While sitting at Taverna Tony’s today, beneath the ivy walls and at the whim of Malibu’s sea breeze, I overheard some things that make the howling fantods seem like a nice alternative. Witness the following:
Four blond ladies, all pushing sixty, but sporting plastic physiques and even more plastic faces, are discussing their dietary habits. While debating the menu items, the dialogue moved forward as such:
A: I’m thinking the pasta.
B: The pasta has carbs.
A: I know, but I have these pills which means the carbs don’t process. You eat two of them before the meal and you don’t get the carbs.
B: Wow, I need to get some of those. I had almost three carbs yesterday and I’m feeling it.
(author’s note: are you fucking kidding me?)
C: What are they made of?
A: That’s the weird part. They are made of carbs.
(unfathomably real uproarious laughter from the ladies)
A: It’s crazy but I can eat all the carbs I want and not get the carbs.
C: We all need to get those pills.
(Heads nod in agreement)
D: Where’d you get them?
A: I’m not sure I should tell.
D: You’re kidding.
A: Well, sleeping with a man for pills makes me sound like a drug addict.
B: Someone should write a book about you.
A: What kind of book?
B: Like a bestseller.
That’s right about when I started contemplating suicide. But it gets worse. When I turned my ear to my right, toward the mother, the three year-old, the baby, and what I can only assume was a Hispanic nanny, the following ensued:
Baby: “Mama, Agua pease?
Mom: “You want water? Ok.
4 year old: “Mama, quiero zapatos nuevos.”
4 year old: “Zapatos nuevos.”
Mom: I can’t understand you.
4 year old: “Zapatos nuevos, Mama”
(mother turning red with frustration)
Mom: “What is she saying!”
Nanny: “Sheneeds new shoes.”
Mom: “OK, well I have a salon appointment so can you please get them for her this afternoon.”
Nanny: “Yes, Mrs. xxxx”
That this kid is using Spanish to have her needs fulfilled says way too much about the parenting situation. Plunging my knife into my neck just didn’t seem like it would solve the problem. So, here I am, writing about it, attempting the wipe the stench of humanity from me, trying to figure out whether these apocalyptic events truly indicate the end of civilization. These are the folks who have proverbially “made it.” When mountains become cliff’s edges, I no longer want to climb.