive look on his face and asked, “But why do people sing songs about being mean to African Americans?”
I knew I had to answer, but in a way that a nine-year-old could understand, so I said, “Look, some African American artists like to use that word in their rap songs and they believe it is OK, and it is not being mean because they are African Americans. But since you are a Caucasian American—”
Drake interrupted, “What is Caucasian?”
“It’s another word for white,” I said as I tried to continue.
“Then why wouldn’t you just say white?” he questioned.
“Fine. Because you are white, you can never, ever, ever say that word, sing it, or write it down. That is the law, and depending on what state you get caught saying it in, the punishment can vary but it’s always very bad especially if you’re a comedian and you say it onstage and someone videotapes you saying it. Even if you were on the number-one-rated sitcom for more than a decade, you will be dead in this town, you got it?” Drake just shook his head yes.
The next morning at work I was telling the other writers and our executive producer, Tom, the N-word story and I told them what I said later that night as I put Drake to bed. I said, “Drake, I’m going to tell you another word that is just as bad, if not worse, than the N word, and that word is ‘fag.’ ” Tom interrupted me and said, “Looks like Drake just found a way to make another two dollars.” Everyone burst into laughter. It’s so annoying, these childless people have no idea what I go through; they’re just waiting to get their next joke in. What I wanted to say before I was so rudely interrupted by the assholes I work with is that I told Drake that the F-A-G word, which fortunately he had never heard before, was a word used to be mean to gay people. I said, “And you know there is nothing wrong with someone if they fall in love with someone of the same sex. You never make fun of them for that.” Then Drake rolled his eyes and said, “Of course there is nothing wrong with being gay. Hello, I watch Modern Family, duh.” I felt so relieved that at least I was doing something right. Drake had never gotten in trouble before and had certainly never been accused of being a bully or saying mean things.
That night I was talking to my gay book agent, the same gay book agent Chelsea constantly refers to and features on the show. Michael is great and he really cares about his clients. At the time, he was upset that the publisher hadn’t changed the font on the cover of my book for me to approve yet so he said, “If they don’t change that cheap-looking font by Tuesday, I’m going to go full faggot on them!” Now, in that case I don’t think I need to explain that some gay men of a certain age can use the word if it means getting their literary client the response they deserve. I felt it was just best that Drake knows never to say the N word, whether it ends in er or in a and also never to use the F word, whether it ends in uck or ag.
That weekend, Evan’s dad took the boys to see Red Tails, about the all–African American flight squadron in World War II. The next day we rented The Help and watched it twice. Both of these movies seemed to make a strong impression on Drake. I felt pretty good about everything until he saw White Chicks, where Marlon and Shawn Wayans play two African American FBI agents who have to pose as shallow white female socialites to solve a crime in the Hamptons, on TV. When I appeared as the saleswoman in the movie, Drake for once seemed to be impressed. So I explained how I had worked for the Wayans brothers on other TV shows and movies. I said, “Yes, Drake, the black man has been very good to me and to a few of my close girlfriends.”
20
DOES MY BOY LIKE BARBIE?
Since my kids go to the same Catholic elementary school that I attended, parent-teacher conferences can be interesting. The classroom still smells the same and even some of my old teachers are still there. But I still learn something new every time I visit, like, it’s never a good sign when the teacher starts the meeting with a mandatory prayer. When I met with Drake’s second-grade teacher in the fall, everything seemed to be right on track in terms of his reading and math skills, but then she said, “I do want to share a concern I have with you regarding Drake’s self-portrait.” She pulled out a large piece of paper with what looked like a girl. “That is Drake’s self-portrait? But that’s a little girl.” She sighed. “Exactly, that’s my concern. We asked all the children to draw themselves in crayon and your son’s came out like this.” The picture had a little girl with blond pigtails and brown eyes, wearing a red dress. The teacher continued, “Have you heard of gender-identity crisis?”
“Yes, but I don’t think Drake has that. I don’t even think he’s gay, and I’m very open to that. In fact, every time we’re at Target I say to him ‘Drake, would you like a Barbie or My Little Pony? If you do, I’ll buy it for you because it’s OK.’ But every time he says no. And he refuses to wear pink, no matter how hard I try.”
“Well, this little girl is wearing red. Does Drake like red?” she countered.
I said, “I’ve seen the kids on Oprah where their parents allow them to dress like the opposite sex at a very young age or even change their name. I applaud Angelina and Brad for letting Shiloh dress like Ellen DeGeneres. I was the first to call it at Chelsea Lately when Shiloh was only eighteen months old. She was photographed wearing an old pair of Maddox’s army boots and I said to the other writers, ‘Mark my word, Shiloh is a lesbian and she is going to make some woman very happy someday with those genes.’ ”
The teacher just stared at me. So I said, “Anyway, thank you for bringing it to my attention. I’ll talk to Drake about it.”
I was beginning to get a little worried, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether this had anything to do with the fact that I didn’t breastfeed Drake. Did he want to be a girl because he never got the chance to suck on a boob? That night I showed Peter Drake’s self-portrait and explained the teacher’s concern. “Peter, I remember watching an old episode of Sonny and Cher, and Cher joked at the end of the show that Chastity hated wearing dresses. I don’t want to be Cher. I mean, of course I would love to be Cher and perform at Caesars Palace with my scary face-lift. Who wouldn’t want to retire in Las Vegas? You could golf like Celine Dion’s husband, René, and then I would perform at night.”
Peter interrupted, “What are you talking about? Get to the point.”
I took a deep breath. “My point is that if Drake is a Chaz Bono, I don’t want him to wait until forty to be who he believes he is. I want him to be on Dancing with the Stars way before that!” I exclaimed.
“Look, he probably just didn’t understand the assignment and got distracted. Can I just sleep?” Peter begged.
I crawled into Drake’s bed that night like I do every night to tell him a made-up story. I told him the story of a little girl whose mother was on TV. The child was embarrassed by it and never really felt comfortable in the skin she was born in. The little girl hated wearing matching sequin-and-feather dresses with her mother despite the fact that they were designed by the one and only Bob Mackie, and then Drake interrupted me and asked, “Is this another story about you and us being embarrassed about what you do on Chelsea Lately? Because I like it better when you make up a completely new story.” Oh my God, I thought. He is relating to the Cher and Chastity story. I finally asked him, “Honey, do you ever wish you were born a little girl instead of a little boy?” Dra
ke ignored my question and demanded, “You have to tell me another story. That one sucked.” I was so tired from worrying about this self-portrait, I couldn’t come up with another story and I said, “Drake, I can’t tonight. You know I work very hard. I’m on two shows.” And he retorted, “Yeah, but Chelsea Lately and After Lately are from the same company, so it doesn’t really count as two shows. Just tell me a story and please make it funny this time.” I continued, “You know, Drake, it’s tiring for me. Imagine if after playing two baseball games I forced you to go to batting practice at nine at night?” Drake sighed and said, “Oh please, you don’t even work out, you just sit at a computer, it’s not that hard. Now, tell the story.” Well, whatever he is, Drake’s a manipulative little shit who knows how to get his way. At least that will get him far in life, whether he grows up to be a man or a woman.
I decided not to share this latest dilemma with my parents. I just didn’t think they’d get it, especially since the last time they came over, Mackenzie was busy putting the boys in her old Easter dresses. They ended up doing an entire fashion show for my dad. Of course, this never-before-seen runway couture show had to take place when my very conservative, traditional parents were present. I immediately demanded that the boys change and start wrestling and beating the shit out of each other like normal, so my dad could witness their male aggression.
The Saturday after the self-portrait talk, Drake and the rest of the second-graders at St. Ignatius were receiving their Sacrament of Reconciliation, otherwise known as First Holy Confession, where for the first time as Catholics, they confess their sins to a priest. Nowadays, at least at our parish, they do it on the altar, where the parents can see their child tell the priest face-to-face what their sins are. I assume they do it this way to put everyone’s mind at ease that their kid is not going into a dark room with a pedophile priest. From where the parents were, none of us could hear what our children were confessing.
My Inappropriate Life Page 15