Oops…I Did It Again
Hey, ya'll! It's me, Brit.
Meg asked me to guest blog today on account of her being otherwise occupied with some stuff you might have noticed that's been in the news lately, but that she's not at liberty to discuss at this time.
But that's okay, because there's something I've been really hoping I'd get a chance to tell ya'll about, so this seems like a good opportunity to do it.
Remember last time, when I blogged about how my infant son, Sean Preston, is a baby genius and all, and likes to drive his own car and drink espresso and subscribe to McSweeney and chuckle wryly over their dispatches from adjunct faculty at large state universities?
Well, ya'll, things have gotten even stranger—and I'm not talking about how Sean Preston got so excited because the McLaughlin Group was featuring peace negotiations in Spain with Basque Separist Group ETA on PBS, he flung himself out of his nanny's arms and smacked his head onto the terrazzo tiles in his attempt to grab the remote before his daddy could change the channel to his favorite show, South of Nowhere (I don't know WHY a grown man is so into a show about teen girls)!
No, I'm talking about the strange visitors I got the other day while Sean Preston was taking his nap (because even baby geniuses get cranky).
Seriously, ya'll, I was just sitting around in my stretch pants drinking a Super Big Gulp and eating Doritos while watching The View (don't you just love that Star Jones?) when the door bell rang and I went to open it and found two of the strangest looking men I have ever seen–outside of that time I ran into Siegfried and Roy by the nacho bar at the Stop-n-Shop—standing on my porch.
Except instead of wearing velvet coats with frilled cravats (I always wondered how Siegfried and Roy kept from getting melted cheese on those), these guys were wearing orange robes and had their heads shaved.
Of course I was all, “Sorry, Kevin's not here. He's over at the studio recording his new rap, Why The Whole World Gots To Be Hatin' On Me.”
But the older bald man went, “We are not here to see him, but you, madam, on a matter of much urgency. You might say the fate of the world depends upon it.”
So of course I invited them in, because it's been a long time since anyone has come to see me outside of my in-laws and Child Protective Services.
Khendrup and Yonten (those were their names) turned down my offer of Little Debbie Snack Cakes and Mountain Dew (though I helped myself, of course. Young moms have to keep their strength up), and got straight to the point:
“Madam,” Khendrup said, “every thousand generations, a perfect child is born, a Golden Child. He has come to rescue us from the darkness, and take us into a new age of enlightenment and more reasonable gas prices.”
My eyes widened. “Whoa!” I cried. “I saw that movie! With Eddie Murphy, right? He's so funny!”
“Yes,” Yonten said, wincing. “We at the monastery wish Eddie Murphy would get back to his comedic roots as a lovable fish-out-of-water and stop making so many movies that suck. But that is not the point. The Golden Child is the bringer of compassion. If he dies, compassion will die with him. Also, everyone will have to give up their SUVs and start driving compact cars. You can see why it is vitally important that this child be allowed to be brought to our remote mountain monastery in order to begin his training as the Chosen One. Especially to people living in LA.”
“Well, of course,” I cried. “You've got to find the Golden Child right away! Because no way are we all going to be able to fit in Kevvy's Ferrari!”
“We're glad you feel that way,” Khendrup said. “Because we have reason to believe your son, Sean Preston, is the Golden Child.”
I gasped—but the truth was, it all made sense. I've known since the day he was born that there was something special about Sean Preston. And not just because the first time I ever burped him, he turned to me afterwards and asked if the lyrics in my song BRAVE NEW GIRL “So she met this man/He was kinda rough/He said, Girl, whatcha lookin' for?/She said, I don't know/I go with the flow/And he said, Let's get on the floor” was a metaphor for the American military presence in Iraq.
“Oh, my,” I said, to Khendrup and Yonten. “Of course I wouldn't want to do anything to jeopardize civilization's chance at more affordable gas prices. And I honestly wouldn't mind some enlightenment myself—I've been chowing down WAY too many of those oatmeal chocolate chip South Beach Diet Cookies, which are SUPPOSED to be low carb, but you know if you eat enough of them, they aren't, really. But I'd have to ask Sean Preston if he WANTS to go live in your monastery. Is that okay?”
Khendrup and Yonten said that would be. And, since it was time for “Andrew Jackson & the Course of American Democracy, 1833-1845” to be on Book TV (which Seany asked me to wake him for on account of his being an admirer of “Old Hickory”), I got the little guy up.
You should have seen how excited Khendrup and Yonten were when I carried Sean Preston into the room with me! They fully bowed and looked all awestruck—kind of the way I looked when I met Celine Dion backstage that night at her Vegas show. Except for the part where I was throwing up from too many cosmos.
“Master,” Khendrup cried. “Oh, Great One! We have come at last to take you back to the monastery where you will strive to achieve through mediation and pure living your potential as a freer of the oppressed and the messiah of all people. You alone can unite the populace and stop this planet from its downward spiral into political upheaval and panicked bedlam. Won't you, oh, won't you, live out your destiny and come with us?”
Sean Preston popped his pacifier out of his mouth and, looking Khendrup straight in the eye, asked, “You got cable over in that monastery?”
Khendrup and Yonten exchanged nervous glances.
“Uh,” Yonten said. “No.”
“Not interested,” Sean Preston said. Then he looked at me and said, “Do you have anymore South Beach Diet Cookies, Mom? Those things really hot the spot.”
“Sure,” I said to my son. To Khendrup and Yonten, I said, “I'm so sorry he won't go with you, boys. You just don't know how he gets when he misses Anderson Cooper.”
Khendrup and Yonten were very disappointed. But as Sean Preston gravely explained to them as I showed them the way out, HE wasn't the one who'd destroyed the ozone layer or shown such short-sightedness in failing to find alternative fuel sources in a timely manner, and that furthermore, he was looking forward to sticking around to see if we'd all manage to bail ourselves out of it.
“But Master,” Khendrup cried. “What shall we do without the Golden Child, when the world is plunged into darkness and despair?”
“Don't worry,” Sean Preston said, just before I closed the door, “there is another.”
“Another Golden Child?” the monks cried. “Who, Master? Who is he?”
“She,” Sean Preston corrected them. “And I cannot tell you, but I can give you a hint: she was born just last month, in a hospital not far from here. I dare not tell you her name—but her father's new movie is opening this weekend to expected record breaking grosses—if he can overcome his negative PR for being such a freak, that is.”
Khendrup and Yonten gasped. Then they ran outside to go look for their other Golden Child.
And Sean Preston turned to me, and said, “Forget the South Beach cookies, Mom. What do you say to a trip to down to the Stop-
n-Shop for some nachos? I feel like saying hi to my friends Siegfried and Roy.”
And I told him that sounded just fine to me.
“Only this time,” I said, “I'm driving.”